"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST. FUUUUCK. WHERE THE FUCK IS THAT FUCKING LAKE?"
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what I heard from behind me all the way across the one and a half mile marsh that turned into a three mile marsh that we hiked in the cold and the wet at 11pm, by moonlight. Did I mention cold and wet?
Yes, it was the annual summit trip, that turned into the annual hiking trip because nobody was able to summit. Before I even tell the stories, you may be asking why nobody was able to summit.
Well, there's an argument that we were wrong that this could be done in two days and that all along it should have been a three day trip (up to camp, summit and back to camp, off the mountain). I think that I think that it would have been possible to do it in two if you got an early start on the first day, though that climb down off the mountain on day two would SUCK. Either way, we ran out of time to try for the summit. Why did we run out of time?
Well, firstly, there were flight issues. Not for me, but I drove. I pulled into the hotel parking lot at 9:30pm. At that exact moment, my cell phone rings and it's PBM. We start talking, when it dawns on me. "Hey," I say, aren't you supposed to be in the air?" PBM is delayed in Denver. He should be in around 1:00am. Then I check my email. Frank is delayed in Chicago. He should be in around 1:00am.
PBM calls around 11:30pm again. I answer the phone, "Shouldn't you be in the air?" PBM's flight from Denver is canceled. He can't get to Salt Lake City to meet us until 8:30am the next morning, and that's going to be with little to no sleep. Awesome.
So, Frank gets to the hotel around 2:30am. PBM gets to the hotel around 9:00am the next day. We let PBM sleep for a couple of hours, and then there are still all the logistics of going to Wal-Mart for last minute supplies, driving to the mountain itself (several hours), stopping to see a moose (see below) and putting packs together.
So we don't actually hit the trail until ... wait for it ... 4:00pm in the afternoon.
I mean, we should have known.
The first day is an 8 or so mile hike to a lake. A lake where we will camp and then in the morning will pick up the trail to the summit. The idea, per usual, is to head for the summit around 2:00am, be back off the mountain (realistically) by one or two in the afternoon, and then off the mountain by early evening.
It almost looks possible. We're moving slow on the first stretch of the hike, but not super slow. There aren't thousands and thousand of breaks. But we started late, which means were hiking late. Like hiking as evening sets in, ie: it gets dark. So, we cross over this mythical footbridge, from which point it's supposed to be two miles to the mythical lake. The first thing that happens is that suddenly there's a lot more snow. We lose the trail. Okay, in fairness, Frank does not lose the trail, he stealthily guides us through. But if it had just been PBM and I, we would have been lost. So, the trail goes up an elevation gain, and then you come out onto a meadow that stretches for about a mile and a half. And on the other side of the meadow is the lake.
I should self-correct here. In the morning, when it is light but all of the snow has refrozen in the cold, cold night, it is a meadow. It's about a mile and a half across and you can walk it in 45 minutes and on the other side, to the left of the tree line is a lovely lake, and just beyond that lake is the summit climb.
This, however, is not what this is like at 11pm. I should note, that though it was cold, it would have been pleasant to hike across that meadow at 11pm if it were *dry*. The moon was up and almost full and bright and bouncing off the mountains and snow. The walk is flat. And yes, it was cold, but I was never too cold when we were moving and before my feet got wet. Oh, but my feet got wet because...
At 11pm when the sun has gone down but the snow has been melting all day, this walk was not so much a meadow as it was a marsh. And we had to march across the marsh. There was water everywhere. Big expanses of cold, muddy, water. In the freezing cold, so you wanted to avoid them. To avoid them, you had to keep crossing back and forth over stones and jumping over huge puddles. This meandering path turned a 1.5 mile walk into something much closer to two or three miles. Then there are the brambles. Since the path itself is now flooded with run off, you are walking on what would be the land surrounding the path, and that land is full of brambles.
It is cold. It is wet. You get wet which then makes you cold even if you are moving. You get muddy because, oh yes, it is very muddy. You get hit with brambles. You are tired because it is 11pm and you have been hiking for seven hours and you just want to get to camp and warm up and eat something. But you have no idea how much longer it's going to take you to get to the tree line on the other side of the meadow/marsh, and you're not even sure how much further the lake is from there. But you know that, if you turn around, you're hiking back for over an hour or so to the last campable ground you saw AND you're further away from the mountain, so you're not doing that.
I miss a rock and land in the water up to my calf, and my left foot slips in, too. So now I am hiking for however long we have to hike with wet pants, wet boots and wet socks. I lose a snow show in the brambles and don't even care because the idea of backtracking is so horrid (we found it on the way out the next day). I start to cry, OUT LOUD, and don't even care that the boys are hearing it. PBM steps in mud about a thousand times over, and that's when I start hearing the title of this blog entry from behind me over and over again.
We finally get to the other side and ...
... wait for it ...
we completely lose the trail. Can't find it. In the morning, we would realize that not only could we not find it, we were not even close to it. We were, quite literally, lost in a forest.
We give up, and pitch camp, not even bothering to get out the tents, even though they would have held body heat in for us. And it is cold. And at least two of us have gotten wet. Frank, apparently, walks with the hand of God guiding him around puddles.
In the morning, we finally find the trail, which isn't all that near to us, and the lake, but by that time, it's too late to make for the summit unless we don't want to be off the mountain until six the next morning, and that seems unsafe even beyond unsafe. So we agree to try for the summit another time, and head back down the mountain. Which is a bummer, but it's not like I personally didn't get my dose of "hard." And I got to spend time with Frank and PBM. And maybe next year I'll have a story for you where we actually make the summit, but not this year. This year, I have a story for you about PBM walking behind Frank and me through a marsh in the middle of the night and cursing to the high heavens.
That is all. It was an awesome weekend, even with the fubar parts.
You know what's crazy? As I sit down to write this, I was about to say that during the day on day four, it wasn't so much exciting for me because I had to hang in the hotel and work. But then I remembered brunch.
Firstly, because I know you will say "What the hell? You went to Spain and worked?" -- that is just how it goes. As Deanna said it, "If my job allowed me to make the money you make to travel the world like you do, I would let it own me, too." That said, the fact that my job owns me right now is a topic for another blog entry at another time.
Anyway, I had forgotten about brunch. Yes, brunch. Which in Spain happens at 1:00pm. Because they do not eat breakfast at inhumane morning hours like we do. They eat it at what we would call brunch time and then they have brunch at the more reasonable time of 1:00pm.
We had brunch at the Sunday opera brunch at the Westin Palace where Halff was staying. This is brunch (for rich folk) served in a glamorous setting (for rich folk) with paella and brunch tapas and endless desserts (for rich folk) and champagne (for rich folk) and people singing opera to entertain you (because as rich folk and people acting like we're rich folk, that's what we want). It is SO GOOD. There is salmon mousse. You know how I feel about salmon mousse. Anyway, we enjoy our beautiful brunch.
And then the rest of the day happens, in which I work.
So, the plans for the evening are to go and see the Real Madrid ... FROM THE THIRD ROW. Let me just say, firstly, big ups to the concierge at the Westin Palace. The concierge (and staff there) completely delivered on our request for Real Madrid tickets. They were third row tickets, and though the were black market, the mark-up wasn't as bad as you may expect. And, also, the concierges at the Westin Palace LOVED Larry Halff. They knew who he was and where his room was without a bat of an eye. He's all VIP.
You know, as an interlude, there was some discussion when I got back about how bougie this trip was. Even the cheaper place where the girls and I stayed was still a really NICE place. And we didn't do cheap in any way at any point. I mean, we had third row Real tickets and went to nice places. Anyway, it's true that, in some ways, when you travel like that, you miss out on parts of the story where you would pick up travelers or get into screwy "I have no money for a train ticket" situations. But sometimes it's just nice to travel nicely. We traveled nicely in Africa. We have also taken trips where we stay in $10 a night hostels.
So, the other month I was talking to a nephew of a friend who is about to graduate college, and he's thinking of taking a year off and traveling - poor style. And his sister had told him not to do that. She had instead told him to go work on Wall Street and make a bunch of money and then travel - rich style - when he was older. And he asked me what I thought he should do.
And I told him that he should do both. Because I wouldn't trade either experience. I wouldn't trade all of the ten dollar hostels and hustling to get a train ticket and scrounging for food and camping out in a park full of gypsies. I'd still do it today. But don't kid yourself. There's also something to be said for four star meals and third tow tickets to premier sporting events and your very own private room in a nice hotel. So that's my advice. You need to do both. Staying in the nicest hotels and doing the nicest things isn't "traveling." It's vacationing. And vacationing is still wonderful. It's still educational, and as Africa and Spain proved, you can vacation and still come back full of amazing experiences and stories. And it's nice to have nice things. That is all.
Anyway, so the plan was to meet up for one last early evening of sangria at the bar in the Vincci Soho. And that was lovely. And I decided to Euro-Trash it up for the night and tuck my jeans into my boots. And people were horrified. And Lisa gave me a beautiful bowl from Uganda for my birthday. And I loved it, but she loses because Larry got me a third row ticket to see the Real-Madrid. And Deanna bought me my favorite face product from Denver and gave me the most awesome eighties mix dvd ever. And I loved it, but she, too, loses because Larry got me third row tickets to the Real Madrid. And I'm sure that I love whatever you sent me, too. But you lose, and Larry wins.
Yes, Candy Woo, Halff is Hot. Just look at him!
After sangria, we head out into the night and to the stadium, and we enjoy the energy, and then we go to our seats. And they are AMAZING. And even if you're not a soccer fan, live soccer is unbelievable, especially when you're practically on the field. And I think it meant the most to me of anybody there, but it was very religious. And no, I'm not exaggerating, so shut up.
And then our last night in Madrid. Tear. We have dinner at Botin. We in fact have the roasted suckling pig that you may have seen on the food network. And many, many tapas. And sangria. And the dining room is like a cave. And we're happy. And there are four guitar players hiding in the hallway on the way to the restroom. And when we walk outside to walk home, it's raining for the first time on the trip, but somehow it feels perfect and cool, like it's waking me up for a whole new year.
That's right, I went all deep on you after four entries about being drunk. But I am who I am.
It was a perfect birthday. It really, really was. I couldn't have asked for more. I mean, that's not true either because I am who I am and it's my nature to always ask for more. But if I'm working on being the person that I wanted to be at 34, then I know that you take what's good as it is. And this was good. Very, very, good.
Day three of el trip de Madrid is a visit to the Reina Sofia, then siesta time and then a much-anticipated tapas-crawl. I think in the end it's my favorite day of the trip, though they were all good.
Princess D decides to sleep in, but everybody has that day in a trip where they just need "alone time" and this is hers. Lisa, Larry and I grab some breakfast and/or stop at an ATM (I really can't necessarily remember the order of things - I got totally confused apparently on which day the unfortunate "Nice to have met you" incident occurred.). Then we head down to the Reina Sofia. While the Prado is huge and has masterpiece after masterpiece, the Reina Sofia really only has two floors. But there are four HUGE galleries of Picasso ranging in time and style through his sketches, canvasses and sculptures from pretty much all stages of his career. It's really captivating, especially when you consider how many times Picasso repeats the same painting using a different form study or color study on the same concept. I could have honestly wandered in there for a lot longer, but it would have been indulgent. Also, they had "Woman Throwing a Stone," which is possibly my favorite Picasso ever.
After the museum, Halff, Lis and I have a walk and what is decidedly the best (if not the only) paella we have on the trip. We have cuttlefish to start and then a paella with rabbit and it's so yummy that I just got hungry thinking about it.
And then...siesta.
And then...Jocelyn's internet cafe.
And then...the tapas crawl! So my friend Jen's sister Rebecca had informed me that we can't go to Madrid without doing a tapas crawl. And then Larry read his guide book because he is awesome and found out all of the best spots to hit on our tapas crawl. And then it was not raining, though we had anticipated rain. And so we went from place to place to place eating tapas and drinking sherry and sangria. And it was perfect.
The first place we go to is small and the server is mean, but the cured meat and cheese and olives are delightful, and the four glasses of sherry are wonderful. And the table next to us looks like it could be a table of WW2 conspirators making invasion plans.
The second place we go is small and dark and has pictures of famous flamenco dancers on the wall and a couple making out at the table next to us.
The third place we went was call The Trout, and it had the the single best food we had that night. My favorite, by far, was the artichoke that the cook first told us that they wouldn't make because they were about to close and then made for us anyway. There were also these amazing shrimp/prawns. And, I mean...it was just amazing food. The most amazing food. And if you've never done a tapas crawl or even been for tapas before, there is nothing more delightful than small plates of savory and delicious food eaten in between drinking sweet drinks and, in a great scenario, in between walking around and, in the best possible scenario, in between walking around on a perfect night in Madrid.
So, if you're keeping track of drinks so far: 1.5 sangrias at hotel, 1 FULL glass of sherry at stop one, 1 sangria at stop 2, 1 sangria at stop 3. That, in and of itself is not so bad. Except that I may or may not have popped some pills before we left the hotel. This is my way of saying that after "The Trout," this night gets hazier to me. Pictures reflect this as well, it seems.
We exit "The Trout" and begin to cross the square. Larry announces that we must get a bocadilla (which is "sandwich" to the rest of us) into me. Because I am a-drunken-wondering. Apparently, while I am not SO GONE, I am gone enough that Larry almost immediately recognizes that I must have done something before we left for the evening. Awesome! Go Ty's Godmother! So we stop to get a bocadilla.
AND IT IS THE MOST DELICIOUS THING I EAT ALL TRIP LONG. Leading me once again to tell you that the best food you will eat anywhere is what you basically buy off of the street. It's salty and savory and crispy and hot and THE MOST PERFECT THING EVER. It's so good that I was still talking about it days later. It's that good.
It does not, however, sober me up all that much.
I know vaguely that we then went to some place where I inappropriately started touching the back of some man's coat and Larry and Dee and Lis kind of stared at me while I did it, and there was sangria there as well. And I remember that in the next place there were spicy sausages. And then we were home, and on the way home we took a picture next to a sign for a life-size puppet show of Moby Dick done in Spanish and tried to convince Larry to go to the puppet show. Unsuccessfully.
Oh, and then Dee and I went back out after we dropped everybody else to try to go dancing, but it was a weird night and...
OH!
I totally remember now!
Dee and I went back out to get our dance on, and we met back up with this cute boy Adrian who had gotten us into Blackjack the night before. And he wouldn't stay off of my boobs, or as Dee described it, "It was like he was having some personal conversation with her boobs, and then he did this weird thing with her left boob like he was closing a circuit or something." But anyway, Adrian drops us at this other club that is SO EUROTRASH I CAN BARELY STAND IT. And so we leave and end up in this other club where I can't decide if the crowd is gay or euro. And then we sleep.
And you would think that we'd crammed enough Spain activity in, but we're not even close to done yet. The next day...
The theory is that we will meet up at 10:00am for breakfast. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Have you met me and my sleeping habit? But actually, it is Lisa who is running a touch late that morning. So Deanna and Larry and I meet up and go to our new favorite little spot for breakfast where we have espresso, apple tart and tiny meat pies. Then Larry and Deanna head off to look at the sculpture display that I had looked at with Lisa the day before, and I get in line at the Prado to get entrance tickets. We head back to the hotel to meet up with Lisa, and then it is off to art.
The Prado, in case you missed it, is one of the greatest art museums in the entire world. Aside from all of its other masterpieces, though, its centerpiece is an extensive collection of the works of Goya.
In case you missed it, Francisco Goya was a 18th and 19th century Spanish painter and printmaker who was a court painter to the Spanish crown. He's most known for the dark, somewhat "subversive" element of his art, but also for being one of the "bridge artists" who transition from the work of the old classicists to the modern art movement, and he's widely discussed as an influence on Picasso.
The Goya room was completely absorbing and went on and on and on. I've often said that I think that the best way to understand an artist is to see a large collection of their works in one place, a la the Warhol museum in Pittsburgh. Goya is no different, though being surrounded by some of his darker works can be a bit overwhelming. I went back twice even though the Prado is stacked with amazing works by other painters. However, my favorite Goya is one that most people don't commonly love, and it's in the Prado collection. I went back to look at it three or four times. It's this one.
I get dragged in by the smallness of the dog's head in the vastness of everything else, but the way you're so drawn to the substance of the dog in the middle of the vagaries of the rest of the painting. And the motion of the painting. And I like dogs.
And then, I lose. I've been having anxiety issues lately anyway. The long trip, the lack of sleep over the previous two days, the general issues in my life causing said anxiety... they finally caught up with me. I head to the lobby where we're all supposed to meet up after the enjoyment of the museum, and I'm about 10 minutes early. And suddenly it hits me. My stomach is not right. I mean, just not right. So I head back to the hotel, and I am down and out for the rest of the afternoon. I'm told that I didn't miss much other than some nice lunch. And honestly my nap is nice. And probably much needed because I'm feeling fantastic by evening, which is when ...
Jocelyn's Internet Cafe turns into Jocelyn's Sangria Internet Cafe. Because Deanna is brilliant and realizes that bringing a pitcher of sangria into the room for internet time can only lead to both more fun and more photos. Let me tell you, never has a more flattering photo been taken of a woman than the one you will see of me below, with no makeup, dirty hair, the kind of worn down pallor of a woman who's been sick most of the day and my classy, classy lingerie that I was sleeping in when internet cafe time started. And also...the best sangria we had all trip? Made at the hotel. It is true.
Okay, so then we are off for the night's activity after meeting up with Halff at his hotel. His hotel where we are also using the concierge. And where I make my trip faux paux. We want to use Larry's concierge to book reservations at Botin and also to get us tickets to the Real Madrid game for Sunday night. While we're standing in line at the concierge, the man in front of me starts talking to me. He's cute. He's tall. He's outgoing. And he's clearly not poor if he's staying at the Westin Palace. Oh, and he's age appropriate. And he's dropping all kinds of hints like, "Oh, my friends and I already ate at the place you're going to tonight, but we'd totally eat there again." And did I mention he's attractive with nice eyes? And tall? And engaging? And age appropriate? And can pay his own bills?
And as we wrap up our business at the concierge, I turn to him and extend my hand and say ... "Nice to have met you."
Nice to have met you? WHAT THE HELL? Where is Jocelyn? Jocelyn the girl who upon meeting a cute, tall, well off, engaging man who likes to travel would at a minimum invite him and his friends to join her and her friends for something and, in a more likely scenario, would inconspicuously remove her panties while talking to him and then leave them in his pocket with a note with her cell phone number. Where is that girl? And who is this girl who says "Nice to have met you?" And how do I did the "nice to have met you" girl and get back my friend Jocelyn, because Jocelyn is a lot more fun than the "nice to have met you" girl is. It's embarrassing. Not only was my head not in the game, but now I feel like I missed out on meeting somebody really cool. And I have no story to bring home about sliding my panties off ... or something.
Anyway, I probably accidentally walk away from the man who's supposed to be my future husband, but that's okay, because my future European affair is found at dinner. So, anyway, dinner is here. Here is considered THE place to go to see flamenco dance in Madrid. But I will be honest with you. Our expectations were "Wow, this will be fun," but not "Man, I am expecting this to be awesome." Because, essentially, this is dinner theater. And at dinner theater, you expect neither the dinner nor the theater to be all that amazing.
Firstly, a little flamenco history for you. Though flamenco is a Spanish and Mediterranean dance form, it originated with the gypsies, and to some degree Islamics as well as they migrated up from middle Asia. That's right: much of flamenco tradition generated from gypsy tradition. From my people, people. And my people are not known for much beyond thieving and marrying our girl children off at inappropriately young ages, so it's nice that we have something good to lean on here. Flamenco is a combination of passionate dance and song using limited instruments but extensive rhythms being stomped and clapped by the participants. And yes, at times, castanets.
Here is another thing that you should know about the evening: We were originally supposed to go to an earlier show, but then our good table that I had reserved had to be given away because some b-list important person wanted to come to that show. So I agreed to go to the later show on the condition that we get the best table in the house. We got the best table in the house, literally.
Okay, so we arrive Corral de la Moreria and catch the end of the first show, or "spectacular" and then are moved to our table.
So to begin with, the meal that we expected to be all "eh" about? FANTASTIC. It starts with the sherry that I've now warned you about, and there is a first course I don't remember but I think it includes anchovies, then wine and gazpacho, then this AMAZING lamb or possibly chicken (I can't remember) and then desserts that we're all too full to eat anyway. Oh, and some kind of sweet dessert wine as well that's like a port but not a port. Or maybe it is a port. It all blends to me.
But more importantly, the dancing. Oh, the dancing is amazing. There are three "acts". And let me say before I begin that the most amazing pictures from this evening are taken by Halff and are here, but Deanna's pictures are great, too, and those are the ones I'm using here because I don't want to co-opt Larry's pictures.
The first act is a female soloist doing the most traditional flamenco that we see all night. And she is amazing. AMAZING.
And then she is followed by THE HOTTEST MAN EVER who dances with such power that I forget to eat my food and simply watch him.
One of the things that you don't realize about flamenco until you've seen it is just how hard the rhythms that they're clapping and stomping are. I mean, really insanely complicated to the level that you lose sight of what's going on all together at various points. And they clap and stomp so hard and with such passion that they have blisters all over. And they go at one thousand percent intensity every single time. It's so marvelous to watch, and if you ever go to Madrid then you MUST go to see this show.
The third "act" is four female flamenco soloists who each do a number and then a group routine. And with the four women on stage, you really get to see how, even though flamenco feels like a very structured type of dance, it really allows for such ability to show individual personalities. The first woman to dance is a bit reserved and elegant, the second woman young and innocent, the third woman has seen a lot of life and captured its pain and passion, and the fourth woman ... well, I describe the fourth woman as "The Tina Turner of Flamenco". She's sassy, and she actually sings with a raspy rock voice while she dances. And she's the most sexual of the four of them by far. And also my favorite for many reasons.
We leave that night with our minds blown away by the excellence of the experience. And then we have a lovely jaunt home through the dark Madrid night, past the palace and through the streets. And at home Larry and Lis depart for the night, and Deanna and I head out to our new favorite place: Club Blackjack. Where in a maze of dark underground rooms full of techno remixes of American R&B you can dance the evening away with a Spanish boy half your age.
Madrid: Celebrating the Last Year of My "Vibrant Fertility"
To see only the picture set of this trip, click here.
Madrid Day One: Larry Stays Awake for 28 Hours In which we grow closer to Tom Cruise. And we see art. And we eat. Excessively.
Madrid Day Two: Prado 1, Jocelyn 0 In which I get sick, we see art, I lose my game, Flamenco dancers rock our world and Dee and I dance (of course)
Madrid Day Three: Picasso, Tapas & Sangria In which we see more art, then I get drunk and embarrassing but it doesn't matter because we eat and drink like you can't even understand, and then Dee and I dance (of course)
Madrid Day Four: We Keep It Real With the Re-Al In which we listen to opera while brunching, go to a soccer game, eat at the world's oldest restaurant and then I go really philosophical on your ass.
So, the much anticipated 34th birthday trip to Spain was last week. We missed you Shim, Shim.
The trip begins on a Thursday. Well, technically, it begins on a Wednesday because that's when you begin flying if you want to end up in Madrid by Thursday morning. I meet up with the lovely Princess D in Philly, and we hop the USScare flight to Madrid. Things that are nice about being in your thirties? You don't feel like you MUST sit together on a plane. You recognize that you don't have 8 hours of conversation in you and you're both better off getting window seats so that you can lean and sleep instead of cramming one of you into a middle seat just so that you can be connected at the hip.
Dee and I arrive in Madrid around 10am and promptly catch a cab to our hotel. Which is this one. Which, more importantly, IS DIRECTLY ACROSS THE STREET FROM THE SCIENTOLOGY CENTER OF MADRID. I kid you not. It's amazing. I can't even begin to tell you how amazing it is. I feel warm and light-hearted knowing how close I am to the chosen. And by chosen I mean Tom Cruise and John Travolta.
We meet up with Lis, who has already been in Madrid for a day and checked in. As rooms are switched around, the three of us head out for wine and tapas in whichever Puerta Del ... is closest to us. It's a beautiful afternoon and a perfect way to chill out as we first arrive. Or, as the Spaniards say...perfecto. I like any culture where red wine begins at 11am. Heck, in this culture, red wine time is really any time.
After lunch, Dee is ready to nap. Lis and I decide to take a walk in whichever parque is closer (and if you want the name, you'll need to ask Lis). We stroll, we listen to the language, we look at flowers, we take some pictures for Lis's new man, we talk about boys and why they are confusing.
We enjoy some sculpture that I did not love so much, but later Larry Halff explained to my why I must love it because it's so artistically relevant. And that is why I love Larry Halff. Perhaps you will enjoy the culturally and artistically relevant sculpture in photographs, many of which were by Princess D.
Then Halff texts. His flight was delayed. He's been up for the better part of a day, but he just needs to shower and then he's ready to go. Lis and I visit him, at his hotel, which is this, which is much nicer than our hotel and has a better concierge, but we are not Halffs.
Lis and I, however, are not ready to roll and need siestas. So, thinking that Larry will nap as well since he has been up FOREVER, we touch base, make a dinner reservation at a small place recommended by the concierge and depart for naps.
Siestas, really.
Siestas are nice.
I REALLY like my room. Here's the view from the balcony.
I also have the only functional laptop at chez Vincci Soho. This means that each night before dinner, Jocelyn's Internet Cafe opens up because Princess D and Lis both have boyfriends. This may sound annoying to you. Two women invade your hotel room while you're waking up from your siesta and getting ready and take over your laptop so that they can coo and ooh and aaah about their boyfriends while you TOTALLY CELEBRATE YOUR SINGLENESS by texting some crush you have in Canada and sneaking things from the mini bar. But I'm going to tell you that Jocelyn's Internet Cafe was one of my nightly favorite things that happened because we all got to bond and talk and share secrets and be girls together. It was wonderful.
And then we go to dinner. And I wish that I could remember the name of the place where we went to dinner, but the important thing that you need to remember is that we were very near the Scientology Center of Madrid.
We sit down at our dinner table.
Dinner progresses.
About halfway through dinner I look up. I believe that I am hallucinating, so I look away. Then I look up again. And I am forced to say to my lovely companions, "Do you realize that we're dining under a signed photograph of Tom Cruise, circa Top Gun?"
Oh my gosh. If ever there was an omen that a trip would be wonderful, it must be sitting down to dinner on your first night on a trip and seeing Tom's shinning visage above you. It must be.
Dinner begins, by the way, aside from the food and the food served before the food and the extra half bottle of wine given to us by the Peruvians sitting next to us, with some local sherry that's very popular. Or, as we liked to call it, Spanish Moonshine. Or when we were really drunk, as we called it, Spanish Hooch.
Please to remember that Larry has now been awake for 28 hours. And the bottle is placed in front of us, and nobody wants to turn it down because ... well ... SPAIN! So we drink it. And it is wonderful. And as the trip progresses, you will see us drink more of it. And more of it. And more of it...
Dinner is really, really, really good. Wine is good. The extra wine from the Peruvians is good. It's all good.
Finally, after dinner, we deposit Larry back at his hotel so that he can sleep. SLEEP, man, SLEEP. And Lis, Princess D and I go off to wander around.
Remember the chocolate churro place I mentioned here?
We accidentally stumble upon it.
I mean it. It was purely, purely accidental.
And even though we felt just the tiniest bit guilty about getting chocolate churros at 1am without Larry, we did it anyway. And...oh my.
Here is where the night one error happens. If you read your guide books, you are warned that in Madrid, the pour is big if you order liquor. I order an amaretto to go with my chocolate churros. And the bottle comes out. And it is poured.
And continued to be poured.
And poured until the glass is full.
And the evening is perfect and we end it with chocolate and sweet liquor and girl talk and then peaceful sleep in our lovely hotel with the loving eyes of the cult of scientology watching over us.
It is only the next day when the mistake of the amaretto comes back to haunt me, but that's another day's story...
I Am Losing My Vibrant Fertility: A Monday 10 To Get Us Through to Spain
I know. I have read the emails and I miss you all too. Go look at last February and you'll notice that I didn't write much then, either. But I do have a Monday 10. Which is probably more like a Tuesday 10 by the time I get done with it, because I am busy.
1. Why I Heart Joe I heart Joe for many reasons, not the least of which is that he doesn't take shit from me. I heart Joe because he's completely unapologetic for not being wired for relationships. I heart Joe because he's funny. I heart Joe because of conversations like this one:
Me Hey, what would you do if I got all childish on your ass and told you not to call or email me until after I got back from my vacation? Would you be sweet and nice and then send an email trying to figure out why I was so upset?
Joe No. What I would do is to never, ever call or email you EVER again. EVER.
Me That's what I thought. That's probably why we get along. To a point.
2. New Allies CD: If you haven't picked up the new Allies cd yet, you should. Rock with harmony. I wish I could give you a link, but well...I can't find one. But you can email Pook if you want a copy. I don't much care for the first track, but I love everything after that. And I'm old, so, you know. It really is good. Especially the third track. You know, Allies is the re-making of the LEGENDARY Pittsburgh rock group Pikadori. I'm just saying.
3. Why I Love Candy: Because I went batshit crazy with anger while I was home and sent a series of insane pissed of texts to her because she was who was there to listen. Thanks, sweets. That couldn't have been fun for you.
4. Oh, by the way...Madrid. Yes, I'm leaving Wednesday morning. Some people are asking, "Why Madrid for this birthday?" Well, yes, two reasons. The first is that usually my birthday is such a spectacular time, and last year it was COMPLETELY SHITTY THANK YOU VERY MUCH CHARLER. Anyway, I want to reclaim it. The second is because my OBGYN actually said to me at my annual exam in December the following, "I see that you're turning 34 this year. You know, that's considered to be your last year of vibrant fertility. After that, you actually fall into the high risk category if you get pregnant."
I only wish I were making that up. He used those words. "Vibrant fertility." And I kind of figured that if what I'd basically done is make a lot of life choices about traveling and partying that may or may not have taken away the baby dream, I should really blow it out for my birthday. And so that's what we're doing.
Princess D, Lis, Larry - I'M SO EXCITED! WE'RE GOING TO HAVE SUCH A RIDICULOUS TIME.
5. Other People Whose Stuff Online Is More Entertaining Than Mine: You should listen to my friend Brent in Montreal doing his morning sports radio show. 8-9am EST on Mondays. That's 5am PST for my west coast people. I understand that most of my west coast people are not compulsive insomniacs and 5:00am isn't a time when you've already been up for half an hour, but if you are (or if you're on the east coast), you can listen by clicking the (don't mock me for being obvious) listen link here. I promise he's more entertaining than anything I've written lately.
Then again, I'm about to leave for Spain, and trips like that usually result in good stories.
6. Dear Trick: That is EXACTLY why I have a blog. Except that I'm not allowed to blog about the "unfortunate incident" since not everything is resolved yet. So expect an email full of stories of my poor behavior and its unfortunate outcomes. Love you, mean it.
7. Why I Heart Old People: I was seated next to this sweet, sweet old man at the fight on Saturday, and he spent the night telling me bad jokes and playing memory retention games with me.
What's Irish and stays out all night? Paddy O'Furniture
What do you call a homosexual Irishman? Gaelic
What food cuts your sex drive in half? Wedding cake
It went on like this. Also, can you name seven sports teams (NHL, NBA, MLB) whose team names don't end in "s"? Fun times.
8. Why You're Jealous You're Not on this Spain Trip: Because you're not doing this with us, as suggested by Jen's sister, who lives in Madrid and gave us the 411:
9. I already know... that I need to take the Christmas song down off of my MySpace page. Thank you for the reminders. At this point, it's really a matter of principle to see how long I can leave it up. Kind of like my mother's holiday tree.
10. I'm out of material: Let's be honest, I've been out of material since item number 8. Oh, I know!!!! Enjoy the Sarah Silverman "I'm Fucking Matt Damon" video. That step segment is priceless.
And Then I Cried for the ONLY Time Ever in Public...And it Worked!
The first time I ever left the country, I was twenty-one. I had convinced the powers that be that no self-respecting literature major would ever graduate without doing a study abroad program in the UK. I was mostly broke (though I know in an emergency my parents would have bailed me with extra money, but they were not so "pro" this trip to begin with). By mostly broke I mean clearly I had come up with the money to take the trip, but there was no money to spend on the trip. As soon as I got approved for the study-abroad trip, I booked a plane ticket that arrived two weeks before I started classes and then departed a week after I ended classes, with the departure from Madrid so that I'd have to see Spain no matter what anybody said. And I went on this trip entirely on my own.
And I came back a totally different person.
I've never really written about the amazing, adventurous, incredible stories that came out of that trip anywhere. Part of that is because, even though I am now 33, my mother will read them and the terror that her little girl lived some of this will still strike her heart. In fact, I've actually edited many of the stories out of this journal entry because her stomach would drop out. I was broke and twenty-one on my own in Europe, people. I got into a lot of trouble. And you know that by "trouble" I must mean TROUBLE because I don't think I've ever edited something entirely out of this journal before because I was worried that my mom would have a fit.
But anyway, onward.
Damn Gypsies. Because Pookie and I have always felt a calling to our homeland, the first place I wanted to go, at 21, alone, in Europe, was Budapest. So I immediately got off the plane and started hopping trains across the continent to Hungary. I found an evening train out of Luxembourg that arrived in Budapest around midnight and decided to take it. While I was in the train station in Luxembourg, I meet another girl who was nearly my age and traveling alone. Her name was Chelsea and I still adore her to this day! She had just finished a stint as a nanny and was just kicking around Europe, so she decided to come to Budapest with me.
We got on the train and immediately met two Canadian men. One was just doing a summer backpacking tour on his own. The other was on his way back to Budapest where's he was studying at a monestary. True story, people. Also a true story: The four of us are sharing a train compartment and I started to make fun of how Canadians are so ... Canadian. I cracked a joke that I wouldn't have been surprised if at least one of the two Canadian guys was carrying a full-sized Canadian flag with him.
And the one...he reached into his back pack, and...
People, this moment is so shocking to me still that I dug a photo out of a photo album that was in a storage unit fifteen minutes from my home just so that I could scan it for you. HE REALLY DID HAVE THAT FLAG.
Ah, memories.
Anyway, the train arrived in Budapest. It was midnight. Nobody had a lot of cash, and nobody wanted to hunt around for a place to stay in a seedy Eastern European city. I wish I could remember those guys' names, but the one kind of looks at Chels and I and is like, "I mean, how do you feel about sleeping in the park tonight?"
Oddly, we felt fine about it. So we all made our way to the island that's in the Danube between Buda and Pest and slept there. That's how I spent my first real night in Europe. Sleeping in a park full of gypsies and thieves in Budapest.
I woke up at the crack of dawn and got it in my head that I wanted to watch the sunrise over the Danube. Welcome to being twenty-one and in Europe for the first time. Oh, hell, who are we kidding? It would take about a hot minute for almost every story I'm telling here to play out exactly the same way again now, in my early/mid thirties. Anyway, I woke up one of the Canadians and said, "Hey, can you watch my pack? I'm going for a walk." Said Canadian took my pack and slid it under his head as a pillow. I took my day pack and headed toward the river.
I'm sure you've figured out where this is going.
Sunrise was stunning. Beautiful. I can still vividly remember it. It was the best first sunrise in Europe that a young woman could ever have had. In fact, here it is:
I got back to "camp" about an hour later.
Dumbass Canadian has rolled over, some gypsy has opened my pack and 3/4 of everything I had with me had been pulled out and stolen.
And please remember that one of the words I used to describe myself on this trip was "broke."
You know what though? Oddly, I never got all that upset about the situation. I was bumming for about ten minutes, and then Chels and I looked at each other and were like, "Well, I guess we'll have to go shopping."
And so that's how I spent my first full day in Europe. Shopping to replace my stuff in strange, Hungarian stores. The good news was that it was Eastern Europe in the mid-nineties so I could replace about $300 worth of stuff for about $70. The bad news was that I spent the rest of the summer dressing like I was from Hungary, by which I mean dressing like a hooker.
My favorite part of shopping in Budapest involved jeans. To this day, the Eastern European women wear their jeans TIGHT. I own one pair of sexy tight jeans, which I wear out when I need to feel pretty. The rest of my jeans are usually about a size too big and drop off of my hips a bit. So, Chelsea and the Canadians and I would go into a store, and they would pull out a pair of jeans in something that I would need to paint on myself, and I would pull an appropriate size off of the rack and put it on. And then the salesgirl would look at me, make a face, shake her head and shove the same jeans in a size two sizes smaller into my hands. She would try to convince me that I wanted jeans that I would have to lay on the floor and pull on instead of comfy jeans. In one store, I bought a pair of jeans in a size six or something. I even checked the size tag at the register. When I got back to the place we were staying, I found that the girl had put a size two into my bag. That girl! She was so committed that I would celebrate my inner Eastern Eurpoean hooker that she kindly switched my jean size out for me.
Budapest was fun. We had a great time there. We almost didn't want to leave and start working our way back across the Continent, but...
Traveling with Chelsea Traveling with Chels was super fun and we have lots of great memories. I'm going to do them in bullet points though.
- We only spent a day in Venice, but it was our most singular favorite day of the part of the trip that we spent together. We got there at the crack of dawn and left on a midnight train that night and had the most perfect day.
- Except that sometimes with think that this totally random day we spent in Innsbruck was better. That is all. It's a debate.
- Going back to the day in Venice, so we took that midnight train out to Nice, and we paid a little extra so that we could have a train compartment to ourselves. So that we could sleep. And as the train takes off, the ticket checker comes into our compartment, where it's clear by the way we've arranged our backpacks as pillows that we're about to sleep. And he musters up his best English and says, "No, you two don't fall asleep. Bad things will happen to you two if you fall asleep, even with the door locked."
We didn't sleep that night. And at least three times during that night somebody tried to open our door, and we kicked it. Good times.
- In Nice, we stayed in the most beautiful place ever, but Chels almost beat up an old woman because she pushed her out of a bus seat. But here's a picture of Nice!
- The day before I needed to be in London to start classes, I ran entirely out of money but didn't realize it until I got to the ferry station and the Amex office was already closed. Screwed? Not so much because I convinced some kids who were panhandling to get enough money to cross the channel to let me panhandle with them. It's really amazing how many people will just give you money to shut you up.
You Know It's a Good Trip When the Most Boring Thing You Do Is Spend Three Months in London I mean, I have awesome stories, like about how one night we literally stole invitations and crashed Boy George's birthday party. Or about how a sheep tried to actually attack me in St. Ives. It was a great time. I drank lots of beer out of very lady like half-pint glasses. I saw just about every production that the Royal Shakespeare Company did. I passed out in the tube one night and my friend Shelly woke me up by yelling, "There are Spanish men on this train!" This was 1995, or as you may remember it, "The Year of Whitney Houston's 'I Will Always Love You'" and my neighbor wouldn't stop playing it 17 times an hour. There was a lot of clubbing and even more pubbing. For some reason I really poignantly remember Freud's house. Which is strange because I remember not so much caring if we went there but getting dragged there by my roomies. It was a good summer.
And Then Chelsea Showed Back Up and We Went to Spain... So, for whatever reason that I can't remember (like she had taken a full year off to travel or something), Chelsea's return to the States was at the same time as mine. So we had decided that we would meet up in Calais and then go to Madrid together for a couple of days. She was flying out, like, on a Wednesday and I was on a Friday. And this, this ladies and gentlemen, is my favorite story of the trip.
So we take a couple of days meandering from Calais to Paris, and the plan is to take a train from Paris to Madrid. While we're hanging out in the Paris train station, we meet this guy from Ohio who is also backpacking around and who decides to come to Madrid with us. We all buy tickets to Madrid. The ticket has a transfer element because you have to de-board in this tiny, tiny town on the French/Spanish border and go through a customs check BEFORE you enter Spain (or at least that's what you had to do in 1995). And everything is fine until we get to said small border town.
I hadn't actually checked my ticket after I bought it.
Of course you see where this is headed. The ticket agent had forgotten to give me my transfer. And though I was holding my credit card receipt that said I had purchased the transfer, nobody was letting me on that train without the actual transfer.
"It's fine," I say to Chelsea and Marc (I can't believe I remember his name). "I'm sure I can just buy a ticket from here to Madrid in this station."
NEGATIVE. I could purchase a ticket for that leg of the trip, but I'd have to go all the way into town, which was actually half an hour away, to do it unless I was paying in cash. Ha ha ha ha. I think we've probably figured out that by this point in the trip I had NO AVAILABLE FUNDS. But if I went down into town to buy a ticket, I wouldn't make it back in time for the train and I'd have to find a way to find Marc and Chelsea once we hit Madrid.
So in truth, it's not like that was such a horrible plan. We knew what train I'd be on. It wouldn't be too hard to meet up. But I was determined.
Let me preface what comes next with the following: a. You can count the number of times in my life that I have cried in public on one finger, and I'm about to tell you that story
b. The only thing I despise and think is more pathetic than a woman who cries to get what she wants is a woman who cries in public, at all. Every time a woman cries in public, I make another two cents less on the dollar than my male counterparts and every stereotype ever about women being weak is endorsed. When you are a woman and you cry in public, I lose respect for you and so does everybody else. And then they lose respect for me via you. So unless it's the death of a close family member, keep it together in public, women.
That said, I wanted on that train and I'm a smart enough girl to understand the effectiveness of a girl crying.
"Go ahead and get on the train," I said to Chels and Mark, "but whatever you do, don't act like you know me. That train conductor, he needs to think I'm totally alone."
And so Chelsea and Marc wander off.
And, really, honestly, I'm not a crier, nor am I a very talented actress, so I have to take a solid ten minutes to get my act together. And then I walk up to the train conductor with my best "I'm just a lost girl in the world" look on and just start talking as fast as I can about how the ticket agent forgot to give me my ticket and I have no money left and I HAVE to get to Madrid so that I can go home and how I'm all alone and I don't know what to do, and then...
yes, then...
I start crying.
And, as sad as it is to say, it's a done deal the minute I do that. The conductor tells me that he'll let me on the train, but that I'll have to sit up front in the first car near him because when we get to Madrid he's going to walk with me to the Amex office so that I can get cash to pay for my ticket.
And I'm a happy girl, because I'm on the train. And that story would be awesome if it ended there. But it actually gets so much better.
We've been on the train for about an hour, when suddenly there is this BEAUTIFUL MAN WHO SERIOUSLY LOOKS LIKE HE JUST STEPPED OUT OF A RAPHAEL PAINTING OF BLOND ANGELS is standing there looking at me, and as though God were really sending me an angel, he says, "Somebody back there told me that there was a cute American girl crying because she didn't have money for the train. That must be you."
And while normally I abhor Prince Charming complexes in men, this man was SO LOVELY. And he paid for my ticket and then we collected Chelsea and Marc and traveled the rest of the way in his private compartment with good Spanish wine and bread. Because of course he was American and his parents were wealthy and they had a house in Madrid where they were spending the summer. And that's also where we stayed when we got to Madrid. In his parents extravagant house. And he took all three of us out each night to places with amazing sangria and wonderful desserts and the air was warm and we all laughed a lot and went to the Prado and Reina Sofia and the Palacio Real. And it was perfect. That whole summer had been an adventure and then it ended with this wonderful, amazing adventure that made everything perfect.
So, then, how did I change? Well, it's not exactly like, though I grew up in small town America, I had had the most sheltered upbringing. We traveled excessively. I saw more operas, symphonies, ballets and attended more Shakespeare festivals by thirteen than most people do in an entire life. I saw the West through the back window of a car. But I'd done all of those things with my family and in very structured environments. And I'd done everything that you were expected to do to be a super star in high school and in my first three years of college. And I had a PLAN. I was going to get my PhD. A nice safe ten year plan where I could then spend the rest of my life living in the nice, safe, repetitive world of academia.
And in Europe, on that crazy summer backpack trip with no money and the fun of meeting equally adventurous people who didn't think twice about getting into equally adventurous situations, I realized one thing very clearly:
I did not want to spend my life reading about other people's stories. I wanted to be out collecting my own.
And people who have known me who met me a little later in life, I'm sure, have a hard time imagining that I was every any other way. But I was. I was very content with the idea of a safe life, and I'm SO GLAD that I got my first taste of wandering adventure when I was young enough to realize that that "safe life" isn't the person who I am.
I often wonder, if someday I have a daughter and she is in her early twenties and wants to run off to Europe on her own like I did, would I let her? Or would I make her take friends and sleep in hotels where she had reservations instead of hostels or people's couches or parks or train stations? Would I make sure that she had enough money to bail herself out of any situation she may get in? And I can imagine a parental instinct that would want to do that, because I know EXACTLY how many REALLY BAD spots I got into on that trip (that as I said will not even be mentioned here because I love my mother). The number of times I probably should have been at a minimum violently raped and in a worst case scenario murdered on that trip would need two hands to count, but I have always been very good at talking myself out of bad situations. I don't know what I would do if it were my daughter. I would want her to have her own chance at an adventure that changes who she is, or at least shows her who she is. I think that I would want her to go, because I know that I am only as happy and confident and eclectically open as I am because of that trip.
Then again, as Wooderson said when we were having this discussion tonight, "It wouldn't matter what you did. She'd trick you into it anyway or sneak behind your back."
It's true, and I hope she would, because that would definitely mean that she was my daughter!
Oh goodness. I'm so underwater. How did this happen, and how did I think that going to LA this weekend was a good idea? I guess the good news is that it's only Monday and I can get caught up/ahead if I'm really committed to the idea. That said, the best I can do today is a disjointed list - number of items to be determined later.
1. Ferris and Dana: Are here, and if I didn't mention it, I love them. There are some select pictures here, and many more will be added after they download. I love that picture of them in front of the Rio sign. It'll be getting printed for framing later.
2. The Party of the Century: Honestly, could not have been more perfect. ToniK and I almost wanted to cry it went so perfectly. Our clients were amazingly impressed with us and think that we're goddesses. If you were following my Twitter stream, you got most of the highlights, but let me bullet some things out.
- Don't hate all rich folk, because some of them are wonderful. This family was wonderful. The mother arranged this entire weekend in Vegas for 20 close friends and family kept every single thing a secret about it. They didn't know where they were going or what they were doing. That's sweet. It's what I'd do if I had more money than God, too.
- We had an issue getting the stripper in the cake through the door. Then Geronimo, the guy in charge of the cake, just pushed it REALLY hard and it was fine. Also, I can now sing almost every word of Kajra Re. Word.
- We loved how at 11:00pm on a Saturday they asked us to see if we could get a VIP table at Tryst. We loved even more that we made it happen.
- If we described our Saturday night, it would sound like we didn't work, because it would sound like this "After we got them in the limos, we sat at the bar at The Eiffel Tower restaurant and each had two glasses of Geverztraminer, some escargot and some carpaccio. Then we went and hung out in their VIP area in Tryst." Let me assure you, I've managed high strung staffs and million dollar budgets. I've never worked as hard as we did during that party. I slept for a day afterwards.
3. Speaking of Staffs: Mine is so snotty. In our department meeting today, we pretty much talked about how awesome we all were and how not awesome everybody else was. I like to see that I pass my best qualities on to my employees. Sad. I need to do some self and team correction on that.
4. 50 People I Don't Want to Die Without Sleeping With: If you had a facebook account, you would have seen my list. I can't make you get one, but it was funny stuff. I suppose I could get motivated to recreate it here. I guess. It was so much work the first time though.
5. Also: Tonight I finished one of the writing projects I said I wanted to finish by the end of the summer, and when I wrote the last line, it made me cry. And I'm actually not a very good fiction writer, and this isn't even the SAD writing project that I was working on. I'm actually toying with the idea of posting some of my fiction when I leave for Uganda so that people can read it while I'm not here to deal with the knowledge that people are reading it. You like the way I'll blog about every single messy detail of my life, but ask me to show you some of my fiction and I'll hide under the couch? Because the fiction is almost more personal because the cover of fiction allows me to access things I wouldn't normally access. I don't know. We'll see.
I've actually cried a couple of times about the end of that story since I finished it. I even knew in my head how it would end, but when I actualized it, it felt so sad.
6. I Make Messes: This is a portion of a conversation that happened tonight:
Me I'm making a mess with that boy. We all know this isn't good. We all know that six months from now I'm going to have to clean up this mess I'm making. Fuckit.
Dana (insert stare of "You know what you're doing isn't good. So stop.")
Me I know. I KNOW.
I can tell you this, if you were a betting person, you could comfortably bet that this thing I'm doing right now is going to turn into a horrible mess and I'll spend the holidays either a)feeling like I am the most horrible person with zero self control or b) crying. Or both. Wagers in, please.
7. Twenty Days: In Uganda when the rest of my life stops for a while like it doesn't exist cannot come soon enough. And nothing's even bad in my life right now. I just have the itch. HOW WRONG IS THAT?
Friday Six: Tattoo Wisdom, Champagne, Social Injustice
1. Because I enjoy being financially tight but exceptionally well-traveled: "We're going to Madrid in February" somehow turned into "Some of us are going to Madrid in February" and "Some of us are going to Seville in April". So I'm just going to call it now - That means no more travel plans for '08, because that's Spain twice and then Mongolia in the fall and that's about all this girl can handle until she becomes a full on lady of leisure. Bitches better plan some parties.
2: Big Josh wants to drop some wisdom: And in case you were wondering, Big Josh is from Diversity Tattoo where I just got my new one done. He wants you to know that "People love to get hurt by the people they love - it makes them strong." I might say that it only makes you strong if you choose to let it make you strong. It's pretty easy to hide from it and let it make you weaker. And I think that you know who you are.
3. Actual quote from my mom to C-Woo: "I always say that Joel's going to save the world, and then Jocelyn is going to buy it from him."
That's fucked up, mom. It implies that after saving the world, Joel would embrace capitalism.
4. Notes from Partay World: So ToniK rolls into the office with five bottles of embarrassing pink champagne that each cost more than you probably pay in rent or mortgage per month. I mean, like each bottle INDIVIDUALLY costs more than you probably pay in rent or mortgage each month.
Me There are five bottles there.
Toni Yeah, they added two people, so I figured we'd need the fifth bottle.
Me They only approved four bottles though, you know.
Toni Right, well, I figure they won't have a problem with it, what with the extra people and the fact that they have more money than God. But you know, if for some reason they don't want the fifth bottle...
Me Then you and I are about to have an awesome evening in your backyard with your dog, a pizza and a bottle of champagne that costs more than you or I pay in rent or mortgage a month. Hot.
5. An important social question - discuss: One might think that the important social question would be "Is there something wrong with a world in which one can buy champagne that costs more than a person's rent or mortgage?" No, the important social question is:
Which of the following has contributed more to the stripping away of people's dignity? Is it:
a. The mere existence of YouTube. See the following as an example.
Or is it....
b. The industry that is Bollywood. See the following as an example.
Discuss. Let me know.
6. And a play list: I've been musically (and mentally, and emotionally, and physically) all over the map this week, so this play list is literally the six (since this is a Friday six) songs that went through on my iPod while I was writing this. "I'm crazy," is what this playlist says.
a. Oasis - Fucking in the Bushes: This is the song I start EVERY RUN I'VE EVER TAKEN with. It's the most motivational piece of music I know of. That may say something about me, I suppose.
b. Jack Johnson - Bubble Toes: I love me some Jack Johnson and everybody knows it.
c. Seasons of Love - Rent: What's funny is how there are two motivational songs on this list. One about fucking in some bushes, one about moving through life. Ha.
d. Jackson Brown - Sky Blue and Black: I think that the "I'm Alive" album is one of the greatest albums ever recorded. I really do. I'm not sure why more people don't think that. Cory convinced me to buy it one day back in Bloomington and I've never stopped listening to it.
e. Billy Joel - And So It Goes: I have no idea why my random shuffle is so mellow today, but it is. Kind of mopey, no? But again, I'm not sure we can argue that this is one the single most beautiful songs ever sung by a man to a woman (HINT).
f. Lyndard Skynard - Sweet Home Alabama: Back in the day, when the Avery and the Janet and the PJ and I used to go to the Toronado, like, EVERY Friday, there was this fun little game I would play where I would put this song on the jukebox, and then Johnny the bartender would yell at me not to play that crap in his bar and use his manual override to switch the jukebox to Black Flag or some crap like that. I think we can probably all see how that story eventually ended.
Postscript: An actual conversation.
"What are you doing this weekend, Jocelyn?"
"Going somewhat insane because Ferrisx2 is in town AND we're running a party that costs more than you make in a year."
"How about next weekend?"
"I'm going to LA to see some kind of fucked up band in some bad neighborhood on Friday night and go to the roller derby on Saturday."
"So I see that your new spiritual journey is going well."
Also subtitled: The Annual Camping Trip Also subtitled: The Coldest, Wettest, Most Miserable Night I Ever Spent Sleeping in a CAVE
Yes, you read this right. This story ends with my sleeping in a cave. Actually, it doesn't end there, but that is a part of this, and you can read about it later. That real title is an actual direction from the human waste removal bags you are given at the ranger station when you get your permit to Mt. Whitney.
I came back from the mountain all blissed out. Sore and blistered like a fiend, but blissed out.
Before I even write the never-ending journal entry about the camping trip, let me just say that I camped with the most fantastic boys ever. They are fantastic because they are funny and straightforward, but they are also are fantastic because they treat me like a girl while not forcing me to be limited by being a girl. They took great care of me in the wilderness. I always had water. I always had food. I was never any colder than I had to be. Somebody always checked my pack. And when I had trouble with one of the ascents, one of them actually came a quarter of a mile back down the side of a mountain to carry my pack for me. But they never acted like I couldn't do everything they could. If they climbed to 11,000 feet three times in one day, I had to, too. If they decided that we were going to start hiking at 2am, I was, too. If my dumb ass fell asleep on a ROCK in the middle of the campsite, my dumb ass was left there to deal with being a dumb ass until I work up freezing in the middle of the night. And I actually did do that. They are the best boys ever. And I'm so very grateful for them.
Okay, then, onward.
Chapter One: I Often Pay Very Little Attention to Things Listen, so you know how the year we went to Peru, people would ask "What are you guys doing in Peru?" And I was all, like, "I dunno. I didn't plan the trip. I just know when to show up and what I'm supposed to bring." And then when we went to China the same questions were asked, and my answer was pretty much the same. And then for Uganda this year, the same question is asked and my answer is pretty much the same? Same with this trip. I knew that I was supposed to meet E-Stop on Tuesday in Lone Pine, that I needed to bring food for the group and my camping gear and that we'd descend on Thursday or Friday depending on the weather. This is my own bad, because an entire route map was sent out the week before the trip. I just didn't read it. If I had, I might have noticed that we were going to end up hiking 40+ miles in three days with summits of 12,000 feet, 11,000 feet about three times and of course the big 13,600 at Whitney. I might have been intimidated by that. Thank the lord I didn't actually read it.
Chapter Two: Things Get Off to an Ominous Start And so this is how the trip starts. I blow out a tire IN THE MIDDLE OF DEATH VALLEY IN 120 DEGREE HEAT. Let it be said that I do this because I am taking a corner at 90mph in 120 DEGREE HEAT, and that I already know that I should not drive like that. But fortunately, it all works out.
Bad sign number two is that Paul, Frank and Dave all have delayed flights, meaning that they are landing in Santa Anna at 10:20pm, with still a three to four hour drive to the campsite. This is not good, especially since we are altitude hiking and the acclimatization time is important.
This is how our trip starts.
Chapter Three: Camping With Bart Simpson But because Frank, Dave and Paul are late, I get to spend the entire day with E-Stop. We deal with permits, with Ranger Tyler. Ranger Tyler isn't so bright on the upswing, it seems. Firstly, he fills out our permit wrong - though that will later be an advantage. Then he has us filling out all of our forms to rent bear canisters BEFORE he mentions to us that there are bear lockers at both campsites we're using. Then he has no idea where a good place to eat in town is, even though town consists of about a dozen buildings. Finally, in my favorite part, he begins to explain to us how to use the human waste removal bags he's just provided us with, because "if you take it up the mountain, you have to bring it down the mountain, and that means biodegradables, too." To begin with, I will leave it to you to determine whether we actually took all of our "biodegradables" back with us in our backpacks. But the funny part to me is that Ranger Tyler is so uncomfortable giving us this speech that he won't make eye contact with us. It's like he must tell 100 people a day about having to bring their "biodegradables" back down the mountain with them, but he's still totally embarrassed by it. Cute.
We eat, we head up to the campsite. It's a good day. It's like camping with Bart Simspon. The first thing that happens is we stop at an overview at about 9500 feet or so. I'm taking a picture, and I look over. "E-Stop, what are you doing?"
And this, ladies and gentlemen, is the answer.
"I'm trying to push this boulder off the cliff. Trust me, it will make a loud noise while it rolls down. It'll be awesome."
We spent the day shooting pellet guns, throwing knives at trees, taking a hike where he used his trekking poles to pretend like he was slolem skiing down the mountain, talking about a legendary dump he took the last time we were camping, and making fart jokes. In between all of this, he gave me advice about my job and my (sort of not really) boy. It was like camping with Bart Simpson. That night, we lit a propane lantern not necessarily because we had to, but because fire is cool. And we drank Miller Lite.
And we went to sleep and made a $20 bet about whether the rest of them would get there by 4am.
They did not get there by 4am. The arrived at camp at 5am when it was too dark to find our campsite. They slept in the car. Yes, in the car. That's how our trip started. But yet...it all ends so good!
Chapter Four: On the First Day I Slept on a Rock So, we had obviously hoped to be out on the path when the sun came up around 6 or 7am. That plan went out the window when people didn't arrive at camp until 5am. For the record, I'm told that part of the reason people didn't arrive at camp until 5am is because they STOPPED AT WAL MART ON THE WAY THERE. Yes, yes they did. Also, while E-Stop and I were comfy at the campsite, PaulM and Frank were sleeping in the SUV rental and Dave-Shaft was sleeping on a mat in the parking lot. So we let them sleep as long as possible, got the packs together and headed out around 10am. It could have been worse.
Also, one of my favorite stories happens here. The night before, E-Stop and I had a couple of beers at camp. Well, he had one. I had two. The next morning, I'm all like, "Man, we're only at 10,000 and I'm already feeling altitude. I have a headache and I'm nauseous."
Because he is patient with me, E-Stop just looks at me. The he looks away. Then he looks at me. "Jocelyn, you had two beers at altitude last night. What you have is a hangover."
And that's how we start.
It's beautiful hiking. Beautiful. Sometime later in the afternoon we cross over Mt. Langley. We don't summit, but we do go up to almost 12,000 feet. Before that, though? Rain. We're headed up the incline before you get to the mountain switchbacks, and it starts to rain. We take shelter in a cave for about an hour, have some beef jerky and then head on. Why this is important is that we put on rain gear. And then we head on in the rain. And eventually, about halfway up the switchbacks, the rain stops. But we are still in plastic rain gear. You know how when a boxer wants to lose weight he runs in a plastic warm-up suit so he can sweat out all of his water weight? This is the same effect. You don't want to stop going up the switchbacks because you'll lose momentum, but you're dehydrating quickly with the rain gear on. And so, on the way back down the mountain, I get horribly ill from dehydrating and throw up. Lovely.
So I'm feeling poorly by the time we get to "camp," by which I mean the clearing where we will sleep without tents. I pull out my lightbag and and say "I'm just going to lay here on this rock for fifteen minutes and then get up and eat."
It is three in the morning when I wake up, having now slept ON THE ROCK for a solid five or so hours. I'm not sure if I woke up because it is so horribly uncomfortable to sleep up against a rock or because it had dropped to sub forty degrees. I remind you that we did not have our cold weather gear with us.
Yep. We were all pretty miserable that night. Yet happy, and content. Odd.
Chapter Five: On Day Two, We Sleep in a CAVE Day two, for me, was the hardest day.
We begin by hiking to the nearest ranger station to get water. There we are met by Creepy-The-Hills-Have-Eyes-I-Have-Spent-Too-Much-Time-Alone-In-The-Woods Ranger Girl. No, seriously. She lives in the ranger station which is a tiny cabin IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE. She actually suggests that we get some water from the spring WITHOUT FILTERING IT. Hello, creepy girl. And of course, while we're filtering our water, she wants to look at our permits.
Which say we should be entirely off of the mountain that day.
We are a solid 20 miles from being off of that mountain, including the several miles of climbing UP the mountain.
She then asks to see our bear canister.
We're not traveling with one. Even though we know we're required to have one because after avoiding eye contact with us while discussing human waste, Ranger Tyler reiterated to us about a dozen times that tying our food up in the trees was not sufficient and that we HAD TO HAVE A BEAR CANISTER. We lie and say we're camping at Crabtree Lake, where there are bear boxes provided. She looks confused because she knows that if we camp there, we are not down off of the mountain in time. Then she starts talking to animals as though we're not even there. We sneakily hike away. I am only partially joking.
The day is spent climbing up and then climbing down. Not once but twice we ascend to over 11,000 feet. Only to climb ALL THE WAY BACK DOWN to 9500 or so, because remember we are crossing over mountains. The second time we go up, we run into another ranger girl. I like to call this one Ranger GRRRRRL. She also notes that we don't have bear canisters and tells us stories of campers getting mauled by bear. We proceed on, promising to hike at Crabtree Lake.
We arrive at Crabtree Lake in the late afternoon. We stop and eat, by which I clearly mean some more beef jerkey and almonds. Actually, there's some Hickory Farms processed turkey summer sausage, too, which at that point tastes like the finest gourmet meal I've ever had. We take a nap, literally. And then we decide to fuck the good-hearted rangers and hike through the ravine all the way back up to 11,500 feet to camp at Guitar Lake.
Firstly, that hike is hard. It's hard to go back up to 11,500 for the THIRD time in a day, more or less. It's getting cold. We're well above tree line pretty early on so it's not even pretty. It's raining off and on (AGAIN). And when we arrive at Guitar Lake, what we realize is that it's going to rain that night. AGAIN. And this time, HARD.
We-find-a-cave.
Yes, that's right. You heard me. Our solution is to find a cave. The cave is disgusting. It's got what we hope is marmot poop in it. We're hoping it's marmot poop because if it's anything else then it's bear poop, and we want that even less. Also, this is less of a cave and more of a precariously balanced large boulder on top of other large boulders. We put a tarp down so there will be a layer between us and the marmot poop. We share what thin blanke
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