My Own Planet

2010-03-18T15:11:00.003-04:00

Trente
In less than two weeks, I will turn 30. In Provence, no less, in keeping with my French birthday tradition. While I suspect excitement about the trip is part of it (how prescient I was when I decided to make this an official tradition 10 years ago), I am actually really looking forward to being 30. Thirties are solidly grown-up territory, and we've already established that being a grown-up is awesome. Plus, despairing about one's age seems to me a completely fruitless activity. I mean, what can you do about it, really, other than make some changes to your life going forward? On the whole, I am quite happy with my life (my commute notwithstanding), and therefore there will be no caterwauling about entering a new decade.

At 23, I was not so happy with my life (unemployment will do that to you), and so I made a list of 30 things I wanted to do by the time I turned 30. This was not so much a checklist as it was a general idea of where I wanted my life to be when I was 30. The idea was: "This is who I think I want to be; when I get there, let's see if this is who I actually am or even want to be anymore." I named the document "March 31, 2010" and squirreled it away in some obscure subfolder on my computer, willing myself not to look at it until the date on the calendar matched up with the date on the document.

And for nearly 7 years, I did not look at it. But now, for the purposes of this blog post, I'm going to cheat. It's close enough to my birthday--the fact that I got birthday stuff in the mail today from both my parents and Dave's is a testament to that fact. Besides, it's not like I'm going to go out and accomplish any of the goals I didn't get to in the next two weeks. That's not what this list was even about, anyway. So let's get to it.

1. Have a job that I love. Done! I could live without the commute, and I still dream of one day working at a magazine that people have actually heard of (though I realize my unwillingness to live in New York makes this somewhat unlikely), but I pretty much have the job that I went to school to have. That is awesome.
2. Start my own magazine. I was way too ambitious for my own good at 23. I never did start my own magazine, but I did work on two magazine launches. And I started the Saved by the Bell blog. That’s gotta count for something.
3. Be on the way to creating my multimedia empire. Waaaayyyy too ambitious for my own good.
4. Make a documentary. I made a two-minute video for my magazine’s web site a few years ago, and it nearly killed me. Plus, it was kind of bad. I’m not sure “documentarian” is my true calling.
5. Have a dog. I still love dogs, but I realized somewhere along the way that having a dog in the city means picking up poop. I am not cool with that. Someday if I live in the country, I may have a dog.
6. Own or have owned a convertible. The way this is worded makes me think I somehow knew my love of convertibles would be fleeting. Not too long after I wrote this, I bought my first car, which was not a convertible. (I couldn’t even afford a moon roof.) My goal now is to drive that car until it stops running. Or maybe get a Vespa—as far as somewhat-impractical modes of transportation go, they’re way cooler than convertibles.
7. Have had at least one very serious relationship. Done. Still doing.
8. Be as close with my best friends from college as I am now. Also done. We may not talk as much as we used to, and we may be at different places in our lives, but I know I can always turn to them for anything.
9. Have local friends who are as close and special to me as my college friends. If by “local,” you mean Birmingham (which I did at the time), then I accomplished this. If you mean D.C. (which I do now), I am well on my way to accomplishing it, thanks in large part to roller derby. Oh, and I guess it also helps that I now live in the same city as a couple of my college girlfriends.
10. Not be stressing out about marriage and kids. I think I was worried that when I turned 30, I would suddenly turn into a desperate woman who became fixated on getting married and having kids. I should’ve given myself more credit. If I have any stress about this at all, it comes from the fact that it’s now a tangible possibility, and that is kind of scary.
11. Have visited all 50 states. I’ve still got 8 to go. Truth be told, I didn’t make much progress on this goal, because I was more focused on…
12. Have visited almost all continents (Antarctica worth bonus points!). I’m not sure what I considered “almost all” at the time. I’ve been to four out of seven; I’m happy with a simple majority. (No bonus points, though. Honestly, Antarctica isn’t high on my travel list anyway—it’s cold and expensive to get to, which are two pretty big strikes in my book.)
13. Get at least one freelance story published. Done. Though again, none of them have been in magazines people have ever heard of.
14. Have gone to graduate school for something other than journalism. The further I got away from school, the less I wanted to go back. I think I was searching for that community atmosphere I cherished at college, and once I found that elsewhere, I realized that the “school” part of school wasn’t that much fun.
15. Have my students loans almost if not all the way paid off. Yeah, I don’t know how I thought I was going to do this and go to grad school. I do have one loan nearly paid off, but the other is still looming pretty large. However, this is the only debt I have, so I’m pretty happy about that.
16. Have a home that I absolutely love. I’m sure when I wrote this, I envisioned myself owning a house, but that hasn’t happened yet. Which is fine. I still love the home I live in…most of the time.
17. Be happy with my weight. Yes. Well, there’s this one pair of pants that I bought on clearance at Anthropologie, even though they were a little tight ($10 pants at Anthropologie! You do not pass that up! Ever!), and I would like to be able to wear them someday. But on the whole, I am happy with my body. Roller derby deserves some credit for this as well.
18. Go on a real road trip. Done. It was the first Excellent Adventure, and it spawned many more Excellent Adventures to follow.
19. Live in a place where I can have my piano. Hmm…I guess there’s probably room for the piano somewhere in my current house, but I’d rather wait until I own a place before I go to the trouble of moving it from Kentucky.
20. Become better at playing the piano. I think this was pretty dependent on accomplishing goal #19.
21. Not settle for anything less than the perfect bathtub. Ha! I don’t even have a bathtub now (only a shower). And I don’t really mind. I think this was less about taking baths (although at the time I wrote this, I did have the perfect bathtub and was really into taking baths), and more about never living in another generic cookie-cutter apartment like my first one in Birmingham. Which I haven’t.
22. Sing at a jazz club. It’s not a jazz club, but I had a chance to sing at the airport, and I chickened out. Too bad—I could’ve killed with my rendition of “I’ve Got a Crush on You.”
23. Not puke, possibly achieving world record for longest time without puking. An unfortunate New Year’s Eve wiped out this goal less than a year after I made it. But I have not puked since then. And now, inspired by How I Met Your Mother, I can use the tagline “Vomit Free Since ’03.”
24. Become better at confronting people. Nah, I still pretty much suck at this. But roller derby is helping me be a little bit more aggressive. (Thank God I discovered derby before I turned 30, huh?)
25. Not be living paycheck to paycheck. I’m not sure if I can consider this goal fully accomplished, but I’m definitely better about managing my money than I was at 23.
26. Know how to take care of my car. Not really. I should probably take a class on this. Most of what I’ve learned about car care has been gleaned through (usually not positive) experience. I still mostly feel like an idiot when talking to mechanics.
27. Be able to clearly identify what I consider my greatest achievement. What?! I’m not sure why I put this on the list. Nor can I actually identify my greatest achievement.
28. Not have changed in any fundamental way on the inside. This is another head-scratcher. In what fundamental way (presumably for the worse) did I imagine myself changing? Whatever it was, it did not come to fruition.
29. Be able to find this list. Yay! (I was really having trouble coming up with things toward the end of the list, as I recall.)
30. Have achieved at least one of these goals (other than finding this list). Not counting these last two, I have accomplished 12 of my goals (I’m counting the continents and paycheck-to-paycheck as good enough), which is pretty awesome. And the ones I accomplished are the substantial ones, like maintaining good relationships, having a great home and job, and being better at managing my money. (Plus, I haven’t changed in any fundamental way on the inside! Whatever that means.) There will be plenty of time to visit more states, refine my piano skills and sing in jazz clubs in my thirties.

2010-01-19T22:31:00.003-05:00

You didn't think I forgot about the Golden Globes, did you?
Actually, you probably did, given what a lax blogger I have become. And yeah, I know I'm a day late and a dollar short, but you know what? So were the Globes this year. (Well, not a day late, technically. They were on the same day they always are, but you know what I mean.) The mere fact that they added a host is an indication of this precipitous quality drop. Sure, if you must have a host, I suppose Ricky Gervais isn't a bad one to get (though I would have pushed for the inclusion of Karl Pilkington as co-host, personally), but the point is that the Golden Globes don't need a host. They're supposed to be entertaining enough on their own. Ricky Gervais was way funnier last year when he brought his beer onstage and told Kate Winslet, "I told you you'd win an Oscar if you did a Nazi movie." Am I right?

Around here, we won't be bucking tradition quite so flagrantly. So without further ado, here are this year's highlights and lowlights:

-Apparently a few of the guests (ahem, Mariah Carey and Christina Hendricks) misread the invitation. "Golden Globes" is the name of the event, ladies, not the dress code.

-It would be really awesome if I had someone to follow me around and hold an umbrella over my head while I gave interviews and posed for pictures (because I do that so much). It would be even more awesome if that person were Joshua Jackson.

-Julia Roberts clearly had already started hitting the champagne in the limo. Or perhaps in the makeup chair. Or possibly even with her cereal.

-Taylor Lautner is quite a well-spoken young man. That sentence officially makes me old.

-Courteney Cox's plastic surgery seems to have gotten...better. Is that even possible?

-I have no idea who Jennifer Morrison is (IMDB tells me she's on House. Thanks, IMDB!), but I am sort of in love with her dress. It reminds me a little bit of the Carrie Bradshaw dust bunny dress that I fell in love with a few years ago. I saw a tiny glimpse of it on the pre-show split-screen (during which I thought she might be January Jones, yet knew she was not January Jones, having already seen January Jones in her funereal ensemble), and then didn't see her again all night and was driven crazy until I could look up the red carpet pictures the next morning.

-Anna Kendrick's dress, on the other hand, gave the illusion that she had been stuffed into a very sparkly gift bag.

-Ahhhh! The Neil Patrick Harris Conundrum strikes again! Although at least this year he lost to a guy who once shilled for Campbell's Soup, so his odds seem to be improving.

-Let me just say that I can certainly appreciate a good beard on the right man. However, neither George Clooney nor Jon Hamm is the right man for a beard. Is it too much to ask that these two remain clean-shaven and dapper at all times? This was almost as disappointing as the ill-conceived host addition. Oh, Golden Globes.

2009-12-30T13:22:00.010-05:00

Top 10 Years of the Decade
First things first: I must confess that I totally stole this idea from Dave. When he told me that he was planning to do a list of his top 10 years of the decade, I laughed and said, "But aren't there only 10 to choose from?" He looked at me pointedly until I finally got the point--that it's all about ranking the years from best to worst. Once I figured that out, I was sold. So here we go:

10. 2007 As I've mentioned here before, 2007 was pretty much the worst year ever. It seemed like there was hardly a month that wasn't marked by the death of a friend, family member, friend of a family member, or family member of a friend. Plus, my house was invaded by mice, Dave and I broke up, I took on new responsibilities that made my once-perfect job suddenly hellacious, and I developed a case of chronic hives. The lone bright spot was that I finally got to realize my dream of going to Thailand--but since I didn't get there until October, I spent most of the year desperately yearning to go to Thailand. Let's hope the next decade doesn't have a year like this in store for me (although I wouldn't argue with another trip to Thailand).

9. 2002 Ah, the year when I wanted to do nothing but watch Reality Bites in an endless loop, so accurately did it mirror my life. While most of my friends transitioned easily from college to awesome jobs or internships, I spent most of the year trying to get someone--anyone!--to hire me. After a few dozen false starts, I finally hit the jackpot and landed interviews for 11 different internships at Southern Progress in Birmingham. Unfortunately, the folks at SPC weren't so enthusiastic about hiring me for an actual job, and I ended the year unemployed and under even more stress (and pressure from my parents) than when I began it. Reality bites, indeed.

8. 2003 The first couple months of 2003 were merely a continuation of the pain of 2002, during which I found myself desperately seeking my first real post-college job. That pain was dulled by March; unfortunately, by the end of the year, said job had gone from a promising springboard to a dead-end nightmare. On the plus side, I got a new car--but only after my old car put me through some pretty harrowing paces, including a complete breakdown at a stoplight in a not-so-nice part of town. This was also the year that Bri and I founded the Saved by the Bell Blog--because we were so bored at work that we needed something to occupy our time. All in all, 2003 was a pretty tumultuous roller coaster of a year.

7. 2005 Compared to the fairly treacherous years preceding it on this countdown, 2005 wasn't so bad. Except that I was starting to see the cracks in my second job (most notably, a tortuously manipulative co-worker who made the porn-watching boss from my previous job look like a saint) and spent pretty much the entire year nursing an agonizing crush on a friend who lived three states away. (Though December marked our first official date, so the year did end on a good note.)

6. 2008 Another year of ups and downs, although they were, on the whole, much milder than the ones I experienced in 2003. I spent the first half of the year trying to numb the pain of my break-up with expensive shoes and exciting trips, which probably wasn't as great an idea as I thought it was at the time. I reluctantly took on a new role at work, and the transition proved to be a little rough. By the end of the year, though, everything had pretty much smoothed out (perhaps aided by copious pub-quiz beers).

5. 2001 When you kick off a year by appearing on a game show, how bad can the rest of it possibly be? For me, 2001 will always be encapsulated in a few banner events: appearing on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, taking two of my favorite classes at college (Jacqui Banaszynski's Intermediate Writing and Scott Fosdick's Critical Reviewing), and September 11. Eh, two out of three ain't bad.

4. 2009 As the song goes: "Roller derby saved my soul." All right, I guess that's a bit dramatic, but it's no secret that my new hobby has seriously impacted my life. I've learned to love team sports (though I'm still pretty sure this is the only one I'll ever really want to play), learned to be more assertive both on and off the track, and, most important, have met a ton of amazing people I probably wouldn't have known otherwise. This year has had its difficult moments, to be sure (namely, being forced to take a pay cut at work and moving into a group house after several years of living alone), but both of these actually ended up being positive changes. Add that to the derby and some awesome trips (Spain/Portugal and Iceland/Norway), and you've got a pretty good year indeed.

3. 2000 I might have rung in the millennium lamely (dinner with friends at Applebee's, then hanging out with my parents), but the first year of the decade was anything but boring. In February, I set out for my semester in London, where I promptly fell in love with both the city and one of my professors, then conquered western Europe, one sketchy hostel at a time. My three-month tenure abroad wasn't entirely blemish-free--there was the misguided all-night clubbing adventure, as well as the misguided overnight bus to Ireland adventure--but hey, even those make great stories now. I came home to the worst summer job I've ever had, but it was merely a brief interlude between my European shenanigans and some truly memorable Team 243 moments in our cute new apartment back in Columbia.

2. 2006 At the beginning of 2006, I consulted a Magic 8-Ball to see if it would be a good year, and it told me (repeatedly) that it would not. Well, it was wrong. 2006 was a great year, mostly because it was a year of exciting new things: new job, new relationship, new city. And while it was sad to leave some of the old things behind (mostly the old friendships--I was pretty much over the old job and the old city by that point), I desperately needed that fresh start.

1. 2004 When I first started thinking about creating this list, I never imagined that I'd put 2004 in the top spot. In fact, I figured it would fall somewhere near the bottom. It was, after all, the year in which I experienced one of the most traumatic events in my life to date: losing my job. And yet, as Hilary Swank foretold, that traumatic event ended up being the best thing that ever happened to me. Nearly everything I love about my life now--my career, my relationship, even roller derby--can in some way be traced back to that pivotal moment. Plus, 2004 was the year that Bri and I went on our first Excellent Adventure, totally unaware that our mutual wanderlust would land us on three more continents together by the time the decade was over. Yes, there have been happier years than 2004, but no other year this decade has been quite so influential on my life as a whole.

2009-12-18T16:45:00.002-05:00

Nice try, but no
Crate and Barrel has a series of ads in the Metro right now that feature a shot of an opened Crate and Barrel gift (a cappuccino maker, shiny plates, throw pillows) next to a person reacting ecstatically (screaming with joy, kissing one's spouse, embracing one's child) to said gift. And I'm sorry, but no. Crate and Barrel is a perfectly fine store if you need, say, some white dishes or a gray sofa. In fact, pretty much the whole premise of the store is that it's a place to stock up on the basics--otherwise they probably would've called it something less utilitarian than "Crate and Barrel." It is not, however, the kind of place where you can buy a gift that would inspire such an exuberant reaction. I refuse to believe that anyone could summon that much excitement about throw pillows, and I say that as a person who really likes throw pillows.

So what kind of gifts do inspire such an ecstatic reaction? Try the water bottle Holly gave me the other night, which she had custom-printed with my roller derby name and my team logo. I actually screamed with glee and hugged her after I pulled it out of the box. Take that, Crate and Barrel.

2009-11-20T12:05:00.004-05:00

Chillin' with the Obamas
In the last year or so, the Obamas and I have developed quite the after-hours friendship. By "after hours," I mean roughly the hours between midnight and 7:30 a.m., during which I am alseep. (As are the Obamas, it appears, given that the lights at the White House were off when I drove by at midnight the other night.)

Ever since I was given the task of packing up their family photos, the Obamas have continued to reach out to me in my dreams. A few months back, Barack attended a birthday party for my sister at the community swimming pool in our hometown (my subconscious apparently forgot that my sister's birthday falls in the swimming-unfriendly month of February), and last night, I was hanging out with both Barack and Michelle prior to some sort of press conference/town hall meeting event. We were having a lovely chat about health-care reform when Barack was called away for his appearance. "I want to continue this conversation," he told me as he got up from the couch where I was wedged between him and Michelle. "Give me a call next week." At this point, it suddenly dawned on me that I'd been chatting with the leader of the free world, and therefore probably couldn't just dial his direct line. Of course, by the time I tried to communicate this to him, he was already gone, so Michelle invited me to join them for a dinner party the following week at their house in McLean. (Apparently the dream-Obamas think the White House is way too ostentatious for a family residence, so they actually live in a nice little black-shuttered white Colonial in northern Virginia.)

I can only hope that the "Obama dinner party" episode is next in line in this little show my subconscious is putting on, because that's going to be a fun one. Plus, I didn't get the chance last night to invite Michelle and the girls to one of my roller-derby bouts.*

*This is an actual goal of mine, but sadly, I am not as tight with the Obamas in real life. The closest I've come was while passing out flyers at a Georgetown movie theater where Malia happened to be seeing Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs. My league-mate, Raptor, tried to get a flyer in the hands of her Secret Service agent when she came out of the theater, but he turned her down flat. Back to the drawing board.

2009-11-12T13:33:00.009-05:00

These boots were made for walkin'
Much like my ongoing search for the perfect lip gloss, I am also on a never-ending quest for the perfect knee-high black boot. The last time I undertook this endeavor was in college; the trial lasted at least a year or two (during which I compensated by borrowing Diana's size-too-small, heel-too-high boots, which my feet did not appreciate) before I finally happened upon a pair of pleather Esprit riding boots, which I purchased online for around $40. Scarred by this tribulation, I proceeded to wear those boots for eight more years, which is probably about six or seven years longer than one should be able to wear a pair of $40 pleather boots. It wasn't until last winter, when I noticed they were literally coming apart at the seams, that I had to admit defeat and prepare to start the search over again.

Fortunately, online shopping has evolved tremendously in the years since I bought my last boots, so I could undertake the expedition entirely from the comfort of my office. I initially had my heart set on another pair of Frye boots, but as much as I tried to justify the $350 price tag with cost-per-wear calculations, I just couldn't do it. (Side note: The whole cost-per-wear theory always reminds me of one of my favorite British TV shows, "She's Gotta Have It," which was entirely about shopping. They did a whole show once on the cost-per-wear theory, which involved the host going into high-end stores like Karen Millen and buying expensive items and having the following exchange with the sales clerks: "Cost for this leather jacket?" "£250." "Cost per wear?" "2p!" As if.)

Anyway, with the Frye boots out of the running, I decided to go to the complete opposite end of the spectrum and look for the cheapest boots I could find and make do with them for a year or two while saving up for the Fryes. I found a pair of faux-suede over the knee boots for $70, which the reviews assured me looked way more expensive than they were. And yeah, from a distance maybe they did, but they felt cheap as hell. It was time to have a serious talking-to with myself. "Self," I said, "you are almost 30. It's time to stop wearing fake-leather boots." And so the fake boots went back.

Finally, I decided it was time for a compromise. I definitely wanted real leather or suede boots, but there were plenty of options out there that did not cost $350. I managed to zero in on two pairs of $170 Nine West boots, one of which was very similar to the pair I had just chucked, and one that had an interesting button detail on the side. I ordered them both, and last night staged a boot fashion show to determine which pair I should keep. After much pacing around the basement to determine which pair was more comfortable, plus a lengthy consultation with my roommate Kelly on the various pros and cons of each pair, the tide had pretty much tipped in favor of the button ones. But just to be sure, I logged onto Endless.com one more time to re-read the reviews for each boot--and discovered that the button boots had been marked down by 50 percent! Thanks to Endless.com's 14-day price match guarantee, that meant a 50-percent refund for me, bringing the cost of my new boots down to $85. ("Cost per wear?" "44 cents!")

And so, another boot search has ended happily. Plus, I now have eight more years to save up for those Fryes.

2009-10-07T16:50:00.002-04:00

Ouch.
When you play roller derby, you expect that you'll rack up your fair share of injuries along the way: the everyday bumps and bruises, maybe a fractured collarbone, broken ankle or busted lip here or there. When you're being slammed into repeatedly by 50 other girls on an almost-daily basis, it kind of comes with the territory. But in my 9 months of playing this sport, I've encountered a whole new set of injuries, one that only affects a very small subset of the derby population, by which I mean me. I call these "the moronic injuries of a klutzy rollergirl." So far they include:

-Snapping myself in the eyeball with the elastic band of the helmet panty.

-Getting a metal splinter embedded into my thumb when attempting to reattach a toe stop.

-And, just last night, spraining my thumb while getting up from a fall.

I've been fortunate enough not to have sustained any injuries so far that necessitate ambulances or doctor's visits (and I hope this good fortune will continue, at least until Obama gets this whole health-care mess sorted out), but I'm guessing that the injuries detailed above might hurt worse than the big ones, thanks to the double blow to my pride. Plus, you can't get painkillers for sprained thumbs.

2009-08-19T22:21:00.007-04:00

The end of an era
No, I'm not quitting blogging. (Although as you can probably tell from my infrequent posting, that day is probably coming sooner rather than later.) The era of which I speak is the era of me living on my own.

Six and a half years ago, indelibly scarred by microwaved vegetarian sausages and the Den of Filth, I jumped off the roommate train and set about creating my fortress of solitude. I collected the perfect IKEA furniture and salvaged knick-knacks, relished walking around in my underwear and singing Patty Griffin songs at the top of my lungs, and teetered dangerously close to the precipice of getting set in my ways. In short, it was perfect.

But then 2009 happened: The economy tanked, my pay went down as my rent went up, and I found myself a delightful new hobby (more on that soon, I promise) that kept me away from home most nights of the week. Suddenly, I realized I was spending nearly an entire paycheck every month on a place I rarely spent any time in. Looking over my budget, I realized something had to give: I could either cut back on travel and cute dresses, or I could look for a cheaper place to live. The choice was pretty clear.

I rekindled my affair with my old friend Craigslist and began browsing the "roommate wanted" listings. I met my fair share of slightly shady characters--including the guy who only wanted to rent out rooms in his house to girls, and the chick who casually mentioned during the interview that her ex-husband might be moving in--but somewhere along the way, I managed to find a trio of girls who seemed nice and normal, and whose house actually felt like a home, rather than a hostel.

Three weeks ago, I bid my fortress of solitude good-bye. It was hard; I'm not going to lie. I spent more than half a decade building up this Carrie-Bradshaw-Bridget-Jones-single-gal-on-her-own-in-the-city life, and it was difficult to leave that behind. But the fact is, pretending to be Carrie Bradshaw or Bridget Jones is not worth hundreds of dollars every month (not when I can spend those hundreds of dollars pretending to be a globe-trotting jet-setter).

And besides, I'm kind of in love with my new place. It's an old Cape with hardwood floors and a screened-in porch, and my room has wood-paneled walls, a sloping ceiling, and a little alcove with a window where my desk sits, which I like to think of as my atelier (mostly because I've always wanted something I could call my atelier, and this is probably as close as I'm ever going to get). And so far, adjusting to living with three other people hasn't been that hard. That's probably due to the fact that the four of us are rarely ever home at the same time, but it's also kind of nice to be able to share a bottle of wine with someone or have an audience for my sarcastic comments about TV shows (what a surprise, huh?). At the risk of jinxing myself, I should've done this years ago.

2009-05-12T11:18:00.004-04:00

Amazing but true travel tales
Two years ago, I vowed never to fly U.S. Airways again when they canceled my sister's flight home from my grandfather's funeral because there weren't enough people on it. (They seemed unable to comprehend that the people who were on the flight had booked it because they wanted to, or in my sister's case needed to, get home that night.) Of course, I've never been very good at sticking to my principles in the face of a major sale, so when I found a flight on U.S. Airways from D.C. to Madrid for $500 for the first week of May--almost $250 less than the Iberia flight I'd been stalking for months--I completely abandoned my "no U.S. Airways" policy and snapped it up.

If only I'd had the willpower to stick to my principles. Not only did the price of the Iberia flight drop to $450 a few days after I'd purchased the other one, but U.S. Airways proved to hold fast to its mission statement of "We'll get you there...eventually. Just probably not when you need to/want to be there." The Friday before last, I was sitting in Reagan National Airport, waiting for a flight to Philadelphia, where I'd catch a connecting flight to Madrid. The fact that an earlier flight to Philly had just started to board minutes before mine was scheduled to take off should have raised a red flag, but at that point I still retained some misguided faith in U.S. Airways. However, that faith soon disappeared when I looked up to see that my flight's departure time had suddenly been pushed back by an hour, with no announcement. I was scheduled to depart Philly for Madrid at 6:30, so the new departure time was going to leave me with a very tight connection. I walked up to the gate agent's desk to see what was going on, and found that a long line of angry travelers had already formed. As I contemplated whether it would even be worthwhile to get in the line, I heard a woman near me tell her husband, "They won't put us on the flight that's leaving now because we checked our luggage." Looking down at the carry-on bag that constituted the entirety of my luggage, I put two and two together and raced down to the departure gate to see if I could get on the other plane.

However, it seems I'd waited too long to wise up to the unannounced delay--the boarding agent informed me that the plane was ready to push back from the gate, and there was no way I could get on. No worries, though--as long as my flight left at the newly scheduled time, I still had a glimmer of hope of making the flight to Madrid. So I decided to check with another agent to see what the holdup was. He explained that there was an air-traffic hold placed on Philly, so it was unlikely that our plane would actually leave at 5:22. In fact, he said, I probably wouldn't make it to Philly until at least 8. "That's kind of a problem," I said, "since my flight to Madrid leaves at 6:30." "Yeah, you're probably not going to get to Madrid tonight," he said, and went on to inform me that since Philly is such a busy U.S. Airways hub, I really should have allowed myself a full day to make the connection. OK, no. Just no. I don't think it's unreasonable to expect that U.S. Airways flights should depart and arrive when they say they will. Yes, I realize that airports are busy and flights are often delayed due to overcrowded scheduling, but this should be the exception, not the rule. I should not have to build an extra day of travel into my itinerary to account for U.S. Airways' schedule mismanagement. And furthermore, if an hour and a half connection in Philly is so impossible, why are they even selling flights with that connection time? God.

At this point, I really wanted to scream, cry, strangle this man, or perhaps do all three at once, but instead I forced myself to remain calm and ask what my options were. He informed me that my best option was to wait another day for the next flight to Madrid, which didn't seem all that great to me, as I was due to meet Bri at the Plaza Mayor in Madrid on Saturday, and didn't really have a way to get in touch with her (she was in London for work) and tell her I'd be arriving a day late. I asked if perhaps there weren't any other options, and he did a little more searching on the computer and informed me that there was a flight to Munich leaving Philly that night, and if I could get on that, I could easily get a flight from Munich to Madrid the next morning. "Great," I said, "what time does the Munich flight leave?" "6:40," he replied. Yep, that would be 10 minutes after the Madrid flight. Seriously, dude? When I pointed out that if I could make a 6:40 flight to Munich, I could probably also make a 6:30 flight to Madrid, his only response was that I really needed to get to Philly, where it would be much easier to "work my connections." Once again: No. If all of U.S. Airways' flights to Europe leave Philly before 7, what good is it going to do me to get there at 8? I wasn't about to spend the night at an airport less than 3 hours from my house if I wasn't going to be able to leave until the next day anyway.

Fortunately, the trauma I suffered at the hands of United had taught me a valuable lesson--every person at an airline is going to tell you a different thing, so if you don't like what the person you're talking to is saying, find a new person. This dude was clearly an idiot, so I left him in search of someone more competent. The line at the boarding desk was growing by the minute, so I decided it was in my best interest to work the phones. Even on the phone, though, I got the same answer: That I probably couldn't fly to Madrid until the next day on U.S. Airways, although the rep I talked to seemed optimistic about my chances of making the 6:30 flight if my plane to Philly did in fact depart at 5:22. Since it was only around 4:00 at that point, I told her I'd wait and see what happened before I tried to rebook for the next day.

While I was waiting, though, I decided to go for the long shot: Because of my relentless stalking, I knew that the Iberia flight wasn't scheduled to leave Dulles for several more hours, so I called them up to check on their last-minute fare to Madrid. I was expecting an exorbitant four-digit figure, so I was a bit shocked when the rep quoted me a price of $480. As in $20 less than I'd paid for my U.S. Airways flight. I asked her to hold the reservation for me while I called U.S. Airways to see if I'd be able to cancel my flight and use the funds for future travel (although, understandably, I was loath to ever fly with U.S. Airways again). I was shocked again when, after explaining my situation to the new U.S. Airways rep, she told me that, because of the circumstances, she would be able to fully refund my ticket. She said I'd have to race to make their Madrid flight even if my plane to Philly did leave at 5:22, so although I was still a little skeptical about her refund offer, I told her to go ahead and process the cancellation, figuring I could always fight it out after the fact if need be. I called Iberia back, booked that flight, then waltzed out of the airport and hopped on the Metro to Dulles. Twelve hours later, I was standing on the Plaza Mayor with Bri, and a few days after that, U.S. Airways refunded the $500 to my credit card. Amazing but true.

There are more amazing but true tales to come from this year's Excellent Adventure: Spain & Portugal Edition (including how Bri pilfered the world's tartest orange while riding a bike in Seville, and how a drunk old Spanish woman tried to talk us into giving her some of our food at a seaside snack bar in Cadiz), but in the meantime, you can amuse yourselves with all the amazing but true tales of last year's adventure to Peru.

2009-03-31T22:37:00.002-04:00

Thanks a lot, 29
So far, my 29th year is not off to the best start. This morning I managed to lock my apartment key in my apartment for only the second time in my life. I'm pretty paranoid about locking myself out, so I've developed this obsessive-compulsive habit of always putting my hand on my keys when I shut the door. The problem is, this technique only works when all of the keys are actually on the keychain. I'd taken my apartment key off last night to give to Dave and forgotten to put it back on. Thankfully, I realized this before I reached my car, so I didn't have to call a locksmith; I just had to wait half an hour for my landlord to show up at the office so I could get a spare key to let myself back in.

On my way home, I had to drive up to Reston to deliver some bridesmaid's dresses to their community center for a prom-dress drive. I decided to take the toll road home, since it's the quickest way to get from there to my apartment, but I forgot to grab some quarters out of my laundry stash this morning. I had absolutely no cash or change in my wallet, so I bummed 75 cents from my boss, since I was pretty sure that was the amount of the toll. However, it turned out that, at the point where I entered the toll road, I actually had to go through two tolls--a 50-cent one on the on-ramp, and then the regular 75-cent one. Unprepared for the second toll, I reasoned that I would just exit before I got to the toll plaza, even though doing so would mean I would have to drive through Tyson's Corner, which was the very area I was trying to avoid by taking the toll road. But hey, I thought, it's better than getting a ticket! Obviously, I didn't realize that there would be ANOTHER 50-cent toll on the off-ramp. I had no choice but to toss my single remaining quarter in the basket and drive away while the sirens blared. Great. Not only did I have to drive through the Tyson's congestion, but I am probably going to get a ticket anyway. I wonder if VDOT will have mercy on me if they note that my clearly unintentional scoffing of the law happened on my birthday.

Let's hope 29 only gets better from here.

2009-02-27T15:13:00.002-05:00

Oh, Canada!
In the past six months, I have been to Canada twice—in November, I went to Alberta for work, and two weeks ago, Dave and I went to Montreal for a short vacation (or, as Bridget Jones would say, "a romantic mini-break weekend." However, since we spent part of Valentine's Day watching the NBA slam dunk contest, I'm not sure our vacation would have been up to Bridget's romantic mini-break weekend standards). Aaaanyway, I feel that two trips to Canada in pretty rapid succession qualify me to unequivocally state that Canada is awesome. Here are some of the reasons why:

-The food. In Quebec, they have this delightful concoction called tarte au sucre. For those of you who can't recall your high-school French vocabulary (I feel you there), this translates to sugar pie. Specifically, maple sugar pie. Yes, folks, the Quebecois have invented a pie made out of nothing but cream and maple sugar. Once I discovered this delightful confection, I ate as much of it as I possibly could. This is probably why the scale at my gym is telling me I've gained three pounds since the last time I stepped on it. Well, that and the poutine, which is another Quebec invention consisting of french fries topped with gravy and cheese curds. I'm aware that doesn't sound quite as delectable as the maple sugar pie, but in its own way, it is. I just wish I hadn't felt so disgusted with myself after scarfing down a whole plate of it. Perhaps that's why it was recommended in the guidebook as drunk food.

-The music. This is no surprise, as I have long been fond of Canadian musicians. This fondness started in high school with Sarah McLachlan and the Barenaked Ladies, and has grown over the years to encompass artists like Leonard Cohen and the Great Lake Swimmers. When Dave and I were looking for something to do on our last night in Montreal, I started poring over the live-music listings in the local alternative weekly, figuring this might be a chance to further my love for Canadian musicians. I found a small write-up on Jill Barber, a Vancouver-based singer/songwriter who was playing at a tiny club not far from our hotel, so we decided to check her out. The concert was awesome—she mostly sang songs from her newest album, which has kind of an old-school, 1950s feel. I did notice one odd thing about my first Canadian live-music experience, though—the audience was almost oddly well-behaved. To the point that Dave and I were the only people in the entire room dancing. Sure, most of the songs were pretty slow and not really dance-able, but there were a few up-tempo numbers. And it's not like we were breaking into a fully choreographed tango right there in the middle of the club—we were just kind of swaying along to the music, but we seemed to be the only people in the room moving our bodies in any sort of fashion. I think it might be a Montreal thing, though, as even Jill Barber commented a few times on how reserved the audience was.

-The fact that it's technically a different country. Canada might not be that far away from the U.S., and we might speak the exact same language (except for Quebec, of course, which was an interesting experience, attempting to speak French somewhere other than France), but it is technically a different country. I know because I had to wait a freaking hour to get my passport stamped at the Edmonton airport, and endure a series of bizarre questions from the U.S. border patrol guard on our way back into Vermont from Quebec. (My favorite: "Have you ever had trouble with the law anywhere in the world?" I mean, what was he going to do if I'd been like, "Well, there was this one time in London when my friend Dave and his roommate were playing in the shopping carts at the huge Tesco Metro, and a bobby came up and asked us, "Are you off your trolley?!"?) Anyway, Canada is kind of like international travel lite—you get the thrill of being in another country without all that messy jet lag and language barrier stuff.

As far as I can tell, pretty much the only bad thing about Canada is the weather. Next time I think I'll visit when it's not the dead of winter. (As a side note, all of my trips this winter have been to destinations that are colder than my current locale. This was obviously poor planning, and needs to change next year.)

2009-01-21T14:26:00.003-05:00

Barackin' the suburbs
Yesterday, Dave and I joined 1.8 million of our closest friends on the National Mall to witness the inauguration of Barack Obama. (And by "witness," I mean "watch the exact same footage the rest of you did, only on a Jumbotron while standing in the freezing cold, but occasionally catching glimpses of the Capitol building way off in the distance to remind ourselves that everything we were watching was happening right over there.")

We left my apartment before dawn to join the rest of the Obama-clad throngs in making our way via Metro and foot to the Mall. Once there, we spent the next five hours or so watching taped footage from Sunday's concert, and then the main event itself, on the aforementioned Jumbotron. Afterward, we waded along with the rest of our 1.8 million friends in attempting to squeeze out of two tiny openings in the security barrier, a situation that only caused a slight amount of panic in the crowd and yours truly. We finally managed to trek into Arlington, where we ate lunch at an Irish pub (hey, if U2 can be the centerpiece of the inaugural concert, we can certainly celebrate the event by eating Irish food) while watching CNN footage of the parade.

Throughout the 10-hour day, we were surrounded by Obama. Obama buttons, Obama stickers, Obama flags, Obama scarves, sparkly Obama ski caps, and even a souvenir $9 bill featuring Obama's picture (a real bargain at two for $5!). And, of course, the man himself. So is it any wonder that, when I finally laid my weary head down last night for some much-needed slumber, I should have a dream about our new president?

Somehow, I had been selected to help the Obamas move their stuff into the White House. I was standing in this huge warehouse that they were using as a storage area, and Barack walked up to me wearing a tattered purple rugby shirt, jeans, and white Jerry Seinfeld sneakers. (I hope, for the future of our country, that he actually wears cooler sneakers than that in real life.) "Clare," he said, as my inner monologue squealed, He knows my name! Barack Obama knows my name!, "downstairs, there's a table with a bunch of photo albums and other mementos on it. Can you pack that stuff up for us?" Thrilled that he was trusting me to handle his family's most precious items (and also totally excited to look through all the photos while I was packing them—I mean, come on, wouldn't you?), I said sure. "Thanks," he said, gripping me on the shoulder and flashing me that winning smile.

Unfortunately, I soon woke up and realized it was just a dream. But I did get to watch him become president from just a few (okay, several) hundred yards away. That was totally real. And totally awesome.

2009-01-12T09:37:00.003-05:00

They're baa-aack!
Forget the Super Bowl—you guys all know what my favorite Sunday in January is, and it happened last night. That's right: After an extremely painful (at least for me) writer's-strike hiatus last year, the Golden Globes are back, and in fine form, I might add. No one had to be rushed from the bathroom to make an acceptance speech, and Angelina Jolie didn't make out with her brother, but there were at least two cocaine references, plus Darren Aronofsky flipping off Mickey Rourke, and Ricky Gervais totally presented his film while drinking a beer onstage (awesome). The Golden Globes are BACK, baby! Now, on with the observations:

-Do you think it's just a coincidence that J.Lo returned to her plunging-neckline roots at an event she knew P. Diddy would be attending, at a time when rumors that her marriage is kaput are swirling? Because I'm not so sure it is...

-Has Kate Winslet ever not looked absolutely radiant at an awards show? If so, I can't recall it. Also, I think it's so cute that she and Leo are totally BFF!

-Speaking of British actresses looking radiant, Emma Thompson looked pretty awesome herself. I'm starting to think that living in Britain must do wonders for the complexion (let us not forget Helen Mirren as well), in which case I need to move back there immediately. Although I wonder if you actually have to be British to benefit from the radiance, which means I only have a quarter of a chance of achieving a Kate-and-Emma-like glow.

-Apparently Sigourney Weaver is a big Beyoncé fan. Who knew?

-Praise the Lord, Evan Rachel Wood looks normal again! Too bad most of her crazy seems to have rubbed off on her Wrestler co-stars. Did Marisa Tomei stop off at the awards on her way back to 1885? And what was up with Mickey Rourke's sequined scarf? (I do have to admit, though, that Mickey Rourke was pretty much the only man in that room who could even think about rocking a sequined scarf.)

-Ralph Fiennes just keeps getting skeezier and skeezier. Is this really the same guy I swooned over a decade ago in The English Patient?

-Wow, Hayden Panetierre's boobs looked really uncomfortable. Almost as uncomfortable as she and Zac Efron did accepting Gabriel Byrne's award for him. (Ten bucks says neither Hayden Panetierre nor Zac Efron has any idea who Gabriel Byrne is.)

-Poor Neil Patrick Harris. He is so brilliant on How I Met Your Mother, yet because of the Hollywood Foreign Press's insistence on mashing together so many genres in the Best Supporting Actor TV category (I appreciate that they're trying to cut down on the number of awards, but that category is just way too broad), he had to go up against Tom freaking Wilkinson. Dude didn't stand a chance.

-Drew Barrymore's filmy ice-blue gown + cherry-red clutch + tousled Marilyn Monroe hair = awesome. She's come a long way since the uniboob incident of 2006.

-I'll admit it: I got a little misty when Heath Ledger got a standing ovation after snagging a posthumous Best Supporting Actor award. And, having just watched The Dark Knight that morning (better late than never, right?), I can say without reservation that he deserved it.

2008-12-31T13:58:00.002-05:00

Oh, the places I'll go
Although I never posted it here, one of my major resolutions for 2008 was to spend more money on experiences (specifically, travel) and less money on stuff. While I wasn't able to give up the stuff entirely (hey, I needed a new bike...but maybe not three new sundresses), I did make considerable stride on the travel/experiences front. In 2008, I traveled to 15 different states and three different countries. While many of these trips were for work (although some, like the ones to Alberta, New Mexico and Maine, were posh press trips that didn't exactly qualify as drudgery), I did manage to squeeze in a good bit of non-work travel as well. And so, since I've been a pretty lax blogger all year, here's my last-ditch attempt to make up for it with a little year-in-review travel special:

Location: London
Date: President's Day weekend
Travel companion(s): Autumn
Highlights: The joy that comes with casually mentioning that you're jetting off to London for the weekend (that alone was worth the ticket price); seeing Richard Coyle from Coupling in a play; dancing until the wee hours at Mahiki and Boujis; visiting the Oxford Street Topshop and used bookstores on Charing Cross Road; hanging out in my old neighborhood; buying British tabloids, bringing my collection of British tabloids featuring cover stories about the state of Victoria Beckham's skin to 2.
Lowlights: Not running into Princes William or Harry; realizing I'd paid $18 for a vodka cranberry thanks to the alarming exchange rate; witnessing the downward spiral of the rest of Oxford Street past Topshop; learning of the death of Cafe Society; severe exhaustion that results from being a late-night-clubbing jet-setter.
More: Pictures are here; a more well-written version of the events that transpired on our journey is here.

Location: Orlando
Date: Mid-March
Travel companion(s): Gusto, Susan, Austin, John of FARC, Cara
Highlights: Dancing to "Baby, One More Time" with Cara at her wedding reception; plague-mask party favors from Susan; reminiscing about college days.
Lowlights: Post-wedding hangover...just because you're hanging out with college friends doesn't mean you should drink like you're still in college.
More: Pictures are here.

Location: New York
Date: Early May
Host(s): Monika, Danielle, Anne
Highlights: Brunching and shopping in Soho; taking in the lovely scenery and culinary delights of Hoboken; drinking way too many Blue Moons at Anne's all-you-can-drink pub fundraiser; catching up with the lovely ladies mentioned above.
Lowlights: The long line and disappointingly stale cupcakes at the Magnolia Bakery. I think I'm taking Anne's advice and defecting to the Buttercup Bake Shop. (I do love that Magnolia icing, though...sniffle.)

Location: The Pacific Northwest
Date: Memorial Day weekend
Travel companion(s): Kate
Highlights: Nonstop Grey's Anatomy references (including an imitation of Addison Montgomery-Shepard throwing her wedding ring off the ferry boat); magical conjuring of cute local eateries; enough pie, cupcakes and donuts to make me sort of ill by the end of the trip; a lovely tour of Portland courtesy of Scott Collins; dinner at The Farm Cafe; the chalkboard door at our Portland hotel; digging for (and then feasting on) clams and crabs with my aunt, uncle and cousin.
Lowlights: Thinking it would be a good idea to try to execute a tricky parking maneuver after drinking pretty much the entire beer sampler at McMenamin's Kennedy School. Thank God I had my economic stimulus check to cover the damage to the rental car!
More: Pictures are here.

Location: Shenandoah/Charlottesville
Date: Labor Day weekend
Travel companion(s): Kristen and Nikki
Highlights: Getting the news about Nikki's bun in the oven; being passed on the road by a strange ambulance that called "Yee haw!" at us; shopping in adorable downtown Charlottesville; seeing Mamma Mia (for Nikki and me).
Lowlights: Seeing Mamma Mia (for Kristen); nearly dying on the side of a mountain after I made the unwise decision to drive up to a mountaintop winery (which ended up being closed anyway) at sunset.

Location: Peru
Date: End of September
Travel companion(s): Bri and Heather
Highlights: Coming over the Sun Gate and seeing the first glimpse of Machu Picchu; a post-Inca Trail hot shower; meeting such memorable characters as Jorge, German Combover Guy and Lavender Overalls Guy; shopping for souvenirs in San Blas and at the Pisac market; Heather telling a taxi driver to take us to "Szechuan" instead of Sacsayhuaman; the bloopers video they showed on our flights to and from the rainforest; making new friends on our sandboarding trip; seeing many alpacas (including the trash-bag alpaca and the one that startled Heather when it barreled around a corner at Machu Picchu); drinking many Inka Kolas and Pisco sours.
Lowlights: Squat toilets on the Inca Trail; not showering for four days; annoying hiking companions and German tourists; the rent-a-cop at the Ica bus station who stole my contact solution; crappy hostels in Lima (actually, pretty much all of Lima was a lowlight).
More: Pictures are here, and a full recap of the adventure is coming. (I promise! Now I just have to start writing it...)

Location: Birmingham
Date: Early November
Travel companion(s)/host(s): Dave, my family/Chris, Lee, Francesca
Highlights: Meeting the adorable Naomi Scalici; having a fabulous dinner with Chris, Lee, Terri and Alex; getting the news about my sister's engagement at brunch with the family.
Lowlights: Being forced to watch A LOT of football. But this is what happens when you go to Alabama in the fall.

Location: Gatlinburg
Date: Thanksgiving
Host(s): Dave, my family
Highlights: Zorbing; go-carting; hot-tubbing; a pre-meal hike up to Chimney Tops on Thanksgiving Day (despite the fact that said hike was fairly treacherous, thanks to a combination of an icy trail and hiking boots with no tread); Dave's stop-motion movie of a duel between two of the little cookie turkeys my grandmother had made to decorate the table.
Lowlights: Again, being forced to watch a lot of football; the long drive, made even more interminable by our poor selection of audiobook. (If you value your time at all, do not waste it on "Baby Proof" by Emily Giffin. Just don't.)

2008-12-17T14:07:00.002-05:00

Around the world in 80 foods
Over the past few weeks, I have developed some new food obsessions, including:

-Greek yogurt with honey. This has replaced rice pudding (which I was admittedly getting kind of tired of after a year-long obsession with it) as my favorite afternoon sweet treat. I first picked up one of the Fage single-serving yogurt-and-honey packs at Whole Foods a few weeks ago, and since then, I haven't been able to kick the habit. It's just the perfect blend of tangy and sweet. How did I not discover this magical pairing until now?

-The Korean supermarket. At a holiday party a few weekends ago, a couple of Dave's friends were raving about the Korean supermarket chain H Mart (and its bigger, badder counterpart, Super H). Their descriptions of its mind-bogglingly big produce department and super-cheap prices were enough to perk up my ears (especially since the prices at my local Harris Teeter are starting to surpass Whole Foods levels of expensive insanity—$8 for a ball of fresh mozzarella? Are you kidding me?!). When I realized that the Super H was technically (via a slightly slower route) on my way home from work, I decided to stop by. Wow. Super H definitely lived up to its glowing reviews. The produce department took up at least a third of the store, and the selection was amazing. (They even had durian, the Southeast Asian fruit that's so stinky it's banned on public transportation in many countries. It was frozen, though, so it wasn't giving off as pungent of a smell.) I was able to buy pretty much everything I needed to make pad thai AND sticky rice with mango for just $20. (By contrast, I paid nearly that much at Harris Teeter for a half-gallon of milk and the four ingredients I needed to make the cookies below.) I foresee a lot of Asian cooking in my future for the next year.

-Amuse Bouche. My co-worker Sara introduced me to this blog, which is written by her college friend Katie. In one of those weird coincidences straight out of a J.J. Abrams show, it turns out that Katie actually has my old job back in Birmingham. Naturally, that goes a long way in endearing her to me, but her blog is also full of yummy-looking and easy-to-make recipes, so chances are I'd be reading it even if she weren't my career doppelganger. Do yourself a favor and make these before the holidays end and diet season kicks in. I'd share some of the batch I made last night, but I can't bring myself to do it. They're just too good.

2008-11-24T16:17:00.002-05:00

A letter of apology

Dear leggings,

Please allow me to apologize. It seems that I, clouded by still-painful memories of a first-day-of-seventh-grade outfit that involved white Umbros, Mickey Mouse-patterned leggings, and black high-top Reeboks, allowed myself to vocally decry your return without considering your positive attributes. Yes, leggings, for all the havoc you hath wrought on the world--both from 1987-1992 and 2005-present--you do have a few positive attributes. And yet only the knowledge that one of my best friends (Bri) is an unabashed legging-aholic could make me see past your unknowable potential for harm and discover that glimmer of good. After all, if Bri is awesome, and Bri loves leggings, doesn't logic dictate that leggings must at least be a little bit awesome?

And leggings, you kind of are. For one thing, you put tights to shame. I've never understood the point of tights, really. They don't make you any warmer, and they're really freaking uncomfortable to boot. But you, leggings? You, for the most part (i.e., I'm not counting those leggings I bought for Nikki's wedding, which were weirdly constructed like tights and therefore just as uncomfortable, albeit at least warmer, than regular tights) are exceedingly comfortable. Never-want-to-take-them-off comfortable, at that (this, of course, is also where your danger lies, but we won't get into that now). And when it comes to the warmth factor, you definitely have tights beat. This weekend, I wore one of your ilk to a swing dance in an unheated 1930s ballroom, and not once did I experience a goosebump. You also are excellent to sleep in on chilly nights, as you are immune to the bunching factor that has always turned me off pajama pants.

However--and this is a big however--under no circumstances will I ever again wear you as pants or, like it really needs to be said, under white Umbro shorts. I have my limits.

Sincerely, your tentative admirer,
Clare

P.S. I still abhor Sienna Miller. I mean, there's topless cavorting with a married man, and then there's topless cavorting with a married man while wearing a twee sailor hat. I think we all know which is the worse crime.

2008-11-05T11:32:00.002-05:00

I don't know how Blair Waldorf does it
For the past hour or so, I've had a searing pain spreading slowly throughout my entire jaw. I was just about to pick up the phone and make a dentist appointment (it IS about that time again anyway), when suddenly I realized what the problem was: My faux Burberry headband (which I wore as part of an outfit that included riding boots and a sweater with pearl buttons up the back; I thought I'd celebrate the downfall of the Republican party by dressing as WASPily as possible today) was digging into my head in such a way that it was putting an inordinate amount of pressure on my jaw. As soon as I removed the headband, the pain went away. If this is what happens every time one wears a headband, no wonder Blair Waldorf is so atrociously bitchy all the time.

2008-10-31T20:10:00.002-04:00

Only in D.C.
Overheard while jogging through my neighborhood amongst a gaggle of trick-or-treaters:

Mom: Ooh, that house over there looks creepy! Have you ever seen ghosts coming out of it?
Kid: No, but they do have an Obama sign.

Dad #1, inspecting the costume of Dad #2's baby: Ben Bernanke, right?

2008-10-15T11:05:00.003-04:00

Questions I am pondering today

-Why does the Conde Nast subscription department hate me so much? First there was the war with Vanity Fair; now, after two years of a problem-free subscription to Domino, I suddenly find myself in the midst of a similar battle. I didn't receive my August issue, and when I e-mailed to see if I could get a replacement, they told me they'd just extend my subscription by a month. Which isn't really the same thing, but whatever. The September issue arrived as usual, but then my October issue failed to materialize. I just logged on to see what the problem was, and apparently my account status is classified as "Undeliverable." What does that even mean? I am seriously considering never subscribing to another Conde Nast magazine again. Except I really kind of like Domino and also often use it for inspiration for work. Grr.

-Why does everyone on Gossip Girl insist on calling Jenny "Little J"? I mean, it's not like there's a "Big J" that they need to distinguish her from. Is the "Little" just supposed to reinforce the fact that she's younger than the rest of the cast? And if that's the case, why don't they call Eric "Little E"? Actually, why isn't Eric in the show more? And, most important, where the heck is New York magazine's recap of this week's episode?! (UPDATE: I found it. It was tagged under "The Greatest Show of Our Time," rather than the more impartial "Gossip Girl." Silly me.)

-Why does everyone act like Project Runway's Christian Siriano introduced the word "fierce" to the public consciousness? It's not that I don't love Christian Siriano and all of his pocket-sized gay-ness, but come on. We need to give credit where credit is due. And I believe you'll find that Tyra Banks was using "fierce" on America's Next Top Model way before Christian Siriano was even a blip on the pop-culture radar. Ditto with the Fug Girls and "hot mess." Sorry, Christian. The truth needed to be told.

2008-10-10T15:26:00.000-04:00

Saturday, 10.4: Lima to Miami
The next morning, after checking out of Red Psycho Llama, we lugged our backpacks out to the main drag to try to catch a taxi to the airport. We were running a little behind because Bri had had to make a last-minute ATM run before we left the hotel, and the first few taxis we flagged practically laughed at us when we requested a trip to the airport. Just as we were about to give up and have the hostel phone us an official taxi, we managed to snag a ride with what was perhaps the most “unofficial” taxi we rode in during our entire stay in Peru. The trip to the airport seemed much farther than it had in the official taxi (although what the driver had to gain from taking the scenic route, I have no idea, as we negotiated the fare with him before getting in), and as the minutes ticked by, I began to get more and more nervous about whether we’d be able to board the plane in time. Just as I was teetering on the edge of full-on panic, we pulled up to the airport.

Bri’s ability to make Peruvian men swoon continued to pay dividends at the check-in counter when her gate agent upgraded us to the first row of coach, which meant we had tons of leg room. Unfortunately, it also meant that the gaggle of misbehaving children sitting in first class (who were these spoiled brats, sitting in first class before they’d even reached the double digits, age-wise?) treated the area around us like their own personal playground. They were constantly running up and down the aisles, flinging aside the first-class curtain (Bri: “I swear to God, if that curtain touches me one more time…”), and even cutting through the area between our seats and the wall in front of us, where our TV screens were. At one point, three of the little brats even stood right in front of Bri’s seat, completely blocking the movie she was watching. She told them to move, and they whirled around, obviously surprised to see that there was an actual person there. Of course, their parents, who must have been zonked out on Valium or something not to notice the havoc their children were wreaking, did nothing to control their behavior. Needless to say, we were monumentally relieved when the plane touched down in Miami.

Because of our primo seating assignment, we were among the first ones off the plane, and we breezed through passport control and customs, and headed up to check in our bags for our next flight. We grabbed dinner at Chili’s, which was only marginally less gross than the Sbarro dinner we’d had on our last stint at the Miami airport. Since Bri’s plane was leaving a bit earlier than mine, I walked her to her gate, where we bid each other farewell until the next Excellent Adventure, one that (spoiler alert!) will not involve squat toilets. Thank God.

2008-10-10T15:25:00.001-04:00

Friday, 10.3: Lima
I was roused from sleep just a few hours later, when Bri got up to go to the bathroom. When she came back to the room, two French girls followed her in. Bri cleared our stuff off of the extra bunks, and they spread out and went to sleep, which was mildly disruptive, but not nearly as disruptive as the impromptu party the night before. Still, this only added more fuel to my growing distaste for youth hostels.

We woke up for good a few hours later, and tried not to disturb the French girls as we got ready. After a surprisingly decent hostel breakfast that was miles above what we’d been served at the Mildew Shanty, we headed out to the main drag to browse in some of the stores in Miraflores. The day was cold and drizzly—more Seattle than South America—so we soon found ourselves back at Café Zeta, where we braved the uncomfortable chairs in the name of warming ourselves with fancy coffee drinks.

We decided to grab a cab downtown, both because we wanted to see the city center, and because we were on the lookout for a jewelry market that Jessica, my Peruvian co-worker, had told me about. The first few cabs we stopped refused to take us to the Plaza Mayor, and when we finally managed to find a willing driver, we immediately saw why the others had refused—the traffic was horrendous. It took us the better part of an hour to move across town, but since we didn’t really have anywhere to be, it was a good opportunity to scope out all the people peddling stuff on the side of the road. Unfortunately, we didn’t find a peddler as random as the one we’d seen in Cusco, who was selling mops on the sidewalk. Our driver, however, did slow down to buy a drink from one of them.

We finally made it to the Plaza Mayor, where we wandered around for a while, admiring the architecture (apparently it’s often Seattle-like in Lima, which is why most of the buildings on the square are painted a cheery yellow) before trying to find Jessica’s jewelry market. We didn’t have much luck, but we did come across an adorable band of Peruvian schoolchildren wearing fur headdresses and dancing around in a circle while someone played the recorder. (Apparently dressing up in costume and going out into the town to do something cute is an important part of the Peruvian school day—we’d also witnessed a parade of costumed schoolchildren while we were in Cusco.) We eventually gave up on the jewelry market and decided instead to get something for lunch. We were pretty close to Chinatown, so we decided to try some “chifa,” which is what the Peruvian interpretation of Chinese food is called. However, we couldn’t seem to find the official Chinatown (I later discovered that the map we’d been carrying was about three blocks off in its placement of Chinatown), so we settled instead for a random Chinese restaurant, where the food tasted pretty much like you’d get in any Chinese restaurant in the States. So much for chifa.

We didn’t really have anything left on our agenda in Lima (truthfully, we were both kind of ready to get the heck out of this lackluster city by that point), so after a bit of last-minute shopping in Miraflores, we headed back to the hostel to read magazines and nap until it was time for dinner. We walked to a restaurant a few blocks away that was recommended by the guidebook, and enjoyed our last glass of chicha morada with dinner, followed by our last pisco sour at a sidewalk café across the street. (The drinks really were the best part of Peruvian cuisine.) Once we’d drained the last frothy, sweet-tart sip from our glasses, we headed back to the hostel to turn in for the night.

Continue to Day 16: Lima to Miami

2008-10-10T15:12:00.001-04:00

Thursday, 10.2: Huacachina to Lima
The next morning, Bri and I ate breakfast at the pool at a table adjacent to Marika and Urich. (Bri had confessed to me after dinner the night before how much she thought Urich resembled Christopher Knight from The Brady Bunch, and I was unable to look at him that morning without wanting to burst out laughing. Thank God she waited until after dinner to point out that comparison.) After breakfast, we put on our swimsuits again to lounge by the pool until it was time to leave for Ica. Our blissful relaxation was hampered, however, by one of the German women from our buggy the previous day, who had taken a liking to one of the hotel’s resident parrots, and was carrying it around on her hand while squawking back at it every time it made a noise. Even if we hadn’t been a little pissed at her for cutting our sandboarding trip short, this still would have been beyond annoying, so we weren’t too sad to leave our poolside perch behind and get to the bus station a couple hours early again.

Enamored with the tres leches cake at Anita’s, we decided we would buy our bus tickets and check our bags, then head over there for another slice while we were waiting for our bus to leave. Just as we were leaving the bus station to head down to the café, though, a rent-a-cop who had been hanging around near the counter stopped us and began trying to tell us something in Spanish. We indicated that we didn’t speak much Spanish, but he didn’t speak any English, so he mimed stealing something from Bri’s daypack. We figured he was just telling us to be careful of pickpockets on the streets of Ica, so we nodded and thanked him, and went on our way.

At Anita’s, we sat at the exact same table and had the exact same waiter (who, if he thought it odd that two American girls came into his restaurant two days in a row to order the exact same dessert, didn’t let on). After savoring what we knew would be our last piece of Anita’s tres leches cake (sigh), we headed back to the bus station, stopping briefly at an Internet café so that I could look up the address of our hostel in Lima so we’d know where to direct a cab driver. Back at the bus station, we’d just settled in for the rest of our wait when the Peruvian Barney Fife approached us again, this time asking that we pay him 5 soles for “securing our luggage.” Since we’d already been through the luggage check-in process back in Lima, we knew this charge was bogus (in fact, I’m not even sure what Barney Fife was doing at the bus station—it was barely bigger than my apartment, so it’s not like it really needed policing) and flatly refused. He finally left us alone, but we kept a nervous eye on our bags for the rest of our wait, worried that he might steal something from them in retaliation.

On the bus ride back, instead of a double feature, the attendants passed out cards for a game of bingo, which I chose to skip in favor of a nap. We did get to see one movie, Chasing Liberty starring Mandy Moore, which was by far the best movie we watched during our hours of Peruvian bus travel, which is pretty sad. As we got closer to Lima, the traffic began to pick up, and I realized I wasn’t going to be able to wait until we reached the station to use the bathroom like I’d hoped. (Not that there was anything wrong with the bus bathroom, but it was a little difficult to manage while riding down the bumpy highway.) In retrospect, though, I’m glad I was forced to use the bus bathroom, because it was there that I encountered one of the most hilarious translations I’ve come across in my travels: On the trash can, there was a sign reading, “Please do not hurl the sweepings into the bin,” which was clearly translated by someone with easy access to a thesaurus.

It was dark by the time we reached the bus station in Lima, and we hailed a cab to our digs for the evening, a hostel called Red Psycho Llama. Although we’d reserved a private twin room, the guy at the front desk assured us that we’d be much more comfortable in one of the more conveniently located dorm rooms, and since they were hardly booked up for the evening, we’d have the whole thing to ourselves anyway. We agreed, and settled into our new digs, which were pretty cramped, with three bunk beds wedged into a fairly small room. (Also, the beds didn’t have blankets, forcing me to use the one I’d bought for my parents.) With no one else but us in the room, though, we were able to spread out our stuff on the beds we weren’t sleeping on.

After a quick consultation with the guidebook for restaurant recommendations, we took to the streets to Miraflores to try to find something for dinner. Our first choice, a hip coffeehouse called Café Zeta, was fairly crowded and had insanely uncomfortable metal chairs that were way more fashionable than they were functional, so we ended up next door at what appeared to be their sister restaurant, Adios Chow. After feasting on American diner food, we wandered around Miraflores a little bit before returning to the hostel.

After a quick e-mail check, I decided to take a shower before heading to bed. Although our dorm-room setup meant we had to use the shared bathroom, there was literally no one else staying on the entire floor, so again, it was like having a bathroom all to ourselves. Only I couldn’t quite get the water temperature where I wanted it, and that, in combination with once again having to dry myself with a cheap, completely non-absorbent kitchen towel, led me to make the following declaration to Bri upon returning to the room: “I am almost 30 years old. It’s time for me to realize that I am no longer a youth, and therefore should not be staying in youth hostels.” I knew I’d likely end up eating these words on a future Excellent Adventure (you really can’t beat youth-hostel prices, and some I’ve stayed in, such as Refill Now in Bangkok, have been really awesome), but at that point, I felt I’d reached my youth hostel threshold of tolerance.

Little did I know that that threshold would soon be tested again—although there were very few guests at Red Psycho Llama to make much noise (and, thankfully, no makeshift disco like at the Mildew Shanty), I guess whoever was working at the front desk, which was conveniently located just below our room, thought it would be a good idea to invite their friends over for some late-night carousing. Neither my earplugs nor my iPod (with noise-canceling headphones) were particularly successful in drowning out their excessively loud conversation, and so I tossed and turned until roughly 3 a.m., when the noise-makers finally went home.

Continue to Day 15: Lima

2008-10-10T15:10:00.001-04:00

Wednesday, 10.1: Huacachina
Our sandboarding tour wasn’t scheduled to leave until the afternoon, so we decided to devote the morning to some well-deserved R&R. After being woken up by the resident macaw, we ate breakfast by the pool and then decided to see what the town of Huacachina looked like in the daylight. It was slightly less eerie with the sun shining, but still relatively deserted—on our lap around the lagoon, we probably only saw about 10 people.

Back at the hotel, we put on our bathing suits and took our books and iPods out to the pool to lounge in the sun. Although the water was quite chilly, and there was still a bit of a nip in the breeze, the bright desert sun was hot enough to entice us to wade into the pool for a few quick laps. While we were swimming, a German girl, Judith, came to dip her toes in the pool, so we chatted with her about our travels so far.

We needed to make an ATM run, so we decided to go into Ica to have lunch. Still thinking about the ceviche we’d had in Lima a couple of days before, we had looked up the address for a cevicheria in Ica before leaving Huacachina. However, after wandering up and down the dusty streets (which were completely chaotic thanks to the multitude of tuk-tuk-like taxis with flashing lights and blaring sirens designed to attract riders), we were unable to find any signs of a cevicheria, and headed back to the main square to eat at a café called Anita’s, which also came highly recommended by our guidebook. We were immediately tempted by the mouth-watering desserts lining the bakery case at the front of the 1950s-style café, and finished off our lunch with a piece of divine tres leches cake. After lunch, we decided to walk to the bus station to see if we could buy tickets for our trip back to Lima the next day. The ticket window was closed when we got there, though, so we hailed a cab back to Huacachina to get ready for sandboarding.

At around 4:00, we gathered in the lobby with the rest of our sandboarding group: Judith, whom we’d met earlier, plus a Dutch couple, Mariska and Urich, and an Irish girl whose name we never learned (but whom I thought of as Eve, because apparently assigning random names to Irish people was sort of a hobby for me on this trip). We all climbed into the huge dune buggy and motored slowly (and loudly) through the streets of Huacachina until we reached the entrance to the dunes—then our driver let it rip! Suddenly, we were on a rollercoaster without a track, bounding up and down steep hills of sand at breakneck speeds. Unfortunately, the initial thrill was over all too soon, as we had to stop and help another dune-buggy driver from our hotel who seemed to be having mechanical difficulties.

The two drivers finally managed to get the errant buggy working again, and we took off on another heart-pounding spin across the dunes. This time when we stopped, it was for our first attempt at sandboarding. Our drivers offered little in the way of instruction, simply loading the sandboards out of the buggies and indicating that we were to strap them to our feet. I had a sudden attack of nerves and decided to wait until everyone else had gone first so that I could go down a part of the hill that wasn’t quite as steep. Of course, that turned out to be the spot where everyone else chose to walk back up, so I had to wait even longer for them to move out of the way. Once I gathered up my courage enough to edge my board down the hill, I managed to stay standing for all of 5 seconds before tipping over onto my butt. It was impossible to get back up again without the board sliding down the sand, so I decided to just turn over onto my stomach for the rest of the way down the hill, which was fun despite the copious amounts of sand that stuck to my face and flowed down my shirt. When I got to the bottom of the hill, Bri was just getting ready to start her second run. She managed to stay upright as she soared down most of the dune, but wiped out just before the bottom, also getting a face full of sand.

I guess figuring that we’d cut our teeth on the “bunny slope,” the drivers took us to a much steeper hill next. It looked deceptively gradual from where we were standing, but I could tell there was a major drop-off after about 20 feet or so. I didn’t realize exactly how much of a drop-off it was until I saw Urich and Eve, like tiny little dots, waving up at us from the bottom of the hill after they’d slid to the bottom. Gulp. Once again, I was the last one to go as I screwed up every ounce of my courage. And once again, I fell on my butt after about 5 seconds. Not wanting to sift half of the Ica desert through my shirt again, I decided to take this run sitting upright, which was awesomely fun. Until, that is, I decided to express the awesome fun-ness of it to everyone else by throwing up my hands like I was on a rollercoaster. Free from my clutches, the sandboard stayed behind without me, and I went careening down the hill on nothing but my butt. Unsurprisingly, that trajectory didn’t last long, and soon I was tumbling shoulder over shoulder down the dune, during which I heard a terrifying cracking sound. I somehow managed to stop myself from tumbling (just in time to look up and see my board soar down past me on its own) and sat up, fearing that I’d broken my collarbone or at least ripped my shoulder out of its socket. Yet everything still seemed to be in working order, and so I ran down the hill to meet the rest of our group.

A German woman in the other buggy, however, did not escape so luckily. We didn’t actually see her fall, but suddenly she was there on the ground next to her buggy, clutching her shoulder and writhing in pain. One of the drivers managed to coax her up to a sitting position, but when they tried to load her into the buggy, she cried out in pain. They decided that it would be easier for her to get into our buggy, which was much lower to the ground, so our group joined an Israeli couple in the other buggy. All of the Germans, save two women, piled into our former buggy and rode back into town with their friend. Once they were safely on their way, our buggy took off again, taking the hills at a slightly more sedate pace this time. The driver stopped at the top of a large hill and asked, “Sandboard?” Bri and I had our hands on our seatbelts, ready to jump out of the buggy and give it another go, when the German women practically screamed, “No!” Bri and I looked at each other, both unwilling to be the one to pipe up and say, “Uh, actually, yeah, we’d like to do it again.” I mean, yes, the accident had left us all a little shaken, and I could certainly understand the reluctance of the German women to continue sandboarding while their friend was injured (although had I been in their position, I might have, I don’t know, gone with my friend to the hospital instead of continuing the sandboarding tour), but we’d come all the way out to the desert primarily for this experience, and we weren’t ready for it to be over so quickly. Before we could muster the courage to pipe up with a dissenting opinion, though, Urich loudly agreed with the German women, and the rest of the buggy nodded in assent. Even more unwilling to be in the minority now, Bri and I kept our mouths shut. We took a few more turns over the hills in the buggy, stopped to snap some photos of the sun setting over the desert, then returned back to the hotel.

Although our trip was cut short, we still received a celebratory (free!) pisco sour from the hotel bar when returned, which went a long way to lift my spirits. As we sipped our drinks, Bri and I chatted with Urich and Marika and the Israeli couple, Tomar and Carrin, about everything from our favorite movies to the healthcare systems in our respective countries to the economic crisis (a favorite discussion topic on our trip, as the American economy was literally collapsing while we were traipsing around Peru). After a while, we decided to all get dinner together, and went our respective ways to get cleaned up beforehand.

Once we’d managed to remove most of the sand from our bodies (I say “most” because I was still finding sand in my ears for days afterward), we met back up with the two couples in the lobby and set out in search of a restaurant. Our options were obviously limited, so we went for Italian again, despite Bri’s aversion to the idea of eating Italian food in Peru. (Personally, I reasoned that if there were so many Italian restaurants in the country, it was just as much a part of their culture as the restaurants serving Peruvian food.) You’d think that after our lengthy chat over pisco sours, we wouldn’t have had much left to talk about, but we ended up staying at the restaurant until nearly 11, discussing a variety of topics. (Our dinner conversation was a bit lighter, though, trending toward recounting reality TV shows—apparently Extreme Home Makeover is very popular in Israel—and comparing driver’s licenses.) By the time we finally left the restaurant and parted ways at the hotel, I think we were probably the only people still awake in all of Huacachina. (Never mind the fact that the six of us probably constituted approximately one-fifth of the town’s total population.)

Continue to Day 14: Huacachina to Lima

2008-10-10T15:09:00.001-04:00

Tuesday, 9.30: Lima to Huacachina
Completely underwhelmed with the city of Lima, we were anxious to get on to our desert adventure. So after another unappetizing-but-free breakfast and one last e-mail/Facebook check, Bri and I bid the Mildew Shanty a very welcome farewell and hailed a taxi for the bus station. We got there a couple hours before our bus was scheduled to depart, but we figured it was better waiting around at the clean bus station than at the Mildew Shanty. We checked our backpacks (yes, there was a bag check at the bus station—they don’t fool around with their buses in Peru) and then headed up to the snack bar to get something to eat (and, in my case, to be endlessly amused by the sign on the counter offering pieces of “pye”).

At around 1:00, we got in line to board the bus and were soon settled in our seats on the top level. As indicated by the baggage check, bus travel in Peru is a lot like plane travel—the seats are big and cushy (bigger and cushier than plane seats, actually), and there’s even beverage and food service. So maybe bus travel in Peru is like plane travel used to be. However, there was one similarity between Peruvian buses and their American counterparts—their fondness for showing awful movies. Our selections on the ride down included Along Came Polly (bad) and Last Holiday (worse). Incidentally, the bus I took from D.C. to New York earlier in the year also screened a Queen Latifah movie. What is it with Queen Latifah movies and long-distance bus travel?

Anyway. Other than a brief stop in Paracas (which we decided looked very nice, and had us wishing we’d built some time for it into our itinerary), we cruised right down the coast to Ica, arriving shortly after dark. Bri and I hailed a taxi at the bus station to drive us the 5 miles or so to Huacachina. No sooner had we turned out of the bus station, though, than we got pulled over by a cop, and the cab driver got out of the car to talk to him. I guess whatever offense he’d committed had been minor, because he soon got back in the car, and we were on our way. He tried to talk us into booking him for a winery tour the next day (Ica is close to Pisco, where they make the famous liquor used to make pisco sours), passing us a book filled with testimonials from other travelers, but we demurred, and somehow managed to get out of the car without being roped into it.

We’d made reservations at El Huacachinero, one of the few hotels in town, before leaving the Mildew Shanty, so after checking in and dumping our bags, we decided to have a little look around the town of Huacachina, which was our first introduction to the eeriness of it. Huacachina is this tiny little desert oasis that was once the resort town of choice for Peruvian royalty (it was so popular that a picture of it even appears on one of their currency notes), but is now pretty much deserted except for the backpackers who come in search of cheap accommodations and the chance to go dune-buggying and sandboarding in the desert (which was totally why we’d come, too). When we were there, there didn’t even seem to be that many backpackers, so after wandering up and down the street (and being followed by a stray dog who, while nice enough, was no Hermie the Worm-Eating Dog of Chiang Dao), we decided to just go back to our hotel and eat. We stopped at the front desk to book our sandboarding tour for the next day, then gave in to the Italian-food pressure (it seemed even more prominent in Huacachina than elsewhere in Peru) and ate pasta by the pool before calling it a night.

Continue to Day 13: Huacachina

2008-10-10T15:08:00.001-04:00

Monday, 9.29: Cusco to Lima
I felt a little better the next morning when our alarm went off at another ungodly hour (which we definitely felt the brunt of, having slept in the previous morning). We were out the door before 6 to catch a cab to the airport for our 7:30 flight. Since the Cusco airport is relatively small, I figured we’d be fine arriving just an hour or so before our flight, but it turns out that I seriously underestimated the number of tourists who would be fleeing Cusco first thing in the morning—the check-in line at LAN was huge. It didn’t help that a horde of Japanese tourists managed to get in line right in front of us, although their Peruvian tour guide’s outfit (a striped velour tracksuit with a cartoon dog appliqué) did provide us with much amusement as we fretted about whether we’d make it on the plane. Somehow, we made it through the check-in line, the airport tax payment line, and the security line just in time to dash onto our plane before they closed the gate. (The only casualty was Heather’s red windbreaker, which she accidentally left in the security bin.)

The plane was late taking off, though, so I continued to fret about whether Heather would have time to make her connection in Lima to her Miami flight. Fortunately, her backpack was one of the first off the belt, and the check-in line at the Lima airport wasn’t nearly as long, so she was able to get away just fine. Once we’d seen her off, Bri and I decided to head back upstairs to the food court to regroup and see if we could find a hostel for the evening. We’d decided that we wanted to stay in Barranco, which was supposed to be a hip, artsy neighborhood along the coast, but when I called our first-choice hostel, they didn’t have any rooms left. I moved on to our second choice, which did have a double room available, so we grabbed a taxi from the taxi stand (“I think this is the first actual taxi we’ve ridden in during our entire trip,” I told Bri as we pulled away from the airport) and headed for our backup choice, The Point.

Bri had sent me a link to The Point before our trip, but I’d pooh-poohed it because it seemed like too much of a party place. But the guidebook’s description of it (rooms in a colonial mansion, hammocks in the courtyard, free breakfast and Internet) seemed decent enough, so I wasn’t concerned when we ended up having to book there. Once we arrived, however, it was immediately clear that my first impressions of The Point were correct—it was a total party hostel. And not just a party hostel, but the type of party hostel where everyone’s so intent on partying that they don’t care if everything around them is dirty, shabby, and broken. In other words, the kind of place I wouldn’t have chosen at 19, much less 28. But we were already there, so I decided to give it a chance.

I consoled myself with the thought that at least we had a private room. Our private room, however, was not in the guidebook-specified colonial mansion, but rather in a rudely constructed shack on the edge of the courtyard, adjacent to a ping-pong table. (Bri: “I could have built this myself.” Me: “I could have built this myself this afternoon.”) The rickety little room barely had space for two beds, and neither the industrial carpet covering the floor nor the dim bulb encased in an old wicker shade did much to add atmosphere. Nor, for that matter, did the permeating smell of mildew, although it did lead us to nickname the room “The Mildew Shanty.”

Needless to say, we were eager to get out of the Mildew Shanty as quickly as possible, so after helping ourselves to the less-than-appetizing dregs of the free breakfast and doing a quick e-mail/Facebook check (during which we looked at pictures from my 10-year high school reunion, which had happened while we were at Machu Picchu), we decided to head to the Cruz del Sur bus station to see about buying tickets for our trip to Ica the next day. We probably could have waited and bought tickets just before departing, but we didn’t want to take any chances, and besides, it’s not like we had much else planned for our time in Lima.

After we purchased our tickets, we decided to take a taxi to Larcomar, an upscale shopping center built into the edge of a cliff over the Pacific Ocean. It was pretty nice, so we spent quite a while there, looking around in the different shops (which were a little too pricey for me to justify buying anything) and grabbing a snack at the food court. Since we knew our hostel was relatively close, we decided to walk back along the road bordering the ocean.

When we arrived back at the Mildew Shanty, I was pretty tired after our walk (which ended up being a little longer than I’d bargained for) and was ready for a nap. However, while paging through the guidebook trying to find ideas for dinner, we realized that the one thing we’d been looking most forward to in Lima—eating ceviche—would soon be impossible, as cevicherias tend to only be open during the lunch hour. I located one a few blocks from the hostel that was open until 6, so although we were pretty tired and not all that hungry after our food-court snack, we booked it over there for an early dinner. (This proved to be a good decision, as the ceviche was delicious.)

On our way back to the hostel, we wandered around the neighborhood a bit to see if we could find a place to buy towels, as neither of us particularly wanted to remember our time in the Mildew Shanty with the towels emblazoned with The Point logo that were for sale for a pretty penny at the reception. Our search didn’t turn up any good results—the only towels we could find were kitchen towels at the local grocery store, but they were cheap enough (6 soles, or $2) that we could use them and then throw them away, so we each bought one.

After making some calls home and checking e-mail again (the free Internet was the only redeeming feature of The Point, so we were determined to use it as much as possible), we decided we weren’t ready to face a night in the Mildew Shanty just yet and regrouped to go back out for a nightcap. Unfortunately, though, the cool bar we’d read about in the guidebook was seemingly nowhere to be found, so after wandering up and down the street a few times, we finally ended up at some sort of coffeehouse/artist’s co-op store where we were practically the only patrons. After a beer for me and a fancy coffee for Bri, we reluctantly headed back to the Mildew Shanty…only to find that in our absence, the bar, which was just across the courtyard from us, had been turned into a nightclub, complete with throbbing dance music and flashing lights. Awesome. Thankfully, the combination of earplugs, a sleep mask, and a dose of the cough syrup with codeine that Bri had bought at a pharmacy in Cusco was enough to drown most of it out so I could sleep.

Continue to Day 12: Lima to Huacachina