on radical honesty

Honesty is a quality that most everyone values as one of the most important qualities in their relationships, right? If our partners, friends, or family members are dishonest with us, we feel betrayed. We interpret dishonesty (and its sister, secrecy) as completely one-sided actions, with the liar as the villain and us as the victim. We feel angry, righteous, and, depending on the topic of the dishonesty, probably a host of other negative emotions as well.

I want to propose an alternate outlook on honesty. Rather than seeing it as existing in a vacuum (e.g. it’s simply a factor of someone’s “good” or “bad” character), I believe there is a direct correlation between the amount of honesty given to us, and the level of acceptance we display. 

If you want to foster radical honesty, embody radical acceptance.

Think about it—many of us tell our friends things we wouldn’t tell our partners, or tell our partners things we wouldn’t tell our parents. It doesn’t make us fundamentally dishonest people. We’re operating based on the reaction we anticipate. If people in our lives have shown judgment (and maybe not even towards us, but towards anyone!) we will be reluctant to take the emotional risk of submitting ourselves to that judgment.

We want our children to tell us the truth. We may think we live out the values we expect of them, setting a good example by not lying to them. But have they ever heard us speak judgmentally about others? Have they ever told us something sensitive, only to be scolded or lectured or, perhaps even worse, laughed at?

The best way to raise honest children is to model radical acceptance in our daily lives.

Of course, we are up against a societal tidal wave of morality in which our every action is judged and criticized. If a person has done something or has a problem that society at large considers shameful, then please understand that that person may still have tremendous difficulty sharing, even if you personally have done everything to demonstrate acceptance. This is not their fault. This does not make them a bad person. They are probably doing their best to exist in a world in which shame is heaped upon us at every turn.

The next time someone you love is untruthful with you, or you discover a secret, before allowing yourself to get angry, righteous, and to feel like it’s all about you (i.e. that they wanted to hurt you; that you have been wronged), step back and ask yourself: can I truly say that I’ve made this person feel emotionally safe enough to share with me? And, even if you can answer a sincere yes to that question, you should also ask yourself: has society made that person feel their secret was something to be ashamed of?

Shame is a poison we attempt to avoid at all costs. Empathy is its antidote, and we should dispense it liberally.

Lastly, please don’t forget to apply this to yourself. The best way to feel comfortable enough to be honest with others is to practice radical acceptance and empathy on yourself first. By being kind to ourselves, we can negate and override society’s harsh judgments, and feel courageous enough to share things that are painful or embarrassing with those closest to us. Doing so will open up a new level of intimacy we may not have imagined possible.

konmari-ish

This was an unfinished post originally written in early 2019, shortly after Marie Kondo‘s reality show, “Tidying Up with Marie Kondo” had debuted on Netflix. I wasn’t going to post it, but figured some of you may be using your quarantine down time to declutter, so perhaps it still retains some relevance! 

In 2014, I read Marie Kondo’s now-famous book, “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up“. At the time, I had just been forced to move from a house I loved into a tiny apartment, due to circumstances not of my choosing, and I deeply resented having to dispose of large amounts of my belongings. My mom, rightly and logically, pointed out that it didn’t make sense to pay for storage to house items that could be replaced for less than what you’d pay in storage costs, but I stubbornly rented a unit to house what I deemed the most indispensable of my stuff. I reasoned that I’d be in a new house soon enough, and on some level it was faster and easier to move things than spend the time sorting and getting rid of them.

Fast forward to the present, 4 1/2 almost 6 (!) years later. I still haven’t bought a new house, and much of that stuff is still in boxes or garbage bags in my basement, so unless I take action, next time we move I’ll still have all of those belongings to reckon with. I recently sold another house and had to clean out the basement… I only ended up keeping maybe a third of what was down there. It actually wasn’t hard at all to part with most of it— if I hadn’t looked at it or touched it in years, how much did I *really* need it?

I remember that first year living in the apartment, on New Year’s Eve, instead of going out I decided to stay home and clean out my closet using the KonMari method. I blasted some music, drank some wine, and said goodbye to a decent chunk of my clothing. It felt good; an appropriate way to start the year fresh. Since then, I’ve practiced KonMari a few times on my clothing, but haven’t yet gotten past that step of the process to apply it to other items in my house. Still, the philosophy of KonMari–only keeping things that “spark joy”–has seeped into my consciousness, informing daily decisions and making it so much easier to part with things. Now, instead of feeling resentment, it feels liberating to be able to lighten the load and have less attachment to physical objects.

With the debut of Marie Kondo’s Netflix show, she’s been the subject of many a HuffPo or Buzzfeed opinion piece, usually written by millenial white women either breathlessly describing how transformational KonMari has been for them, or defiantly proclaiming that Marie will have to pry such-and-such personal item out of their cold, dead hands. I tend to fall somewhere in between, but the main problem I have with KonMari is how it assumes a certain socio-economic privilege. I watched a couple episodes of the series and literally felt physically ill at the amount of consumer goods that some of the families had accumulated. It was painful to witness that much crass, needless consumption when there are so many people in need, not to mention the environmental impact. Kondo assumes that you can fairly painlessly dispose of items you’ve paid good money for, simply because you don’t get a thrill from them any longer. This is a luxury many people will never know. Personally, although I can and do get rid of clothing I no longer wear, I own several items that don’t spark joy but that I have to keep anyway, because I either can’t or don’t want to spend the money to buy a version I like better.

It’s no surprise that a feeling of scarcity breeds hoarding and clutter. If you’re poor (or grew up that way), you’re going to cling to an attitude of “what if I need that someday?” rather than easily letting go. Through KonMari, I have gradually shifted from this attitude, drilled into me from my thrifty and frugal mother (to her credit, she’s evolved a lot on this over the years), to a realization that the advantages of alleviating the stress of clutter far outweigh any economic disadvantage to having to re-buy something you may have owned 5 years ago. When I cleaned out the aforementioned basement, there were a few items that were still new in their boxes. I knew I would probably never use them, so the hardest part of letting go was knowing they were worth money and feeling guilty that I should be having a garage sale or selling them on Craigslist rather than just giving them away. But my reasonable side (the one that knows I will realistically not do either of those things, and the items would continue to follow me around) won out, thankfully.

My partner is radically anti-getting rid of things, which makes for a stressful household at times. He has moved twice since I’ve known him, and I’d say about 3/4 of his closet is comprised of shirts I’ve never seen him wear. He keeps books that he’s either read and will never read again, or will just never read. He has several boxes of VHS tapes (we’ve never once watched one.) But, this is just how he was raised— his parents have an attic, a garage, and not one but two pole barns filled with old stuff that they see no reason to part with, seeing as how they have the room to store it. While it’s true that some of it has come in handy (when our son came along, they already had plenty of toys and books at their house for when he visits, which is often), I personally can’t imagine the psychological weight of all those possessions. Then again, we are still in a stage of life where we’ll likely move a couple more times at least, whereas they are in their “forever home”. When I think about whether to keep something, what I *really* try to consider is whether I want it enough to deal with packing and moving it. 

I realize this post is over a year past being “on-topic”, but that’s life with a toddler! I’d still love to hear comments… are you using the extra time on your hands to do a quarantine purge, or is the crisis strengthening your hoarding instincts? Did you watch Marie’s show, and if so, what did you think? For further reading, this is a great article analyzing the show and surrounding backlash.

 

eulogy

The following was written on August 16, 2015 and I feel enough time has passed that I can share it now. If the person this was written about reads it, I hope they know I still very highly regard the time we shared, and wouldn’t change a thing.

So here’s what’s happening right now: a quiet Saturday evening, crickets and a cool breeze. A snack of shrimp “cooked” in lemon juice with sea salt, thyme & shallot, drizzled with good olive oil and garnished with some charred cherry tomatoes. A not-quite-chilled-enough glass of Peñedes, but it’ll do. A bouquet of flowers I bought in a lame attempt to cheer myself from a loss that, although I predicted it long ago, was nonetheless heartbreaking.

I don’t know how to say this and I may regret writing it. But someone very, very dear to me has, for reasons known only to that person, chosen to withdraw their already tenuous friendship from my life. I’ve wanted to write about this person before, because they amaze and thrill and delight me, but for reasons of privacy I kept it to myself. Perhaps down the road, with distance, I can tell our story, but not any time soon.

My reaction to this loss was surprisingly calm. I had always known there was an inevitability of our connection dimming (for a multitude of reasons I can’t get into), but I always thought it would be a gentle tapering off, where we gradually stopped spending time together but remained friendly acquaintances. That was actually more or less already happening, and although it didn’t make me happy, I accepted that this was the natural order of things; a friendship like ours, while a thing of beauty, just isn’t cut out to be sustainable. When we unexpectedly hung out recently and had one of the best times I’ve had all year (and maybe with anyone ever), it was a pleasant surprise, but I didn’t see the overall trajectory shifting. What I should have remembered was that every previous time this person had pulled me in a little closer, they subsequently felt the need to shove me away with an even more violent force.

For most of my friendships, although I try not to be demanding, I have a very basic set of social expectations, of the sort that most of us do. However, ours was a different story. I had learned with this person a while ago to accept only what they were freely offering to me, and not to ask for, let alone demand, anything more than that. My time with this person was so special that I was willing (and more or less happily so) to forgo my usual friend expectations: text me back in a semi-timely manner, let’s hang out sort of regularly, etc. I quickly learned to hold back, take cues and wait until I was called upon to spend time with, rather than suggesting any social activity.

This may sound to most people as if I was some sort of doormat, desperately waiting around for a phone call or text. Not at all. In fact it was strangely liberating to have this kind of a friendship. For perhaps the first time in my life, I knew for an absolute fact that I accepted someone 100% for who they are and not anything that I wanted or wished they would be. And as a person who has spent far too long in unhappy situations because my expectations on others ultimately led to disappointment, it made me so incredibly happy to know I was capable of that! I don’t think I could say that before about anyone who wasn’t my immediate family member (or maybe my best friend A). This was huge progress for me personally, and has carried over into other aspects of my life and other relationships. In fact I think a big reason why I’ve been able to let go of so much anger and be at peace with M is a direct result of what this friendship has taught me. It’s made an immensely positive difference in my life.

What I’ve thought about in the last few days is this: I still love this person dearly. I’m very much hurting. I don’t at all understand their actions, which were swift, angry and honestly a bit cruel, but clearly the 100% acceptance thing wasn’t working both ways and I suppose this is just something they felt they needed to do. I have no choice or say in the matter. With other friends, I’d likely have attempted a reconciliation by now, but I don’t think that’s the thing to do here. Perhaps in time they’ll reconsider, and I really hope that’s the case. But no matter what happens, they can never take away the happiness I experienced being part of their life. They can never erase the beautiful memories, the corny inside jokes, the meals we prepared and shared, the philosophical discussions, the music we played each other, and the absolute sense of psychic connection with another human being. I will cherish all of those things even if they can’t or won’t, and my memories won’t be diminished by this act of severance. My heart is full of both love and sadness, but at least it is full, and that is something to be grateful for.

***

Postscript: Months went by in which I neither saw nor spoke to this person. On my end, I was afraid to reach out because I didn’t want to push or force anything (and probably also because I didn’t want to suffer more rejection.) Eventually we saw each other, and much to my delight and relief, big (and sincere) hugs were exchanged. These days we don’t really interact anymore except when we run into each other around town, but that’s ok. Just being able to appreciate what we had, and knowing that we are at peace, is enough.

 

some items of business

Aghghg… I had a post in my head in the shower this morning before work, quickly typed it out, tried to save it and there was an error. So perhaps it was not meant to be, and I’ll just start over. I was going to post some quick thoughts along with a song that expressed a feeling I was having earlier about a certain person/ situation, but I’ve thought better of it, so instead I think I’ll just address some items of business about this blog.

First, let’s get one thing straight: It’s dumb to have to explain this, but the use of initials to refer to people in my life isn’t meant to be cute or coy. Obviously if you know me in real life, you can probably pretty easily figure out who is who. It’s mainly meant to fly under the radar of Google searches, so if anyone’s searching someone’s name, they won’t land here unexpectedly. It’s the same reason I don’t mention my business by name. It’s also just a courtesy, in case people don’t want their name used. I had a conversation with someone the other day who mentioned that a mutual friend had sarcastically said, “Gee, I wonder who — could be.” Of course you know who it is, did you actually think I thought I was being mysterious or obfuscating details? T, I don’t expect you’re reading this, but if you are, give me a little credit.

Secondly, I know this started as a travel(ish) blog and has drifted a bit into some more personal territory, but that’s just what I feel I need to write about right now.  I do have some travel-related posts in the pipeline, but the big picture is that this is about my life experiences, whether they take place at home or elsewhere. I got tired of writing my food blog, which was by and large a shiny happy place where everything was super and I rarely expressed my darker or more sarcastic side, let alone any of the real shit that was happening in my life. On that blog, I cooked and ate beautiful food with my supportive husband and went to amazing parties and potlucks with awesome friends who were also all great cooks and we ate the best food and drank great wine and lived a charmed life. Clearly some of that was true and real, but don’t expect the same gloss factor here.* That’s not to say it’s all going to be negative and emotional. Just that if I feel like writing about things not being perfect, I will.

Lastly, it came to my attention in the same conversation from the other day that there are people reading whom I’ve never met, but who know of me peripherally and have sought out the blog as a way to find out more about me (and not necessarily in a positive way). I suppose that’s the risk you run by publishing your semi-private thoughts in a public forum, but at 41 years old I just can’t bring myself to care anymore what people think, especially those who don’t know me personally and who will never know what’s in my heart and soul (unless you happen to think I’m brilliant and talented, in which case I’m all ears!) So, judge away, stalkers and weirdos. And if you somehow landed here randomly and don’t know me: welcome, I can definitely be a crazy person at times (aren’t all the interesting people, though? At least the ones I know…) but overall I’m pretty smart, fun, and every once in a while I have some worthwhile stories and insights and perspectives.

I’ll leave you all with this song, an anthem from my teenage years that’s been swimming around my brain for the last three days. The lyrics aren’t all perfectly applicable to my life right now, but whenever I listen to it, it always makes me feel like I have someone in my corner.

*If you prefer a little more gloss, follow my instagram– I try to keep that pretty positive!

alone again and

For the last 7 months, I’ve lived in a small one-bedroom flat, the upper half of a duplex I bought before I was married. It’s not a bad little apartment; it has some cute vintage features and built-in bookshelves and a little alcove with a window and a tree just outside. In fact, if I’d lived here in my 20s I probably would’ve thought it was near perfect. But right now, it feels pretty miserable. Of course, the circumstances that brought me here play a role in that, but mostly the thing I hate about being here is living alone.

Some people thrive on living alone, cherishing their solitude like a thick, warm blanket in a storm. I am not one of those. I grew up in a big family and had lots of roommates throughout my 20s and 30s. When I did live by myself, I had a very full social life as well as a social job (in retail), so the few hours I was home alone each day didn’t faze me. Nowadays, I’m self employed and working from home most days. The loneliness creeps in around midday, a dense fog, and by  mid-afternoon I am either stir-crazy or want to crawl back into bed. I end up going out way too often. My dog is my savior, but sweet as she is, she can’t carry the weight all by herself.

I fantasize about having a commune of sorts; a halfway house for my misfit friends where I would cook supper every night and tend to people’s broken hearts and disappointments and melancholia, or celebrate their successes and triumphs. We’d drink wine and play music and dance around the kitchen and soothe each other’s troubled souls. Or, we’d each go off to our separate rooms for a night of calm and quiet, but take comfort in knowing that the others were close at hand.

When I was married, M would work all day and then either retreat to his office to watch TV solo, or go out after work without me, leaving me to question why I got married in the first place if it meant sitting at home without company? I mean, the principal reason I thought anyone would get married was to not be alone; to have a partner in life. Ironically, I think I was worse off then than I am now, for whatever that’s worth. Being in physical proximity to someone so emotionally absent creates a depth of loneliness even greater than actually being by yourself; a concept that I couldn’t have fathomed before it happened to me.

All of this is not to say that I can’t be by myself or in my own head or that I constantly need attention or interaction. Not at all. During family weekends at the lake, I adore sneaking off to read on the beach before anyone else gets up, or taking a stroll through the pines, soaking up the stillness. And there are many occasions- after a busy work event, for example- where I just want to retreat and decompress. But more often than not, even if I’m doing something like reading or writing, I like it if someone’s in the room with me (in fact, I read a lot more when I lived with M than I do now). The key here is choice; whether or not the solitude is optional makes a huge difference in how I perceive its value.

We are made to feel that neediness of this sort is a character flaw; that it indicates you’re not “secure” or introspective enough. People who relish their singlehood are put on pedestals for being independent, strong, self-sufficient, etc. In reality, many of the people I know who prefer solitude are damaged individuals who choose to keep others at arms’ length lest they have to deal with the sometimes messy complications of human interactions and relationships. I suppose that’s their prerogative, but at what cost? Despite the pain I’ve experienced at the hands of family, friends and lovers, I don’t think I’d change a thing. The joy and inspiration and insight I’ve gained from these intimacies far outweigh any distress they’ve caused. And even with M, as painful as it was at times, I can’t say that I didn’t gain something. I learned a lot about total acceptance of other humans, something I struggled with before and which I think is such an important and worthwhile trait to cultivate. On that note, I’m sure my assessment of those individuals choosing to wall themselves off sounds judgmental; I don’t mean it to be. I don’t think they are in any way bad people for making this choice; it’s just not something I can understand or relate to at all. Even when I’ve been at my lowest and most hurt, I have always turned toward others rather than away, and I’ll always take a risk getting my heart smashed, because I know how beautiful it is to be that vulnerable with another person.

A friend of mine is fond of referring to people as monkeys. In regards to this topic especially, I couldn’t agree more. Our primate cousins are faring much better than we humans right now as far as societal structure though. You don’t see monkeys trying to “live alone”.  First of all, it makes no economic sense. Sharing resources is far less stressful than trying to support yourself solo. Second of all, you put a monkey in isolation and it becomes depressed, and why would a primate willingly inflict that upon itself? A well-known study was done on rats where they were given water bottles with cocaine that they could consume at will. The rats all went crazy for the cocaine-laced water, bingeing to the point of heart attack. The study was held up as proof of how dangerously addictive cocaine is. But the researchers in this first study neglected to take in a crucial factor: their rats were all in isolation. When scientists re-created the study but left the rats in their normal social groups, the animals consumed far less of the drug. The implications about the importance of social bonds are clear and undeniable to me.

I’ve been looking for a new house for the last several months and it’s been a frustrating search. Everything I’ve seen has been too big, or too expensive, or needed too much work, or was great but got bought out from under me by someone who moved faster or had more money. I keep telling myself that everything is for a reason and that my perfect house is out there somewhere, but it’s tough not to get discouraged. Although my apartment is small, I wouldn’t hate it nearly as much if I could even just have people over for dinner. Being deprived of one of my favorite activities- making food for people- is draining the life force out of me. Luckily I have friends who will occasionally let me cook at their houses, which is nice. But I can’t wait until I have a place where I can spontaneously have dinner guests whenever I please.

I would love to hear counterpoints from those of you who are wildly happy on your own; maybe I’m missing some component of what makes it so great? Meanwhile, wish me luck in my search for a new hearth and home; I need all the good mojo I can get.

three-legged puppies

My friend T, who also happens to be recently divorced, talks to me fairly regularly about her escapades as a newly single person on the dating scene. She happened to observe recently that she is recognizing a pattern in her attractions- namely, that she seems to have a proclivity for what she’s termed “three-legged puppies”. You know… guys who are in need of some sort of rescuing, special care, etc. I laughed at her creative descriptor, but it made me reflect on my own past relationships and the motivations therein. I’ve been known to fall victim to the charms of three-legged puppies… I think we all have at some point (if you don’t know who yours are, let me know and I can probably point them out.) They’re cute in their needy, damaged way, they give you a sense of useful purpose, and make you feel like just maybe you have your shit together by comparison, even if you really don’t.

Particularly, the three-legged puppy comment brought to mind O, a guy I used to hang out with a decade or so ago. O and I were never really dating, but we were what you might call special friends. I can’t even say we were friends with benefits because the relationship was pretty nonsexual… this was mostly due to him being a total weirdo and only able to handle the tiniest amounts of intimacy. I don’t know what exactly his diagnosis would have been, had he actually gotten help, but he wasn’t able to exist even remotely comfortably in the world as we know it. Something about him was too precious or sensitive for this life. His coping mechanism of choice, sadly, was heroin. He used to claim that it was the only way he could handle the bullshitty interactions of everyday life (like his job in retail, for instance) and I believe him.

The Gold Dollar, where I met O and spent lots of quality time at the turn of the millenium, near the intersection of Temple & Cass
The Gold Dollar, where I met O and spent lots of quality time at the turn of the millenium, near the intersection of Temple & Cass

He didn’t really do it to party or get fucked up; it was more just to get by and blunt the sharp edges of life. And I knew him in the earliest days of his use, so it wasn’t like this was a years-old maintenance habit. I used to imagine that he had emotional sensors that were amped up way more than the average person could conceive of, and the drugs just helped bring everything to a manageable level. (I think this must be fairly common; another friend who has struggled with some mental health issues and who used to do heroin told me that the first time she tried it, she thought, “This must be what normal people feel like.” Like O, she would do it and go to work, except in her case it was at a law firm.) Not that I condone his drug use at all- I always wished he’d gotten psychiatric help, and I think his malaise could have been managed with far less harmful substances and/or talk therapy. But, he was a wannabe musician who idolized and romanticized drug users, and that was the path he chose.

Anyway, during this time I was writing songs as my short-lived solo project, Little Hammer, and I wrote the song below about O and the other three-legged puppies of this world. I still have a soft spot for them, but I know better than to get caught up, much as I wish I could save them all. Incidentally, I wrote another song about him during this time that never got recorded, with the not-so-subtle lyric “Prince Charming/ on a white horse/ or the hookers on Temple & Cass, well I don’t know which is worse”. The song was an ode to that summer, breezy but bittersweet, with lyrics about bare feet on concrete and big cars on the boulevard… “summer in the city of nowhere to go but up”. Back then, it was probably a lot more accurate, but that’s a topic for another post.

I’m not sure whatever happened to O; he moved back to his parents’ in Cali at the end of that summer, and we lost touch. I regret to say that I don’t have a very optimistic outlook on where he might be right now, but I wish him the best. Even if you’re cute or charming, it’s not easy going through life with only three legs.

traveling companions, part 2: the best friend

This post is the second in a series about various travel companions; go here for part I.

hilary-noelle-1The very first trip I ever took without my parents was with my high school best friend, H. One of my uncles, a priest who researches our family genealogy in his spare time, had organized a three week trip for us to France, where we were to stay with distant relatives in Alsace. He accompanied us for part of the trip, but most of the time was spent with my friend bouncing around different homes in the French countryside. I’ll write more about this trip down the road (or check out this related post from my old blog), as there were many formative firsts worth recounting. But H was a great companion, especially given that we were just 16 and full of all the teen drama and emotions one would expect at that age. H and I had a connection such that any and everything could be turned into an inside joke funny to no one but us (“Albert? C’est toi?” Mort de rire.). When uttered later, these would provoke the other person to giggling fits that would often end in tears of gleeful hysteria. I’m sure we got into some minor snits with each other at some point, but my primary memory of this trip is that we got on grandly.  (Sadly, the postscript to all of this is that we had a falling out when she tried to steal my boyfriend freshman year of college. We might’ve gotten past it, but she moved away the following year and we never reconciled until a dozen or so years later. By that time, we had grown apart too much to get things back to the way they were, and although we’re “friends” on social media, I haven’t seen her since. But I cherish the memories of that trip like none other.)

noelle amanda azoresThese days, I am so lucky to have a best friend, A, whose travel pace and preferences mesh almost perfectly with my own (and who’s never tried to steal any boyfriends). When we were younger, we didn’t have much occasion to travel together since she was still in school and/or working to pay off student loans. (An exception was one ridiculously fun weekend in NYC circa 2000… memories of dancing like crazy to Led Zeppelin in a divey Lower East Side bar…) In 2014, though, we were able to take two trips–one to Louisville and the Smokies, the other to the Azores–and both were pretty near perfect. I kept finding myself in certain situations thinking, “if I was with M, he would be ornery and complaining right now,” but everything was smooth sailing. It just confirmed for me that I was not the problem (well, at least not as much as he would have me believe), and I felt much better… I’m not the difficult one, I’m a great travel partner! Ha. And, we may be getting older, but we still have just as much fun… in Asheville, NC, we charmed our way into a “private” club and danced our asses off like it was 1999.

Of course if your best friend is crazy or has a completely different idea of fun than you or is just difficult in general then I can’t really advise taking that mess to another location. But assuming you get along (and if not, it kind of begs the question of why is this person your best friend?), no reason not to take that party on the road. A and I are already daydreaming about our next trip* and checking cheap ticket sites on the regular. Costa Rica is a solid contender, but we’re also considering mainland Portugal and a couple other spots. I can’t wait to find the next place where we’ll dance with all the abandon of our 27-year-old selves.

*Update– we booked a trip to Argentina in October 2018! Stay tuned for fun times ahead.

tiki, teardrops and true confessions

tiki noIt must be a rite of passage to get your ass kicked by tiki drinks while visiting Los Angeles. The task was not hard to accomplish, what with a happy hour cocktail at the Roosevelt Hotel, huge beers with dinner, and a stop at the Rainbow for a whiskey soda and some jukebox glam beforehand. More reasonable humans might have called it a night at that point, but it was only 8:30! And this particular tiki bar was in walking (er, stumbling) distance from my friend T’s apartment.

But if you’ll permit me, let’s backtrack to Thanksgiving. In the dinner afterglow, perhaps three glasses of wine in the rear view mirror and tryptophan coursing through my veins, I found myself on facebook chatting with an old college pal who was visiting home from LA. We briefly toyed with the idea of trying to get together, but the timing wasn’t going to work. He suggested that I should just visit him in California, and in my warm and fuzzy and expansive postprandial state, I found myself thinking that was a great idea. A few keystrokes on my phone, and I had a ticket.

Mind you, I hadn’t seen T in about ten years, not since his wedding reception when he still lived in Chicago. Back when I was in school at Michigan State, I used to visit him there fairly regularly, taking the EL to the resale shops in Boystown or poking around Andersonville’s coffee houses and junk stores while he was at work. In the evenings, we’d go to dive bars, drink shitty beer and see bands play. Occasionally, his band would have a show, and I’d sing along in the front row.

Ten years later though, did we still have anything in common? I pondered this somewhat nervously as the trip approached. We were both unattached and had recently gone through divorces, so there was that. But we hadn’t really kept in touch since he’d moved (and even for a decent period before that), and I wasn’t sure what to expect. Girlfriends inquired excitedly whether there were any “romantic possibilities” for my trip; I answered quite honestly that I had no idea.

detroit streetMy first afternoon in town, as we wandered the streets of Hollywood at sunset, I kept seeing bits of home everywhere I looked… Berry Gordy’s star on the Walk of Fame; a sign for Detroit Street; a guy in a Tigers t-shirt. As it turned out, by this time there was someone back home who was tugging at my heartstrings like a cheap ukelele, and as much as I was enjoying the California sunshine, I couldn’t help but have him (and by extension, the city I associated with him) in my thoughts. Naturally I thought the best way to deal with this was with a cocktail.

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traveling companions: the significant other

I know a few free-spirited folks who favor solo travel–setting off to parts unknown completely untethered, able to go where you please and when you please, and meet new people along the way. Personally, I usually prefer companionship, but it’s crucial to know who makes a good traveling companion. I’ve been fortunate to have had more good ones than bad, but the bad ones have unnecessarily ruined some trips that could have otherwise been outstanding, and wasted a ton of my money and time. In a series of posts, I plan to review the most common categories of traveling companion and evaluate the merits and demerits of each, as an excuse to revisit some old travels and lovers and friends.

Let’s start with the most common, the significant other. The significant other can make a great traveling companion if the relationship is on solid ground AND if you both have similar travel styles. I had wonderful trips to Montréal & Québec, New Orleans and Washington, DC with J, a pretty easygoing but adventurous guy who enjoyed a healthy mix of seeing the sights and spending time lounging in bars or cafés, with appropriate amounts of napping and sex thrown in. Long car rides were no big deal with this good-natured and fun-loving companion; we’d listen to music and sing harmonies and occasionally pull off onto a country road for a quickie. Oh, to be young and in love.

I went up north and down through Wisconsin and Chicago with a different J; that trip worked also, mostly because he let me dictate everything. Not as exciting or sexy, but a pleasant way to spend a week out of town. At the time, he was very much a homebody and this was pretty much the only trip we ever took in 5+ years of dating. Ironically, he now spends most of the year on the road, touring in a rock band. How times change.  We stayed in cheap up north motels and watched the leaves change color and stumbled on the “cool” part of Milwaukee by accident and went to Shedd Aquarium and had a generally lovely week.

M, however, was a different story. To start with, we had very different ideals of the perfect vacation… his involved being near-catatonic on a beach somewhere, preferably with a huge spliff in one hand and an icy pastel-hued libation in the other. I am much more on-the-go, preferring to rise fairly early to take in some sights, followed by a leisurely lunch, nap, a little more sightseeing and then dinner, drinks, etc. I feel that it’s also important to know how someone will react when outside their element. M hadn’t traveled much prior to dating me, and everything always seemed to present some kind of problem or issue. How much of this was innate vs. him just wanting to be cranky with me personally is a matter of debate; he subsequently traveled to some borderline third world areas and had a grand old time. My hunch is that his filters were set not to complain on that trip since he was with a business associate and not his romantic partner. But that just goes to show that those things are subjective and you CAN choose to overlook minor inconveniences rather than complain and spread misery. I will never understand that… I always feel so fortunate to get to go places and do things that a little discomfort is no big deal.

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bodega naranjuez: the natural wines of antonio vílchez

This is a re-post from my old blog, originally published on May 12, 2012, and has been slightly edited from its original version. I wanted to re-post not only because it fits the theme of this new blog, but because I have recently revisited Antonio’s wines and wanted to give some context.

antonio vilchez natural wine vineyards

Wandering Granada’s Albaicín neighborhood on a rainy April afternoon, M and I decided to take shelter in a tiny café called Bar Kiki. We were leery that it would be a tourist trap, as we were adjacent to the mirador San Nicolas (a popular vantage point from which to view the city and Alhambra), but we entered anyway to warm up with a glass of wine and some rabo de toro (oxtail stew). It turned out to be a great little spot, with a friendly bartender who was happy to answer our questions about different drinks and menu items. My chatty inquisitiveness paid off; when a local winemaker came into the bar to make a delivery, the bartender offered to sell us a bottle at their cost. We started talking to the winemaker, Antonio Vílchez, and before we knew it he had invited us to come to his bodega, about 45 minutes away, for a tasting and tour of his vineyards.

wine tasting bodega Spain

The next day we were heading for Córdoba (the exact opposite direction), but decided to take a detour to the east to visit Antonio’s winery. After all, when would we get another chance to have a personal guided tour with a Spanish winemaker? We drove towards Guadix and found our way toward the tiny (300 inhabitants) town of Marchal. On the way into town, we spotted a gypsy caravan on the side of the road, as well as cave dwellings in the surrounding cliff side. After pulling up in front of the tiny ayuntamiento (town hall) and getting some curious looks from the townspeople, we located Antonio and he showed us into his place. The operation was small and unglamorous- he produces a mere 8,000 bottles per year- but it was great to get an inside look at how a small winery operates. Continue reading