get out of town

Hilton Head, South Carolina

2011-11-18T14:30:00.000-08:00

Let me take you back in time two months ago when I actually went on this vacation. Every day since I have drafted my daily to-do list, writing a capitalized order to BLOG over 60 times. My apologies (to the assumed three people that will read this sentence) that my busy schedule has kept me from sharing titillating exploits of crab cakes eaten. The wait is over.

Replies to the questions fielded about my family trip to South Carolina were as follows: “No, I’m not from there. No, I don’t have family there. No, I don’t golf.“
My dad was left behind to work so the traveling kin was composed of yours truly, my mom, my sister Michelle, Aunt Ronna, Uncle Mark and my grandparents. After a stop in Charlotte to board a puddle jumper (with propellers, how very retro) we landed at Hilton Head Island’s comically sized airport and went onward to the Westin. The hotel was decorated in an appropriately Southern Living seaside cottage motif.

The first afternoon found our clan boarding a rental minivan bound for Beaufort. I finagled shotgun by volunteering for the role of navigator and immediately failed as the driver's co-pilot by not advising Michelle to slow down. This was confirmed by the patrol car driving over the parkway's grassy divider to pull us over, scold Michelle (albeit with a charming drawl) and write her a speeding ticket.

To give you an idea of the family dynamic, you must understand my role. I am vilified for appreciating quiet, for opting to only observe the flood of unsolicited opinions ping-ponging around the minivan with earbuds as my armor. My defense is to go mute, to keep suggestions about the temperature to myself because any commentary ignites ten minutes of bickering about the car's air conditioning. Bringing up a topic like politics is a death-wish.

But back to our journey to Beaufort. The road revealed the southeastern landscape of marshes, lagoons, moss-draped live oaks and palmettos along with what I considered even more interesting as a city gal - farms, barns and Piggly Wiggly stores.
From the car, Beaufort's Boundary Street looked like an adorable postcard of old tyme George McFly Americana. After lunch at a sports bar and a futile chase down the docks towards dolphin fins in the distance, we went exploring. Beaufort's marginalization was clearer on foot, with streets of eerily empty churches and half of the town's businesses shuttered (unsurprising since the estimated population seemed to be ten human beings and two dolphins.)

After Beaufort we stopped in Harbour Town, a gated marina community of idyllic vignettes (horses, creeks, yachts) and 70’s era condos. Also, rocking chairs everywhere in South Carolina! I really appreciate the importance they place on just chilling.

We had a dinner of traditional lowcountry cuisine that evening, the first of many she-crab soups and cholesterol-marianted steaks.

Savannah, Georgia/Hilton Head, South Carolina

2011-11-18T14:15:00.000-08:00

Our third day took us across state lines to Savannah, Georgia where we experienced an overview of Downtown from a trolley tour that took us through around the grid-like city and it's 22 squares. It became apparent the measures Savannah takes to maintain and restore the historic buildings and the preservation of the bygone horse-and-carriage era fosters it's rank as "America's most haunted city." To me it's those reminders of early America that give places like Savannah, Sleepy Hollow and Boston that certain spookiness.

Paula Deen is Savannah's Obama, Madonna, and the Royal Queen. Throughout town, her ubiquitous buttery "Hey Ya'll!" face directs tourists to join the fried chicken buffet at The Lady and Sons.

Our group split up to explore on foot, where I came across some threatening scripture on a park bench en route to the cemetery (fun fact: the bench where Forrest Gump reflects on his cinematic life was filmed in Savannah's Chippewa Square, though the bench is now housed in a museum.)

My cynicism was challenged by Savannah's reputation as the best-mannered city every time a stranger struck up a conversation or asked where I was from (why is it that the camera around my neck reads as "German tourist" and not "photographer"?) It took some serious re-wiring to understand unsolicited conversation from strangers as politeness and not harassment. Sad, no?

Besides Savannah (which was definitely my favorite city from the trip) I found the highways connecting the larger cities some of the most interesting parts of the South. The rurality of the back roads is fascinating: forests, fireworks for sale, swamps, roadside strip clubs, crab shacks, barns and outbuildings and rusty gold just waiting to get snatched up by Mike and Frank from American Pickers.

Back in Hilton Head, we had dinner at Skull Creek Boathouse with a lovely waitress named Audrey who handled my family like a pro.

The next day we returned to Harbour Town to rent a Catalina 32 for an afternoon sail. The wind was lacking (we tacked four times maximum) so we just enjoyed a relaxing cruise around the bay.

Charleston, South Carolina

2011-11-18T14:06:00.000-08:00

We planned to rent another car upon leaving Hilton Head, but instead opted to Jenga seven bodies, seven full-sized suitcases and assorted carry-ons into the minivan. Needless to say the drive was uncomfortable, especially with hungry (read: cranky) people driving 70 miles of food-less logging roads before the beacon of Hardee’s.

In Charleston (technically Mount Pleasant which is a boat/trolley/car ride across the bay), Michelle and I checked into what we crowned The Ugliest Hotel Room Ever.

We did some dolphin spotting on the dock before trolleying into town for a delicious Italian meal.

Our first mode of transport the next morning was the water taxi back to Charleston before boarding yet another free trolley to ride around the city and get our bearings.

We backpedaled through automotive history once more with a horse and carriage ride to trot around in the rain and look at historical homes (many of which have sloped over time. If you look at a house as a face, a lot had wonky-eyed windows.)

After lunch at a sports bar that had occupied a former church, I went off to do some shopping on my own until faced with routing obstacles due to Joe Biden’s motorcade.

That night, we had dinner on the river at Shem Creek Bar & Grill, where the menu offered promises of coronary heart diseases against a pixilated clip art background. Take a moment to consider the existence of "prime rib with bacon wrapped crab stuffed shrimp."

Charleston, South Carolina Part II

2011-11-18T14:00:00.000-08:00

The next day we drove out of the city to tour Magnolia Plantation and Gardens. Here I will mention the clear blue sky above us as we toured the house, the museum (with a quizzical stuffed penguin) and the maze-like gift shop.

The clouds were suddenly foreboding as we boarded the tram for a nature tour through the swamps and just as we saw our first gators perched in the unfortunately-named mosquito fern, the thunderstorm began. It was torrential rain that seemed to poured down sideway in an attempt to flush all the passengers out of the tram. Thankfully, a nice samaritan (probably from Savannah) gave me a plastic bag to protect my camera!

Before and After:

Soaked, we drove back to the hotel (the inside of our van had virtually become a mobile aquarium) and changed into rain-appropriate attire just as the sun came back out.

Next to our hotel was the U.S.S. Yorktown (version 2.0, since the original sunk in battle in 1942.) Why I toured the neighboring submarine, the USS Clamagore, I do not know. I’ve always had some acute claustrophobia, but figured since I wasn’t rattled by the Parisian caves o' bones that I would be fine walking through a few submerged hallways. The anxiety/dizziness was immediate (I had a similar panic attack when I bought my Alexander Wang bag), exacerbated by everyone crowding me to ask why I was hyperventilating/sweaty/even paler than usual. In a hypothetical situation where I am trapped in a submarine, I would likely try to use the periscope as a snorkel.

The tour of the aircraft carrier afterward was all a kind of shell-shocked haze until we reached the flight deck and the sweet, sweet fresh air.

Back on dry land, there was audio artillery being launched from the parking lot where Tiesto was soundchecking (naturally.) That night we had the best meal of the trip at a jazzy Italian restaurant called Mercado back in Charleston.

We barely made our connecting flight home, upon which my mom made the unpatriotic faux-pas of crushing an Army Sargeant’s hat in the overhead compartment (it was in a special hat caboodle and everything!)

Napa/Sonoma

2011-10-08T12:18:00.000-07:00

In early September, my Mom and I went on a quick, power-nap style trip to Wine Country. Since the trip was less than two days (and my Napa reports so recent and frequent) I figured a photos-only entry would be a welcome change. Per usual, the food in the Valley was great (Boon Fly Café, Gott's twice in one day) and the wine lovely (B.R. Cohn, Kunde.) I did my very best to leave some grapes behind.

Chicago Part I

2011-09-01T16:45:00.000-07:00

This year for our annual girls trip, we took advantage of Jackie's job perks and headed to the Midwest for Lollapalooza.

After an airport cocktail Wednesday evening we began our journey, eventually descending into Chicago and a new low of chasing 'the hair of the dog' for four days. I never said our yearly retreat is a cultured one.

At O'Hare, I was greeted by my greatest fear at the baggage carousel. My hardside suitcase with the precarious clasps was indeed unlatched, my personal affects on parade on the conveyor. Kellie helped me schlep it like a moving box into a cab and we went on our way to the Hard Rock Hotel. Her initial reaction to Chicago was similar to what it would be had we landed in Venice, asking the cabbie where we could catch the gondolas for a ride on the canals.

Blame it on the time difference but after checking in at midnight we were raring to go. The city, however, had already retired. Not only we were the only patrons at Jefferson Tap, but we were seated at the only table where the chairs were not already overturned for sweeping. But give us a dive bar with a jukebox to dominate and some mediocre champagne called “Cristalino” (not to be confused with Cristal) and we will make do just fine. The bartender served us some aptly named Apple Pie Shots and the first of many platters of chips and salsa.

The next morning, we collected our haphazard remains and went shopping on Magnificent Mile. I saw a beacon from the mothership - a TOPSHOP sign in the distance. As I skipped toward it, I was stung by the next row of text on the scaffolding...“Opening September 2011.”

We walked under the parkway and past some murals in progress to the water. Though I have been to Chicago before, we were all momentarily bewildered by the sheer beachiness of Lake Michigan's shores, what with the boardwalk and cruise ships and beach volleyball. To me, 'lake' conjures images of a marina void of sand...but Lake Michigan is indeed a Great Lake with a great beach.

Obliged to partake in deep-dish pizza (people are very passionate about New York thin crust vs. Chicago deep dish, but I’m an equal opportunist) we headed over to the highly recommended Lou Malnati’s. Upon ordering, a wave of nausea came over me and I was declared man-down. Ashley shuttled into a cab to lay down back at the room where I soon recovered enough to eat my to-go order.

Jackie was still on the clock so we went on an A&R field trip to Double Door for the Little Hurricane/Joy Formidable show. This was interspersed with jaunts to various bars in the happening neighborhood which reminded me of Boystown.

We spent some time at Debonair Social Club where Jackie quickly built a love/hate repore with the bartender.

At Joy Formidable, we met up with Jackie’s Interscope co-workers and ventured back to the hotel (where they were also staying) in a over-capacity mini van blasting Chamillionare. After venturing to The Underground for the world's shortest dance party, we rounded out the night with a Phil Collins sing-along at Angels and Kings in the hotel.

Chicago Part II

2011-09-01T16:35:00.000-07:00

It felt like we had lived several lifetimes by the time day one of Lollapalooza actually arrived. Before heading over, we tried the “look like you know what you're doing and walk in” method at the hotel's gifting suite with great success. The sponsors meant all the free pop chips, vodka, sunglasses and webding tattoos your heart desired (this meant a lot of pop chips.) With all the media folk around, it was the only place I haven't like a German tourist on vacation with my camera hanging around my neck.

In front of the festival entrance were the usual petitioners and scalpers but these protestors riled me a new level of fury.

Jackie, the connection wizard, nicely arranged passes for us. Still the bracelets denoted different levels of backstage access so we were buddied with whomever happened to take the same color for the weekend. "All Access" granted access in one tent, "VIPs" restricted from another, some admitted catering, on-stage access...but all shared a commonality of encouraging binge drinking. The free libations were not allowed to be taken outside the backstage areas, meaning you must down your respective beverage quickly if there was a band you wanted to watch. Another consideration was the two main stages one full mile opposite one another. We were lucky to hitch a ride on the back of a maintenance cart but after making the trek once in the heat we quickly renegotiated which bands were really worth the trip.

Ashley and I splintered off as the only A Perfect Circle fans, but were disappointed that their set seriously lacked Mer de Noms jams, so we walked over to see Skrillex but were forced to stay 20 feet away just from the body heat radiating from the tent.

We then charioted over to the opposite end of the park just as “The Calendar Hung Itself” ended. Bright Eyes sounded great, but had to compete with a very demonstrative couple for the audience's attention.

We ran into Jackie’s co-worker Nick in the long line for drinks (where we experienced a learning curve and became more time efficient by ordering two at a time.) I never believed that a band as boring as Coldplay could have such passionate fans, but Ashley and Nick were emoting with clutched fists and dancing in circles. I was more interested in the possibility of a Gwyneth or Kate Moss sighting.

After the show, we found our companions at the fountain in the middle of the park and bought a pizza from the vendors trying to get rid of food in bulk. Ashley fed us slices with maternal intoxication (“best friend bite!”) as we walked through the mass exodus through Downtown Chicago before collectively soaking our deadened feet at the room.

In the midst of a flash rainstorm, we headed to the W Hotel for a Belvedere-sponsored bash, but I soon walked back to the hotel after stocking up on swag.

Sadly, I was re-routed near the hotel by police tape blocking off a strewn bicycle and a white sheet that had completely reddened by the time I rounded the block.

Chicago Part III

2011-09-01T16:30:00.000-07:00

After a slow start and a few purchases (new suitcase for me, necessary tennis shoes for Jackie, and bandaids for Kellie who skinned her elbow by diving into oncoming golf cart traffic) we headed to the festival for day two.

This day was hotter and even more humid so we resigned to listen to Ellie Goulding's performance from under a tree even though she was obscured from view.

The cluster to exit the backstage area was brutal as the headliner approached. About two hundred sweaty people (one being Guy Fieri) were penned in until a blacked out SUV delivered Eminem and company directly to the stage.

Eminem's performance accompanied by a live band (including a tribute to Nate Dogg) was pretty impressive to a casual listener like myself. Bruno Mars came out for “Lighters" and despite the gimmicky instructions, the result was pretty cool.

The four of us were later in a gridlocked cab en route back to The Underground when exhaustion from the week's events washed over me so I walked back to the hotel.

Sunday morning we were in fine form and went to The Purple Pig for an outdoor brunch of mediocre tapas.

The day before my phone had been the victim of condensation from a water bottle sweating in my purse so I tried advice that I suspected may be a prank. I am pleased to report that after drying in a bag of rice for a full day, it was good as new.

In an effort to waste time before our flight, we provided evidence of our spiraling delusions and continued our mid-day cocktail hour at the Ritz Carlton.

Finally, we made our way to O’Hare in a full-fledged thunderstorm, eating only a few more fried meals before arriving home. We were a sight to behold at the curb of LAX, but Girls Trip 2011 could not be declared a success if we arrived home as anything other than in shambles.

Lake Casitas

2011-08-01T13:03:00.001-07:00

On Saturday afternoon Ashley and I drove North to Lake Casitas to join a group that had already began the camping adventure the previous day. Not without a stop first in Ventura to have a snappy lunch at Snapper Jack’s Taco Shack.

We found where the sun was hiding as we drove inland towards Ojai through a charming town selling cacti and firewood roadside. Finally we found the main gate to the expansive Lake Casitas recreation area, where the water park (an uncommon campground selling point) had already sold out admission for the day. After navigating through the miles of alphabetized campsites to campground M, we found our fellow campers (a few couples, a few girlfriends and three pooches.)

Our plans to go camping were met with reactions of disbelief and a hint of snark. Now, I haven’t camped in 15 years and don’t even possess a sleeping bag, but we arrived with an earnest willingness to get rustic. Ashley and my initial attempt at pitching our tent unfolded like a live-action Amelia Bedelia story until Jackie revealed her hidden talent for the art.

After setting up camp, we headed over to the dock and hauled a generously stocked cooler onto two rented fishing boats.

I soon realized my error in bringing all electronic valuables on board. Five minutes in, there was a good two inches of liquid on the bottom of our boat - if not from the lake then from spills of various beverages knocking around.

So yes, we boated. We drank. We did both simultaneously. We explored hidden coves and hydrated responsibly (with the helpful mantra "7 sips to success.") We assured ourselves that one day spent playing drinking games in an aluminum dinghy does not mean a slippery slope to Spring Break-ing in an inner tube in Havasu.

It was such a fantastic, hilarious afternoon. The lake is less than an hour and a half from LA but it felt worlds away from home.

We joined the other campers for a dinner of hot links over the campfire followed by the requisite s’mores. There was no sink in the campsite bathroom so we made our way through an economy-sized amount of hand sanitizer.

Ashley's ghost stories failed to scare ("...there was a statue in the house of a dwarf clown...that had escaped from the insane asylum....but it was alive THE WHOLE TIME") so we called Jade who was up North visiting Ukiah. He recanted a much spookier story on speakerphone (sorry Ashley) that elicited jinxed cries of "eeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!" from the three of us.
Not long after we turned our flashlights off for bed did I notice our tent was on a slight downhill slope. The clue was Ashley's body rolling into me hourly despite my repositioning of her back to her starting place. Maybe she just wanted to cuddle.

In the morning we uncovered evidence of a stealthy raccoon that had gotten into Jackie’s “changing tent.” Yes, a separate tent for changing clothes. You can take the girl out of Los Angeles...but she is still going to need a boudoir.

We packed up our borrowed camping supplies, to be returned not quite as neatly folded and furled as they were given. By 9AM we were on the road heading back to city living, hands still sticky with the remains of authentically rustic marshmallows.

Napa Part I

2011-07-19T14:52:00.000-07:00

Jade and I embarked on our first couples-trip with couple-friends Ben and Paisley over the 4th of July weekend. The four of us were very vocal about how this step legitimized us from mere double-daters to a new rank of traveling friendship alongside the Ricardos and Mertzs. After a quick flight to Oakland we climbed in our holiday-appropriate rental car, a red Jeep Patriot, and drove onward to the Napa Valley.

This was our third return to the Avia and I was excited that Ben and Paisley were similarly dazzled by the hotel’s cozy appeal.

After settling in we walked over to the Oxbow Market to fuel with a remarkably great meal of tacos and nachos from C Casa. One of us would puncture the silence between bites with emphatic declarations of "Napa! We're actually here! Crazy!"

The daytime temperature averaged on ninety-degrees so we took precautionary measures and cooled ourselves with organic ice cream from Three Twins. We enjoyed our normally priced ice cream scoops (cardamom, lemon cookie) but opted out out of the $85,000 sundae.

By then it was time to ready for our next meal - a reoccurring theme of all our vacations. Our first dinner was at Press, a steakhouse in St. Helena. The interior is somewhere between farmhouse and greeenhouse and heavy with the scent of cherrywood smoke.

Our waiter introduced himself with a delicious basket of carbs and soon became the 5th member to our party of four. He had an intoxicating casualness to him; the kind of man who would clasp his hands on his stomach and look up as he described the steaks (“We give you a knife...but you won’t need it. We offer sauces...but you won’t need them.”) I realized I would vote for him for office as he listed the specials hand-picked from the garden.
Three of us started with a heavily-dressed chopped salad but Ben held out for his 10 oz strip steak, which was eventually served on the scarier side of rare. Jade's casserole of truffle mac and cheese was so superb that I plundered forkfuls of it between bites of a perfect petite filet.

Paisley and I learned "homemade ice cream" was a poor dessert choice by the scoops of frost containing some unidentified fruit so we helped Ben and Jade with a chocolate soufflé for two (for four) and a trad cheesecake.

After dinner we chatted on the hotel terrace before retreating to the Deadliest Catch marathon awaiting in our respective rooms.

Napa Part II

2011-07-19T14:42:00.000-07:00

On Monday the 4th we drove North to a region unexplored: Calistoga. The main street, Lincoln Avenue, is distinctly different from other wine towns by sticking to the forty-niner charm of its founding era. With the Western facades (many of them spas advertising mud treatments from the nearby hot springs), Calistoga is a preserved snapshot of yesteryear. Or for those that work in film and have surrendered all imagination…like a Universal Studios back lot.

We quickly realized our knack for conquering the small towns of the Napa Valley in twenty minutes or less and continued onward to St. Helena. Most of the shops on Main Street – antique shops, housewares, bakeries - were closed for the holiday so our tour of Downtown was clocked at record time.

Alas to the South was the sugary beckoning of Yountville. Jade and I had found our match in Ben and Paisley, the four of us a quad of sweet-toothed moths being called to the flame of Bouchon Bakery.

After much deliberation we ordered a sampling of macarons (and a cheddar bacon scone for me just to tip the scale back to savory.) Despite inferiority to Laduree, they were finished by night's end.

Our Augustus Gloop Troop then held an impromptu photo shoot in a nearby gazebo (I would like to extend my formal thanks to Paisley for the priceless .gif material!)

Aimlessly, we wandered around Michael Chiarello’s Napa Style before finding more temptation around the corner at Kollar Chocolates, opened just a week before. Many of the weekend’s comedy revolved around my admission of once having owned a rock tumbler, so the delicious airbrushed candies were doubly impressive.

Truly aimless, we found ourselves driving around the deceptively huge Veterans Hall campus in Yountville. From the car window, we took in various Norman Rockwell scenes at the swimming pool and baseball field before accidentally driving through a soiree for senior citizens. Then we tailed it back over to the Silverado Trail, the backroad of lavish vineyards and estates, and stopped for a photo session roadside.

…where thankfully we captured the cover art for the decade-late nu metal duo Dope Roses.

…and relied on the “set timer and run” method to capture our groups devotion to the beloved Patriot.

We had a lovely nap in the park in Yountville to waste some time before our early reservation at Ad Hoc.

Ad Hoc is Thomas Keller’s casual family-style restaurant where the chefs create a prix fixe, four-course menu that changes daily based on the ingredients available. Because of its location on Michelin Star Row, these guiding ingredients (including those shared with the French Laundry garden) are pretty stellar. We sat down to bread from the Bouchon Bakery and a balanced chopped salad with haas avocado, red cabbage, shaved carrots, shredded chicken, and garden cherry tomatoes with catalina dressing. Additionally, I partook in the menu's wine pairings (when in Rome...) and enjoyed the salad with a glass of refreshing rosé.

Jade was relegated to the menu's meatless components but was happy to even partake a limited version of another Thomas Keller meal. The night's entrée was a daunting platter of Carolina Style Barbecue. With elbows up and out, three of us got busy on a half-rack of smoked pork ribs and pulled pork sandwiches accompanied by sides of long grain rice and braised collard greens with burnt brisket ends and a shell bean, corn and stone fruit relish. It was a thoroughly satisfying rendition of messy, down-home barbecue cooked slowly with lots of time and panache (and a lovely glass of Zinfandel.) Jade's napkin was the only one to survive this course.

The cheese course was Cowgirl Creamery’s Wagon Wheel melted onto toasted brioche with cepe salami made from a pig that Ad Hoc “shared” with the French Laundry chefs. The course (brought with a tangier white wine) was elevated stoner food...a dish I would praise had I made it myself with a toaster oven.

For dessert, we had Red Velvet cupcakes with a citrus vanilla cream cheese frosting and mixed berries. Mine was topped off with a pink sparkling cousin of Moscato.

Over coffee, we talked to our waiter about the favorite experiences of our Thomas Keller curriculum vitae and played a round of "rumor: confirm or deny?" He gave both the heresy of a Keller pop-up in Harrods and an Ad Hoc in L.A. a big red DENY.

When it neared dark we returned to Yountville to join the Napaians (and june bugs and bats) take in the fireworks on the golf course. Entertaining us as an opening act were children running across the golf course armed with endless energy and glowstick accessories. Ben and Paisley were particularly fond of one little Tron in particular that they named Glowy (as in Glowy and Lamar.)

The fireworks display and its several psych-out finales was really impressive. This was confirmed by commentary of nearby viewers, “Hello Gorgeous!” and “Now THIS is fourth of July!” And the gem we overheard on the way back to the car, "I don't know what I'm drinking but it's fun!"

I missed the return trip to Bouchon Bakery Tuesday morning (too busy yelling at the Casey Anthony verdict on TV) but everyone generously let me taste-test their purchases.

In Oakland, we said a bittersweet goodbye to the beloved Patriot and declared our maiden couples voyage through the Napa Valley's bounty of nom a unanimous success!

Las Vegas

2011-06-28T14:05:00.000-07:00

Saturday morning, only two hours behind schedule, Ashley, Jackie, Kellie and I boarded our rental Sonata and hit the road toward Las Vegas. It was a busy weekend for Vegas with hoards of fluorescent adolescents in town for Electric Daisy Carnival taking place in the Northern outskirts of the city. Our 30-hour cameo, however, was a pilgrimage to see the legendary Ms. Britney Spears (more on that later.) Unfortunately documentation of our jaunt is scant with photographic evidence but impeccably well quoted.

After four hours of piercing sing-a-longs through the Mojave, we checked into our generous room at the Bellagio. Our room was the perfect vantage point to watch the famous fountains erupt into elaborate choreographed water shows every half hour.

We spent the rest of the afternoon eating, in the pool, or eating in the pool before readying ourselves for the evening.

This is where my words will have to suffice for visuals as SLR cameras were not allowed at the concert so mine was left behind for the night. Off we went to the MGM Grand Garden Arena, the same venue where we saw the ‘Circus’ tour three years ago. We learned a painful lesson in heels that night and sacrificed style for flat-footed comfort this time around. More outgoing devotees dressed in costumes of iconic Britney moments (Slave-4-U seductress including plushy snake, Hit-Me-Baby schoolgirls – and boys, etc.)
This leads me to my defense. People were surprised when I told them my weekend plans but my musical tastes vary from Nina Simone to Saetia. I’m not too elitist for pop music and Britney Spears happens to put out some of the best. Put on ‘Femme Fatale’ and stand still – I dare you.

But onwards… we arrived in the middle of Nicki Minaj’s set. It’s usually a signal of the high point of a night out when I put on “Ready for you” or “Bottoms up” and attempt her verses so I had high hopes. Musically Nicki touts more authenticity than the headliner (Britney, bless her, puts up no illusions) so her lipsyncing to singing sections was disappointing. Her ‘multiple personalities’ came off awkward and forced but she may just need some practice at channeling her magnetism into her own live show.
After Nicki Minaj's set, a 40-minute countdown clock appeared on the big screens. This was ample time to speculate on the couple in the row in front of us. Him: remaining hair desperately feathered, an ear-plug of tissue paper unraveling out the side of his middle-aged head. Her: spray tanned and extensions akimbo, unresponsive to his arm around her, frantically texting when he silently got up for a drink. Not one word exchanged between them...not even one!

The "femme fatale" concept was threaded with video montages of a man (detective? stalker?) chasing Britney, an identity-switching secret agent vixen on the run. Her ‘persona’ would switch with elaborate set-changes that offered a variety of props to gyrate on - giant electric guitar, pink convertible, motorcycles, etc. Throw in world-class dancers, moving catwalks, lasers, ninjas, cop outfits, swings, a pop star emoting with energy, and you have some amazing entertainment. The finale was remarkable, as Kellie articulated by repeatedly hitting me and showing me her goose bumps. Nicki Minaj joined her onstage and rapped a verse during ‘Til the World Ends’ before Britney sprouted wings and flew up into the air. Watch!

We survived a stampede of thousands of concert goers scrambling for the only available exit leading into the MGM Grand Hotel. From there we took 5 moving sidewalks (where we obviously tried out some Britney choreography) until we were confronted with the wall of doors separating the MGM from its second hotel, The Signature at MGM - only able to be opened from the other side. Like a modern day civil rights leader, Jackie pried her fingers in between the cracks (one leg up for leverage) and freed the dozens of people that had blindly followed us.
Outside was a barrage of club goers and EDC characters waiting for cabs that were not arriving. The only transportation actually available was a blacked-out SUV with an inordinate flat rate. So at the approximate rate of $10 per minute, we were driven less than a mile away to the Encore at the Wynn where we met Jackie’s co-workers/new lifelong friends Rebecca and Hannah. The six of us went to the poolside nightclub Surrender where resident DJs Feed Me and Calvin Harris both played seriously danceable sets... as we danced right into a vacant cabana. Our initiative in claiming it as our own confused enough people that we got away with it.

The six of us later took a second stupidly expensive SUV back to the Bellagio and ordered a sensible, well-balanced meal before retiring.

The next morning we exercised our interpretation of squatters rights and lingered as much as possible before checking out.

Since we were there for such little time, this was the first opportunity I had to walk by anything in the hotel besides the lobby.

Before leaving town we had lunch at Mandalay Bay where Ashley ordered 3 beverages in order to hydrate and dehydrate simultaneously. On our way out, we tried our luck and each played a hand at blackjack. Ashley was the only one to come back up enough to break even, refusing our advice to “walk away! walk away!" She mumbled something to us about it being Vegas and bet it all on one hand. Ashley had twenty, the dealer had twenty-one and off all the chips went in one swoop of the dealer's paw. In sync, we walked away from the table bursting into laughter, confirming my suspicion that our low sleep and high fun levels had left us teetering on delirium.

NYC Part I

2011-06-24T18:22:00.000-07:00

I rejoiced for my unexpectedly swift return to New York when my office told me they were sending me there to take client meetings for a week. The AICP Show is the prom of the commercial advertising industry that initiates a week of networking, parties and wheelings and dealings.
After landing Sunday night, my co-worker/traveling companion, Beau, and I went straight to the East Village to have dinner with some very lovely industry friends of his at Supper. I immediately had one of my why-don’t-I-live-here moments walking to the restaurant and seeing a Lauren Bacall/Humphrey Bogart movie projected onto a brick wall for whomever happened to walk by.

Beau shares my penchant for nice hotels so work put us up in The Standard. I expected a voyeuristic stateroom similar to the one Jade and I had the previous year, where the glass wall that offers a view inside and out can easily be closed off with curtains.

This room, however, featured a secondary and involuntary peep show with the shower. A never-nude’s nightmare. The Standard’s exhibitionist design does not account for the unsexy normalcy of people’s shower routines, like wearing a shower cap or hoisting a lathered leg up to shave.

On Monday Beau and I walked through the West Village to SoHo and mutually lamented not living on Bleecker Street. We stopped at a few offices in SoHo (dangerously close to Topshop) to say hi to client/friend hybrids (frients, if you will) and meet some new ones.

This was the mildest weather we would encounter, but the patent leather loafers and the humidity meant an imminent blister base that I would have to negotiate shoe choices around thereafter. White girl problems...yeah yeah yeah.
Later that evening I realized “in case of fire, use stairs” really means, “in case of fire, you die.” After 20 minutes of waiting for the elevator I took the stairs, which led me to the cellar of the restaurant kitchen. Then back up to be stranded on the exit-less business center on the 3rd floor where I began an kinship with a Dutch man who had also taken the same frustrating adventure. The lift limbo and the paparazzi elbowing each other outside were later explained by Lady Gaga’s arrival following the CFDA awards. She was upstairs at the hotel’s swanky bar, The Boom Boom Room...where she was doing karaoke with Patti Labelle, naturally.
The tardy elevators still have the same Mario Brambilla visuals sound tracked by creepy scuba-tank exhalation music.

I walked to a party at The Norwood. Working in an industry where denim and sandals is the costume de riguer, I thought I should amp up my professionalism by way of silk blouses. The weather did not cooperate with such smart attire and thus I likely became known as the weird, sweaty girl instead.

That evening, I had a dinner with a group of nice ad folks at Pastis followed by drinks at Brass Monkey. I later had my first dessert breakdown in the room and ordered cookies…but you knew that was coming.

On Tuesday Beau and I had lunch with more frients (cliends?) at Twelve Chairs, before trekking onward and collecting more blisters in the name of work. Later that evening, after a David Lynch spotting in the lobby, I took my old friend/ad man Trevor to a dinner of mediocre pasta around the corner at Fig + Olive. After primping and drinks at Soho House with another LA-turned-NYC friend Morgan, I reconvened with Beau and company. Off we went to The Thompson LES, where Black Iris Music hosted an after party at Susur Lee’s Shang. Susur and his luxurious ponytail were regretfully absent. I met a lot of nice people before that witching hour where everyone turns sloppy.
We headed back to The Standard with plans to retire, but first thought we should pop up to see the hotel’s newly opened rooftop bar, Le Bain. The first clue that debauchery was encouraged was the jacuzzi in the corner occupied by several topless females. The rest of the black-tiled bar was filled with more modest outfits involving pasties, impeccably dressed drag queens, pouty models, club kids wearing complicatedly furry outfits and a few people already tuckered out on the banquettes. Competing for the view outside of the Ketamine-induced Euro disco we had walked into was the skyline of a sleeping New Jersey across the Hudson. After dancing with some fabulous characters, my grilled cheese and I watched the sunrise.

By the time I woke up a few hours later, a reposeful sixteen-foot tall mouse was being installed in the front of the hotel. KAWS touring art piece, a “Companion” entitled, ”Passing Through" already passed through Hong Kong and Connecticut, but will stay put in front of the hotel until October.

Here we have Beau and the first photo I had taken of an actual human:

That afternoon I did some work on the third floor patio, where an advertising conference had left behind their brainstorm.

Then I went off to a meeting on Wall St. in the Financial District. My meeting was on the top floor of Dwell 95, a building of furnished apartment rentals designed by the always unsubtle Phillipe Stark.

Rarely does my New York adventuring take me down to the Financial District so I wanted to walk by the World Trade Center site. While Ground Zero looks like any other construction site, there is a very eerie feeling surrounding it. That area of Manhattan seems removed, almost soundproofed.

Across the street is ”Trinity Church", New York’s oldest public building still in use. More facts: George Washington worshipped at the church, which first opened in 1697, and notable historical figures such as Alexander Hamilton are buried in the attached cemetery. The early American cemetery across the street from Ground Zero is an unsettling juxtaposition.

The humidity was stifling and I was getting light-headed just looking at the men wearing suits. Pickings for a cab for slim, so I took the A train into a surreal reality. I thought I was suffering heatstroke but the man across from me really did go through at least $30 worth of scratchers by the time I got off four stops later.

By the time I returned to the hotel, now just a puddle of a person, my newest traveling companion had arrived. Jadigans joined me to celebrate our anniversary on my off-the-clock hours in our usual New York tradition of gluttony.

That night we went to dinner at Locanda Verde, a much-hyped and Robert De Niro-owned Italian restaurant in Tribeca. The crostini and asparagus appetizers were off to a good start but it was disappointment from there on. There is nothing sadder in the world than a plate of bland pasta, except two of them.

Back in Meatpacking, the trendy creatures were bustling as always. Whatever the hour, The Standard feels like an episode of Gossip Girl with the volume cranked all the way up.

The activity never seems to quell: models navigating cobblestone streets in heels, swanky/smarmy frat boys negotiating at velvet ropes or the older out-of-towners staring at the human scenery.

NYC Part 2

2011-06-24T18:19:00.000-07:00

With Thursday came the clincher: cloying humidity and 100 degree heat – even more intense on a concrete island where trash bags bake curbside. After my daily walk to the Chelsea Market to get iced coffee and a fresh pack of band-aids, we evaluated our indoor options for the day.

Clearly, the decision was made for us: Momofuku milk bar for cereal milk soft serve and streusel topping. Followed by a Tree of Life showing in the East Village (my three word review of which is: pretentious but beautiful.)

We exited the theater into the visible fog of heat and stank that would develop into full-fledged thunderstorms as we readied ourselves for dinner.

Dinner! For Jade's anniversary gift, I somehow snagged us a reservation at Per Se, the equally (or arguably more) esteemed sister to Thomas Keller’s foodie mecca French Laundry.
Before we come off as hoity snobs that regularly spend absurd amounts of money digesting Michelin-starred foams, this evening was the second of two once-in-a-lifetime dining experiences. Our night at Per Se was the bi-coastal bookend to my French Laundry gift…both to celebrate very special occasions with meals that couldn’t be more appreciated by any other person.

After walking the circumference of Columbus Circle in our finest during a thunderstorm, we realized Per Se is actually located on the top floor of a shopping mall. That was forgotten when we were seated with a view overlooking Central Park and my purse was given a footstool, of course.
The waiter handed me, the imbiber of our duo, a leather-bound folder containing the wine list…on an iPad. The bartender created a few non-alcoholic pairings throughout the meal for Jade, starting with a chilled almond/jasmine tea, onwards to a fizzy cucumber number, then a red and Chai-laden something and ended with a sparkling apple cider to toast my champagne with.

Jade had the vegetarian tasting menu and I (the wine-swigging carnivore) partook in the chef’s tasting menu. Both 9-course tasting menus change daily but I will just chime in on my own experience so that potential readers won't fall asleep on their keyboards.

The staff knows a meal at Per Se merits a special occasion and our and the service was impeccable and warm, starting with the waiter congratulating us on our anniversary. There was also copies of the menus waiting for us with the hostess upon exiting (making recollection and mention of the dishes below possible) – that had been personalized!

Our meal began with the amuses: gruyere gougeres – or in English, fancy cheese puffs, and a salmon cornet with crème fraiche constructed to look like an ice cream cone.

First, I had Thomas Keller's trademark starter that I had at French Laundry. It is amazingly decedent. A briny, creamy dish that reminded me how good caviar is and how creepy the texture of an oyster is.

The salad was gorgeously arranged, if not time consuming to combine every component in order to create the perfect bite. A meeting with the bread basket-holder followed, where I opted for the soft pretzel. It was exactly as advertised and presented with two butter options (one from France, one from Vermont, no Land O Lakes.)

The fish was beautifully caramelized, surrounded by the beans you put in a plastic baggies in elementary school to grow a beanstalk. That is definitely the most lowbrow description anyone could ever construct of such a beautiful, complex dish.

When I think of this meal I think of this plate and it is a dish I will likely remember my entire life. The textures and flavors played off each other amazingly: salty nettle inside a fluffy perogi and a savory, earthy jus with thick truffle shavings underneath a fist-sized lobster.

The duck at French Laundry was the first I had ever had and since then it has become my go-to protein for fine dining. This Asian preparation was slightly less remarkable, but only when compared to the comforting Christmas-like flavor of the predecessor that spurred my lifetime conversion.

Veal has always made me uneasy but wrapping it in bacon might have changed my mind. I wonder how many vegetarian readers have moved on to another blog by now.

This tart was my least favorite dish. It was a conflicted, confused guy that leads me to believe there might not be a market for savory cheesecake with gingerbread-like crust.

Ginger sherbet is not subtle. This palette cleanser was a tangy mouth-punch that cleared my sinuses and woke me up for dessert - in the most pleasant way possible.

A light, delicate strawberry dessert.

Thomas Keller knows his meals are a fireworks display and dessert is the grand finale. The menu ends there with a modest mention of “mignardises,” but the sugar parade rolled on with...
“Coffee and Donuts” of cappuccino semifreddo and sugared donut holes.
Popcorn Sorbet bonbon covered in white chocolate.
Hazelnuts dusted in cocoa powder.
Then arrived a three-tier display resembling a jewelry box that contained...
Hand-pulled sugar candies.
Butterscotch caramels.
Three flavors of macarons.
Chocolate, peanut butter and coconut truffles.
And shortbread cookie sandwiches with chocolate ganache wrapped up for us to take home.

Never have I seen the defeat in Jade’s eyes when he could not continue. This influx of sugar must be engineered to sufficiently disorient the diner just as the bill arrives. My overindulgence caught up to me in the cab ride back when the desserts turned my brainwaves to static and all I could do was giggle. The “twinkie defense” seemed slightly plausible after I lost the ability to construct full sentences.

On Friday a very disheveled version of myself met up with Ashley, a former co-worker/current client/producer that moved to the NY outpost of my old office last year. It was so lovely to catch up with her over a lunch of Prosecco and sandwiches on the patio at 5 Ninth. Afterwards I walked along the the High Line to check out the second addition that had opened up three days before. Leading the way was a man with a light saber.

This building can’t be selling views.

I soon realized my poor decision making in pursuing any activity on another disgustingly muggy high-ninety day. Eventually I made it to the end of the High Line on 30th street where the Friends With You installation was taking place.

I trudged back to the hotel, too embarrassed to take a cab less than a mile. My shower average was a solid 3 per day throughout the trip.

Because we’re lucky enough to frequent New York so often, it was time to explore a borough besides Manhattan so we headed over to Brooklyn for dinner. We got off the train at Marcy Ave and began an aimless walk underneath the Williamsburg bridge. Jade dubbed it "Canal Street Extended" by the loud clanking noises and people hauling suitcases hawking "Rolex, Prada, Rolex."

We opted for dinner at Dressler where I took yet another patented across-the-table shot so that one day I can publish a coffee table book solely of Jade, hands-clasped, awaiting the bread basket.

After a tasty but not mind-blowing meal we walked down Bedford Ave, the main artery of Williamsburg. The neighborhood and the avenue specifically have become something of a synonym to ‘hipster’ (a headline I'd glanced during the week alluded to a war between the older and newer demographic with "Williamsburg: Hassids vs. Hipsters.") The area is pretty similar to any street in lower Manhattan: lots of bars, restaurants, and food trucks along a row of brownstones. And antique shops closed for the night taunting me.

We took a cab back to the city and stopped in NoLita to have a drink at a new speakeasy (no signage, just a doorman with a ticker) called the Mulberry Project. There was little direction once we walked downstairs so Jade first opened the door to the boiler room. The room was crowded, or maybe just appeared crowded under the low ceilings, with thirtysomethings mingling to the sounds of the DJ. I had a bespoke cocktail (champagne, strawberries) in an old-fashioned champagne glass.

After ten minutes (it was a very small old-fashioned champagne glass) we walked over to the LES on fragile feet to meet our friend Sean Risley at Max Fish. Max Fish is pretty much the set of Black Flag's TV Party video where everybody is partying with a Pabst Blue Ribbon in hand. Sean's friend summed it up well, "It's sort of famous, but nothing ever really happens here,” except for Jade giving me a track-by-track explication of the Geto Boys record in the jukebox.

We all walked to another dive down the street where Sean and his friend filled us in on New York’s new European-sounding “zip cars.”
On the way back to the hotel our cabbie entertained us with tales of Meatpacking’s slow change to shed its roots when the area's first boutique hotel had a problem with rats scurrying in and out the lobby. We headed home again the next morning, Compost Cookies in tow, bringing an end to a successful but exhausting mix of business and pleasure.
And some pain, too.

Coachella

2011-04-18T13:32:00.000-07:00

I’ve resisted posting about Palm Desert because it is generally where I go to be very boring. My grandparents, like so many golf-enthusiast grandparents of Southern California, have a home there so the desert is an easy two-hour drive to escape and bake in a strange city built upon dirt. Yet all of Los Angeles (and many beyond) migrate South for one weekend a year during the Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival, regardless of the temperature or line-up.
My first Coachella experience was in 2004 and 2004-era me was in heaven (the Pixies, Radiohead and the Cure. Even 2011-era me is jealous.) Coachella veterans harbor that silly snobbiness of fans that only admit to liking a band's first record and feel entitled to vocalize the change to paparazzi-laden polo grounds, or "where rich people go to dress like hippies."

The weekend was marred by two tragedies - another reason I’ll only shed light on the best moments. At the last minute, I stayed at Ashley's family home with Jackie and Kellie (their pretty mugs should be familiar by now) and our friend Sima. Combined with my short attention span for live music and 3/5 of our party being ticketless, we embraced Coachella as more of a social calendar to celebrate Jackie's birthday. We arrived armed with an Excel grid of the day's parties courtesy of Jackie's intern.

You know that Death Cab song "Champagne in a Paper Cup"? This is my rendition, "Champagne in a 99-Cent Store Thermos." Such classlessness was punished with the tie-dyed effect of dribbled Cooke's.

It always surprises me how much time is spent driving in a hot car between desert cities. Palm Springs and Palm Desert sound nearby but is a forty-five minute drive between one sleepy, gay-friendly town to the other sleepier, golf-friendly town.
On Friday afternoon we visited friends camping at Vestal Village, a sponsored make-shift RV park near the polo grounds in La Quinta. All of the festival parties have free booze - another reason for L.A.'s mass exodus.

After tromping burrs into Sima's car, we stopped at the ongoing three-day Filter party. The venue, a bungalow oasis with a huge pond, has not changed since I was a social teenager with a fake ID. Jackie voiced concern about it being a pirate theme, but we realized the only other party-goers there at daylight were just really hip dressers.

It was a touch-and-go whether we would actually wake up after birthday cake and naps.

Ever the troopers, we roused ourselves for a Blackberry event called House of Hype at the Merv Griffin estate. The scene encompassed what I fear outsiders take all of L.A. to be, where those not on the strict guest list are subject to a doorman assessing their looks. The worthy are granted entrance to a row of cabanas with bottle service (and one inflatable mattress - the set for a sloppy photo shoot one girl is going to regret.) I am naturally averse to these productions but for people-watching there is no better.
Word of mouth led us to Jackalope Ranch, where Kings of Leon threw an after-party presented by All Saints. Our napping had gotten the evening off to a late start so we arrived as the caterers were clearing away the taquitos at last call. We did make it out in time for the gift bags containing a straw fedora, a scarf and a bag of travel-sized beauty products complete with an empty ziploc bag.

On Saturday we returned to Vestal Village, where the entire party was transfixed by two girls aware of the power their small bikinis (barely) held as they shared a raft in compromising positions. After mixed reviews (scowling girls, jeering boys) the pair tried new methods of attention-seeking (hula hooping in bikinis with one leg over the head, naturally.)
Kellie mentioned feeling light headed when we were sitting poolside, so I was unwrapping a granola bar when her lanky body slumped over her knees. It took thirty seconds of me slapping her face (while Jackie dunked her tshirt in the pool and put it on her head) until she came to. Scared by our friend's ephemeral passing, we took a break from the heat in the camper and made grilled cheeses.

That evening Ashley and I went to the festival during Bright Eyes' set. We wandered around the rearranged grounds and spent a good amount of time confused by an electronic cabaret act in one of the dance tents.

We continued our non-commital wandering watching bits of The Kills, Mumford + Sons and Empire of the Sun and perusing the huge LED art installations.

Surprisingly, we spent a lot of time in the Sahara dance tent. It was refreshing to watch Paul Van Dyk's set where people just wanted to dance and have a good time.

Saturday's headliner was Arcade Fire - a band I never appreciated until their last release The Suburbs. They sounded fantastic live but Arcade Fire's songs veer toward the melancholy (read: bummer) to close a huge festival.

Exiting the parking lot at Coachella is humbling. Our car rolled 20 feet in a full 2 hours before one little cone was moved and the line was redirected through another exit. After sleep and splish-splashing on Sunday, 3/5 of our troop headed back home to await the return of a communally hungover, sunburned Los Angeles.

Paris Index

2011-04-14T13:55:00.000-07:00

PARIS PART UN: From the West Bank to the Right Bank, opulent operas, the Louvre, the Seine scene.

PARIS PART DEUX: Versailles, bicicletas en jardins, the Eiffel Tower.

PARIS PART TROIS: Circular shopping, circular waistline, St. Germain.

PARIS PART QUATRE: Father/daughter bonding amongst the dead, Velibs, Musee d'Orsay, steak frites.

PARIS PART CINQ: Crepe confusion, river cruise, Montmartre, more goth adventuring.

PARIS PART UN

2011-04-14T13:00:00.000-07:00

We arrived at Charles DeGaulle from Israel at midnight, split our concomitant luggage into two cabs, and headed to our Parisian apartment.
Paris was built before people realized how excellent the grid layout is. Instead of a navigable plaid of avenues and streets, Paris is divided into 20 numbered districts, or arrondissements laid out in a spiral formation. The river Seine divides the Paris snail into the Right Bank to the northern half and the Left Bank, or Rive Gauche, to the South.
My sister spearheaded the travel arrangements and found us a weekly apartment rental in the Madeline neighborhood. Our abode was a 1400 square foot Ikea catalog tucked away on one of the quieter streets in the 9th arrondissement. Michelle and I had our own bedrooms - and we still cut on outrageous European hotel rates. Of course it had its quirks: the shower and the toilet a hallway apart and an old tyme elevator that could only contain a combination of any two Festa’s at one time.

I don’t know what weather report I read while packing but I quickly realized a blazer would not suffice in Paris. I made a stop on Boulevard Haussman before any sightseeing on Monday morning to buy a coat and fulfill my habit of traveling far to purchase the clothing sold at the same retailers back home. Weather-ready, my family headed to our first site: the Palais Garnier, Paris’s premiere opera house since the late 1800’s.

The opera house was covered in the classical Baroque opulence I have always associated with Paris: bronze columns, crystal chandeliers, red velvet and marble floors.

This was the very opera house that influenced the penning of The Phantom of the Opera when Gaston Leroux was morbidly inspired by the death of one person by falling chandelier. On the topic of unpleasant lighting, the ceiling surrounding the theater’s grand chandelier was re-painted in 1964 by Marc Chagall. The result is a disjointed and very dated children’s book illustration.

There are about ten variations of this picture in my parent’s house. It is my mom’s go-to staged “candid.”

I came to know the croissants from this patisserie very well.

Our apartment was central enough to walk to the most obvious of tourist destinations in the 8th and 1st arrondissements. We first walked past the Concorde, a roundabout with an obelisk at its center and a monumental view of Paris around it. Our walk bordered the well-manicured Jardin des Tuilieries as we crossed a bridge over the Seine.

Paris’ reputation as a romantic destination is celebrated publicly and unsubtly: couples kissing on park benches, just-married photo shoots, inscribed locks chained onto bridges. This leads me to a Carrie Bradshaw hypothetical -- does Paris itself evoke the romance or has it just become the destination to celebrate it? Can a tourism bureau really be that good?

We soon crossed the bridge back to the Right Bank after learning that our destination, the Musee d’Orsay, is closed Mondays.

However, there is no shortage of culture in Paris. Just over the river is the Louvre, where we fueled with a lunch at the museum’s Café Marly.

There are the “big three” most famous works that generate the most foot traffic in the Louvre. On our way to the first, we passed interpretations of Jesus’ life – scenes from the cities and sites we had toured days before in Israel. Equally impressive to the realism was the sheer size of the canvases.

There she was: a smirking Mona Lisa obscured by glass, a velvet rope and dozens of visitors wearing headsets. Every visitor musing on the work seemed to speak a different language but giving a thumbs-up in front of the masterpiece was a universally popular photo op.

The next must-see is the marble sculpture of Nike, the Winged Victory. The sculpture is instantly recognizable but there was no visible information about it in plain sight so I was surprised to later learn that it dates back to the BC era.

Completing “the big three” is the Venus di Milo, another ancient Greek sculpture with mysteriously missing limbs.

We briefly perused the Ancient Egypt hall (and the Cour Puget - obviously the hardest partying museum wing) before emerging from the Louvre’s own glass pyramid.

The weather had taken a nice turn, so we considered the Batobus – a hop-on/hop-off water taxi that stops at the city’s landmarks on the Seine. Our plan was to stroll until a boat had caught up with us but we had already made it to the Champs Elysees before that happened. It gave us the opportunity to watch carefree French dogs frolicking into the river, but after our own dogs (feet) were barking (hurting.) Dismiss the parenthesis as needed.

Dick Tracy passed us before we spent €40 at the Haagen Daaz parlor on the Champs Elysees. The Euro is not joking.

Too exhausted to venture far, we ate dinner one street over at a small Italian restaurant. This was not a fancy establishment: laminated menus, celebrity photos on the wall, wine for €12 a bottle. It was probably the Round Table Pizza of France, but it was delicious.

PARIS PART DEUX

2011-04-14T12:29:00.000-07:00

Tuesday we took the Metro and connecting train eleven miles out of the city proper to Versailles.

If you think the walk to the Palace of Versailles would be absent of miniature Eiffel tower solicitations and Pharaohs being very still for change, you would be wrong.

Look very closely to see a very tiny Louis XVI role-player on the roof.

The drama of the palace’s architecture and decor is fantastical even 300 years later. The deliberate detail is not just on every painting, but every frame. Every corner is extravagant: Brocade tapestries covering the walls, allegorical ceiling paintings, gilded crown molding. It is almost laughable for a political family to live in such elaborate conditions. If the White House were one-tenth as lavish, I’d endorse a revolt too.

Marie Antoinette’s bedroom motif was shockingly one-note. The dizzying décor had its perks; she escaped out the tiny camouflaged door as the Paris mob stormed the palace.

Louis XIV’s commissioned the Hall of Mirrors, a gallery even more impressive after learning that mirrors were a rare, expensive item to own at the time.

But oh, the crowds. We seemed to march through the palace in an endless line, constantly holding our step for a cell-phone photo or troops of French grade-schoolers on field trips. We paused from looking desperately at the view of the gardens outside briefly for cold brie sandwiches and pastries from the café.

Still, the view from inside the palace does not portray how truly expansive the gardens are.

An article in Travel + Leisure suggested a ride through the Garden of Versailles. Our twenty-minute walk to the bike rental station resembled the English Countryside with the dreary half-shorn sheep, but the meticulous gardening quickly resurfaced as we neared the central lake.

Both in Israel and France, it was hard to shake the natural inclination to use Spanish in a foreign country and we accidentally asked for “quatro bicicletas por una hora.” My ride was a little shaky because I sacrificed safety for a bike with a basket. There was only the metal bar of its skeleton where my pedal should be.

In childhood fashion, my dad’s sorbet scoop popped off the cone and plummeted to the ground after his first lick.

We rode to Hameau de la Reine, Marie Antoinette’s chateau where she could retreat from the ordered atmosphere of Versailles. Her need for space was understandable after experiencing the horde of tourists at the Palace.

The landscaping and fountains truly make Central Park look like a backyard. The gardens have the meticulous maze-like landscaping of The Shining but the enchanting props (rowboats, swans) and feeling of Alice in Wonderland. The gardens are so expansive that we didn’t even ride down the length of the lake before our una hora was up.

Documentation of a hair-flip at the midway and final points:

That evening we found ourselves at the Eiffel Tower at sundown without a queue to enter. The elevator procedure requires tourists to get out at each stop and line up again for the same elevator, so we saw vantage points of the city at three different levels.

Only at the top level was it was raining. Freezing, we only lasted outside for half a minute before returning to the line inside of the enclosed top tier. Still, the brush with drizzle resulted in my “Houdini hair” (it doesn’t disappear, it gets flat and my bangs surrender to a part down the middle.)

We had dinner at an inauthentic bistro nearby that was looping a Cure playlist. Our mediocre steak frites hinted that we shouldn't have picked the restaurant next to the kiosk selling keychains and berets.

PARIS PART TROIS

2011-04-14T12:28:00.000-07:00

On Wednesday I adventured alone. And by adventured, I mean that I walked around in circles eating macarons.

Even my keen sense of direction was helpless against the nonsensical street layouts. Finally, I found Rue Saint-Honoré and honed my aim at Colette: the ‘it’ place for trend-setting, modern luxury. Every person, magazine and guidebook attested that this store is mecca for the fashionable, designer crowd (a cool but hungry crowd – there is a “water bar” downstairs.)

After entering, I was stumped how a place so small had garnered so much hipster credibility. The tiny first floor sold toys and the tiny second floor sold Lanvin – two things an average costumer is not going to spend money on. As I wasn’t in the market for a talking watch, Givenchy or air, I continued on.

I purchased my second inauthentic Parisian coat after being inspired by all the naturally chic French women wearing trenches. Hopefully the look will translate at home to read “French” and not “flasher.”
The next hour was spent shopping for epicurean delights. The macarons from Laduree’s tearoom on Rue Royal were delicious enough for my opinion to waver in the macaroon vs. macaron debate.

I bought my squeeze some gourmet treats from Fauchon and perused the three-digit truffle products at Maison de la Truffe. Let it be known that I would never turn down an invitation to dine at the adjacent restaurant where every dish has truffle involved.

There is no French in my family but cheese, bread and wine are part of my DNA. Every night in Paris, I enjoyed a snack of baguette, brie and a glass of Gamay at 5PM. For a more complete meal that evening, we took the Metro to St. Germain in the Latin Quarter.

We had a delicious meal at a trendy restaurant called Le Pub Saint Germain tucked away in a cobblestone alley. The Latin Quarter reminded me of New York’s Nolita on a summer night: streets loud with people dining on the sidewalk and street markets open late. The Boulevard Saint-Germain mimicked SoHo with designer clothing stores (Sonia Rykiel!) and art galleries.

Being American means my Puritanism is ingrained. At first I was surprised to see condom dispensers in Metro stations and sex shops in upscale neighborhoods (advertising mysterious “zapping”.) Europe's open, unembarrassed attitude means that sex (and zapping) isn't relegated to a specific, hidden neighborhood.

Paris, for me, was an endless parade of carbohydrates. On every block is a world-famous chocolate shop or patisserie advertising “Paris’s best” croissant or pain au chocolat. The pastries in the window display will glare at you until you give in.

PARIS PART QUATRE

2011-04-14T12:25:00.000-07:00

Thursday my dad and I took the Metro to Montparnasse to spook around in the Catacombs of Paris.
History time! By the 17th century, Paris was crowded – with the living and dead. As cemeteries became full, Paris resorted to unsanitary mass graves full of decomposing bodies. To solve the problem, the mass graves were exhumed and the bones were taken underground to be placed in Paris' former stone mines. The quarries were filled with the remains of around six million Parisians that had died in the 18th and 19th centuries.

A very narrow, very spiraled staircase leads visitors underground to the entrance of the ossuary. There hangs a particularly morbid display of photographs.

There are no markers in the tunnel network, forcing visitors to walk alongside these reminders of mortality without a foreseeable end. The bones are piled and arranged carefully to create walls of skulls, fibulas, femurs, etc. Smaller caverns off the main hallway hold the same artfully arranged stacks. The effect is desensitizing and eye-opening – we really do all look the same under our skin.
There is not much light below and the environs challenged my reputation as the steady human tripod.

After almost half a mile of walking, the stone “ceiling” started dripping water. This is what crept me out the most. Death juice.

More bones, this time arranged into a pillar formation:

After an hour of human archeology, we ascended the steep stairs that deposited us at street level, but onto a street we had never seen before. After croque monsieurs and macarons in the mysterious new territory, we rented two Velibs for €1 apiece. The public bikes are available at automated street-side rental stations all over the city and can be returned at any Velib station when the rider is finished. Imagine if public transportation was always this fun and easy (please, Los Angeles!)

We don’t ever have to speak about the photo below. I just wanted to authenticate my Parisian bike-riding style.

After cycling around the university district of St. Germain, we took the metro to re-try admission at the Musee d’Orsay.

The Musee d’Orsay is a railway-station-turned-museum best known for it’s impressionist collection with the likes of Van Gogh, Monet, Renoir and Cezanne. The Orsay is well laid out with huge windows that let in natural light - a welcome and pleasant change after battling museum crowds for nearly two weeks. There is no photography allowed so I don’t have much to show visually other than Monet’s sideways water lilies.

Tired, we returned to our apartment where I enjoyed my requisite baguette and brie. The family later ventured back to St. Germain for dinner, where you could normally throw a stone in any direction and hit a bistro. We must have found the only street in the entire Left Bank that exclusively housed art galleries.

After walking all the way to Rue de Bac, the street that borders the Seine, I devoured a fantastic version of steak frites at La Fregate. The menu informed us the restaurant was built on top of the former house of D’Artagnan, the character that inspired The Three Musketeers.

PARIS PART CINQ

2011-04-14T12:00:00.000-07:00

On our last day in Paris, we fulfilled our tourist quota with a river cruise on the Seine. This was after my €10 cappuccino and nutella crepe. I thought something was lost in translation but no, the crepier would make a nutella crepe or a strawberry crepe - but not a strawberry and nutella crepe.

I had to escape the chilly, windy elements on our river boat and enjoy the view of the city from below deck.

Afterward the cruise, our family dispersed but one member was not far behind me. My sister tapped me on the shoulder after I exited the Metro alone at Montmarte. She had gotten on the Metro at a different station and sat in a different train car, but we were still in sync.

Montmartre was the farthest north that I had stretched out in Paris. The city is on a hill in the 18th arrondissement and best known for the Basilica of the Sacre Couer. We climbed the steps and enjoyed the church's exterior as I had grown a little tired of "churching."

Behind the church was a parade of schoolchildren walking up the steps in various costumes. I didn’t want to be a creepy unaffiliated adult lingering and taking photos of children, but I hope one day to have a child as cool as the one below.

Montmartre has the same aged charm of Quebec City as long as I stayed far uphill. To the Southwest is Pigalle, the red-light district made famous by the Moulin Rouge cabaret. The street is it on, Boulevard de Clichy, has the same seedy, touristy quality of Hollywood Blvd.

Continuing my death-on-vacation motif, I wandered around the Cimetière de Montmartre. I enjoyed looking at the mossy, rusted headstones in the quiet before microscopic insects drove me back into the city.

I headed back to the apartment after exploring the hilltop (and les caves de vintage clothes.)

That evening, I had another steak frites victory at a nearby brasserie. Come Saturday morning, we began our journey home via Charles de Gaulle, where they must employ all those that account for that ‘rude French’ stereotype (Laduree, specifically.) I ate my way through the cakes, baguette, croissants and sandwiches onboard our Air France flight (because really, why stop now?) Finally, we arrived in LA for the first time in two weeks, where I said au revoir to one family as my other one pulled up to greet me.

Israel Preface/Index

2011-04-06T15:00:00.000-07:00

After falling in love with Israel in 2008, my family was ecstatic to return for the Bar Mitzvah of my cousin Michael (pronounced ‘Mikhail,’ not Jackson.) My dad couldn’t make the previous trip so we were excited to finally show him the beautiful country we had been yammering about for two and a half years straight.
As predicted, my dad’s answer to, “So how are you finding Israel?” evolved slightly everyday. It is a small country layered with contrasts - different religions, cultures, geography, even people's reasons for visiting…and Israeli people are so passionate to show you every particularity. As Michael’s father, my cousin Ron, said: “Whatever you expect it to be, it isn’t.”

I’ve organized my tales of Israel by chapters of sorts, so consider this your table of contents. I recommend reading in order, of course, but if you have your antsy reading pants on, navigate or return back here!

ISRAEL, PART ALEPH א: Lost luggage and emergency bikinis, Purim, Yemenite food, the Jumpy goes to Jerusalem.

ISRAEL, PART BET ב: Saline and sulfur at the Dead Sea, riding camels at the gas station.

ISRAEL, PART GIMEL ג:Naming cats in Nazareth and the sea of Galilee.

ISRAEL, PART DALET ד: Michael's Mitzvah, the Western Wall above and below ground, and the incredible party to celebrate.

ISRAEL PART HEI ה: Bike riding to Jaffa, Carmel Market and Shabbat Shalominess.

ISRAEL PART VAV ו: Hebrew only in Herziliya, Port-side pizza and a sad shalom goodbye.

ISRAEL, PART ALEPH א:

2011-04-06T14:32:00.000-07:00

We survived the 17-hour flight to Israel, but our baggage did not. Then in a state of frazzled jetlag, I left my laptop bag in the cab that dropped us off at the Hilton Tel Aviv at 1AM. For the next hour, a certain wearied blonde American sniffled in the hotel lobby while that one particular feature-less cab was somehow being tracked down.

In Israel, Sunday is Monday. The Hebrew week begins on Sunday since Shabbat (Friday sundown to Saturday sundown) is their well-observed day of rest. So Sunday morning, our grungy family made a trip to the Azraeli Mall to buy some necessities at H+M with our compensation from Air France. Jetlag became more disorienting with the realization that it was Purim (the Halloween of Judaism.)

We spent most of the day on the painfully sharp shell-strewn beach in Air France-financed bathing suits waiting for the rest of our party to trickle in. When assembled, our unit was composed of my parents and sister Michelle, my grandparents Chuck and Teri, Aunt Ronna and Uncle Mark.

Bored with beaching, I walked north to the port area of Namal where the modern promenade is lined with restaurants and shops in huge glass-font hangars.

After being overrun by small costumed children, I wandered inland to Ben Yehuda St. where some people (and animals) celebrated Purim more enthusiastically than others.

Still luggage-less and embarrassedly disheveled, we reunited with my Israeli cousins over dinner at a Yemenite restaurant called Maganda. I can’t speak with authority on Yemenite cuisine, as I filled myself only with hummus and pita and what appeared to be taquitos. Thankfully, our suitcases had arrived when we returned to the hotel.

On Monday, the eight of us boarded our rental Citroen Jumpy to begin the catastrophic drive to Jerusalem.
Traffic at Israel rivals L.A. It is eternally the 405 at 6pm if it was condensed into a two-lane highway. Then we learned that Jerusalem celebrates Purim the day after the rest of Israel, further explaining the absolutely gridlocked streets and full parking structures. Combined with the cobblestone streets, manual transmission, a mix of senility and hearing loss in our party, a certain mother that is uncomfortable with any silence whatsoever – and it was as if National Lampoon’s had been re-written as a tragedy.

Finally, we parked and entered the Old City – a place already cramped, tense and chaotic then cubed by the increased traffic and zaniness of Purim. I tried to find little bits of quiet among all the activity.

The Old City is divided into four quarters - Armenian, Catholic, Jewish, and Muslim - and each is a microcosm of faith and business savvy. Entering via Jaffa Gate in the Armenian Quarter, we haggled for hamsa bracelets and woven scarves until the shifts in merchandise led us toward the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

The church is a big pilgrim destination, since it is said to be the site of Jesus’ crucifixion and burial (and as the story goes, also the resurrection.)

Upon entering is the Stone of the Anointing – the slab where Jesus was reportedly laid after being taken down from the cross. This site garners a lot of action from people that love Christ more than they fear germs and kiss the slab dramatically. The theists in my family took part in the less flamboyant tradition of buying a cross or rosary and laying it on the holy spot to give as a gift.

Different religious sects make up cliques in areas of the church: Greek Orthodox, Roman Catholics, Franciscans, etc. The sects vary by worship rituals, whether chanting or the Greek Orthodox square-dance documented below.

For the second time, I skipped out on waiting in line to see Jesus’ tomb because it was an unorganized mosh pit being doused in frankincense.

Upstairs is the Calvary, or Golgotha, where people line up to rub the dugout underneath a lavish altar. This is said to be the spot where Jesus’ cross was raised.

Nearby is a place to light a candle and say a prayer. My tone may have already hinted at my distance from religion, but I did light a candle and send a thought out for a special person.

We continued our walk along the Via Dolorosa through the Muslim quarter.

There I found the saddest pita in all of Jerusalem:

You don't see many cars in the walled Old City and if you do, they are certainly not driving through the alleys. This driver was challenging logical mathematics.

Consider my videography style of the Muslim call to prayer inspired by Cloverfield.

One of my favorite photos I took, and a favorite that my Dad shot with his Nikon. Not dissimilar, really.

Needing a break, we stopped at one of the quietest places in the Old City: an Austrian hospice (yes hospice, not hostel) known for its apple strudel.

One of the many dozens of stray cats wandering around Israel.

We exited the walled city out of Lion’s Gate and walked downhill to the Grotto of Gethsemene. The garden, where Judas betrayed Jesus, is at the base of the Mount of Olives (a Jewish cemetery over 3,000 years old.)

I made sure to point this out to the walking encyclopedia that is my grandfather before entering the church.

By then our feet were suffering from the mileage so we took cabs back uphill to Mount Zion to the Damascus Gate before the sites closed for the day. First stop: a bagel graveyard.

Followed by King David’s tomb and the room where the Last Supper took place. It was very much a room. For some reason I thought there would be a table, maybe with mock place-settings for the apostles.

We made our final trek a few miles back to the Jumpy and made our way to dinner at Darna Darcon nearby.

For my first taste of Moroccan food, I stayed safe with a delicious pastilla fasilla and couscous before a few more hours of red brake-lights on the slow journey back to Tel Aviv.

ISRAEL, PART BET ב:

2011-04-06T14:21:00.000-07:00

On Tuesday, we wrongly chose to listen to the Jumpy’s GPS and went an hour out of the way to the city of Ashdod. Worryingly, we stopped at a gas station where the attendant could not locate where we were on the map that we purchased from her. After passing sand dunes with interspersed Bedouin villages (a goat or camel here and there), we knew we were nearing the Dead Sea. Our ears popping as we descended 1,388 feet below sea level was another indicator.

The Ein Gedi Spa was our Dead Sea venue, where the conditions could use a facelift and probably a visitation from the sanitation committee. The Dead Sea has receded so much since Ein Gedi was initially built on the water that they now provide a tram to take you down to the water.

Jordan borders the Dead Sea on the opposite coast to the East, seen below.

In place of sand, there is crystallized salt deposits at the water's edge, but if you enter the water with flip-flops, they will soon eject off of your feet and float. And then you will too. The extreme saline content means everyone just bobs around like they're in space. Not only are there these zero-gravity minerals in the water (and mud) but the atmosphere there also miraculously filters out harmful UV rays. This unique combination means healing properties galore, especially for skin ailments (yet I can also attest to the pain water with 40% saline can yield after getting it in both eyes simultaneously last time.)

After experiencing the life of a buoy, we applied our mud treatments.

Unfortunately, the next step in the procedure is to rinse off in a sulfur shower, which is exactly as rancid as it sounds. Especially when a speck accidentally entered my mouth and I fought dry heaves until I could find the fresh water (“sweet water”) shower without opening my eyes. We said goodbye to Ein Gedi after finally locating the last of our lost family members and locker keys.

On the way back we stopped at a familiar gas station in the West Bank where Michelle and I spontaneously rode a camel last time. Mounting a camel is not like a getting on a horse. The sensation is more 'falling head first down an elevator shaft' but as long as your feet are in stirrups (of if you’re squeezing your sister to death), you're okay.
I felt awful after I saw the camel's knees torn-up from constantly rising and bowing to have us tourists clomp around on their backs for three minutes a ride.

Later that night back in Tel Aviv, I wanted to retreat here after a particularly catastrophic family dinner.

ISRAEL, PART GIMEL ג:

2011-04-06T14:10:00.000-07:00

We hired a tour guide, Avi, to take us North to the Sea of Galilee, an area previously unchartered by our family. We began in Nazareth, currently the largest Arab Palestinian city in the country. Street signs and billboards throughout Israel typically offer the same information in three languages (Hebrew, Arabic and English) so it was new to see Arabic so predominately.

So, Nazareth. As in “Jesus of _______.” But before it was Jesus’ town, it was Mary and Joseph’s. We began with the Church of the Annunciation, a lavish stained-glass tribute to the place where Gabriel allegedly told Mary the big news.

Conveniently nearby is St. Joseph’s church, which we arrived at after crossing through an Arab market offering an array of merchandise ranging from meats to DVDs.

Both Mary and Joseph’s churches were built atop ruins of the village where they lived, so visitors can still see is the preserved stonewall remains below.

Next, we drove to the Church of Cana. The little church was so inconspicuous that a construction worker nicely opened the gate for us, but it is said to be the site where Jesus performed the first miracle. The ol’ water into wine trick.

With grumbling stomachs, Avi took us to Tiberias, a place of resort-town potential on the sea of Galilee. As sailors, my family was stumped by the absence of surefire moneymaking in the water-sports business there.

Again, the ASPCA needs better PR in Israel. Spay and neuter these little things!

We had near lunch off the coast where the crew at Abu Shareef had a spread of Mediterranean salads and kebabs waiting for us.

Lastly, we stopped at Jesus’ town: Capernaum. The parking lot was full of Christian tour buses because it Capernaum is the site of St. Peter's house and the synagogue where Jesus first taught. The Byzantines jumped into the history lesson by building a synagogue atop the ruins centuries after.

ISRAEL, PART DALET ד:

2011-04-06T14:05:00.000-07:00

Thursday was a magical day (I deleted the four hours of traffic and rain from my reflection.) We boarded our Jerusalem-bound bus early and it soon filled with our Israeli family and friends we had made from our previous trip.

Entering Jerusalem felt different this time. The day earlier when we were in Nazareth a terrorist bombing had occurred in Jerusalem - the first in seven years. A bomb left in a bag at a bus stop had killed one woman and injured 39 people. On Thursday, tension and security were raised in equal measure.

The area of prayer that we know as the Western Wall, or the Kotel, is just a snippet of the entire wall that extends underground. Ron’s father worked on the excavation projects to reveal the ancient sections underneath, known as the Western Wall Tunnels.

It would be incredible for most people to enter a room that dating back to the first century. Attending Michael’s Bar Mitzvah – the ceremony when a boy becomes a man in Jewish law - beneath the most sacred site for the Jewish people was truly powerful.

The room was halved into segregated praying areas by a screen, so my sex excluded me from seeing certain parts of the ceremony. The ladies (with heads, knees and shoulders covered in respect) paid some sort of retribution with the curious tradition of passing around candy and throwing it over the divider at the bar mitzvah boy after each blessing.

The most beautiful part of the service occurred before we had even pelted Michael with the first taffy. Michael’s older brother Jonathan is currently serving in the IDF – and of course, the family requested special leave so he could attend the Bar Mitzvah festivities. Still, nobody was positive that he would be there.
Just after the first song, Jonathan walked down the steps into the tunnel wearing his uniform and gun at his side. A time-out was immediately called in the ceremony and the whole family rushed him with hugs and kisses. Without getting too soppy - the moment was intense. Really, it was a privilege to be in those tunnels, submerged in literal history and the Jewish history connected to it. IDF soldiers get sworn in at the Wall and in turn, serve and protect it, really. Being enclosed beneath the city that had been attacked just one day earlier made it all the more meaningful.

I’ve attended somewhere around 25 Bar and Bat Mitzvahs (I went to Catholic school where 40% of the students were actually Jewish so it was my 7th grade social circuit) but I had never seen the ritual of 'laying Tefellin.' The Tefellin is made of two black boxes containing parchment scrolls that are connected by straps. One strap is affixed to the head and the other tied around the arm and wearing it is the first rite of passage for a Bar Mitzvah. It was absolutely fascinating.

The rest of the ceremony involved Michael's reading of the Torah, spontaneously breaking into the horah and more candy-throwing.

As a surprise following the ceremony, Michael put on a Janet Jackson headset and gave us a guided tour of an art installation that had been commissioned in the tunnels. The artist interpreted the struggles throughout Jewish history with layers of glass tablets.

We resurfaced for a moment on our way to lunch at Between the Arches.

During lunch, Ron showed us his Western Wall iPhone app. Anyone can deliver a prayer via e-mail and a designated person stationed at the wall places it in the wall.

Before leaving Jerusalem, we put our own notes in the wall – manually. Again, the praying areas there are segregated, but my respect for Judaism in Israel blurs my usual feminist lens just enough so that I actually let something so archaic slide.

Interestingly, when passing through Israel, the Arab and Jewish households are distinguishable by rooftop water tanks (black tanks on Arab homes, white tanks on Jewish homes.) Amazingly, over 90% of households in Israel (whatever their beliefs) use solar heaters.

After traffic back to Tel Aviv, we had little time to prepare for the big party. The celebration of Michael's big day was held in the oldest port city in the world, Jaffa, at a gorgeous venue called Caliph.

Cocktails and hors’ dourves were served downstairs. A band played, champagne was poured and my family caught up with Lior, our incredible tour guide from our last trip. The party migrated into a tented area where the requisite Hava Nagila and the Horah took place. At hometown bar mitzvahs, there were always party crews in midriff tops to get the crowd dancing so I appreciated the more authentic troop of men with curled sidelocks and shofars.

We were then invited to continue the party upstairs, where the attention to detail of the nightclub scene - from the mod décor to the never-empty champagne flutes - was unreal. For the adults: dozens of food options, vodka stations, the guitar player from Infected Mushroom soloing. For the kids: Israeli television stars, airbrushed names on t-shirts, X-box and PS3 stations.

(How cute is my grandma?!?)

After such a long day, the man of the hour was getting a little tired.

We emptied the place out, so I got to take a few photos of the venue downstairs sans people. Gorgeous!

I’m confident I would feel the same about Israel without attending over-the-top events like this. The events of the day were particularly impressive, but it is obvious how celebratory Israelis are as a people. Orly gave a beautiful toast the following evening, mentioning that both Ron and she are the children of holocaust survivors and live in a country at war that their own son serves in. Because they are constantly reminded of how precious life is, they’ve made it a point to celebrate the good times as much as they can. The toast was more eloquent than my summary and effectively put my default pessimism in check.

ISRAEL PART HEI ה:

2011-04-06T14:01:00.000-07:00

On Friday, my dad, Michelle and I rented bikes near the hotel and rode to Jaffa. Since the city is situated on a hill (with cobblestones at that) we mostly just rode around the perimeter.

After running into my mom who had taken a cab to Jaffa, we rode onward to the Carmel Market. The market on a Friday afternoon is bustling with people preparing for Shabbat, when the entire city will virtually shut down at sundown. So the market on Friday at 2PM is the storm before the calm - a lot of hawking, heckling, and haggling.

The bike shop closed first, so we returned our five-speeds and off I went to make good use of the available daylight hours at the Topshop I had sniffed out at Dizengoff Center. On the walk back to the hotel via Dizengoff Street, I walked into the last call at a flea market. All the vendors took my tourista look (camera around the neck, lens cap missing since the party) as an invitation to try and up-sell me the antique jewelry.

That night we went to a beautiful Shabbat dinner at Ron and Orly’s home. They really do know how to entertain.

We took the opportunity to FaceTime our loved ones back at home – dogs not excluded.

ISRAEL PART VAV ו:

2011-04-06T14:00:00.000-07:00

On Shabbat, we went to the synagogue ceremony at the Dan Accadia Hotel in nearby Herzliya, the Silicone Valley of Israel.

The ceremony was two hours long without a word of English but I understood when I was supposed to throw my candy at Michael. After synagogue, we had a lovely ocean-view lunch before saying our sad goodbyes to everyone. I was also sad to say goodbye to the dessert table.

For our last dinner we walked to Namal, where the Wi-Fi registrants have a lewd sense of humor.

There, we had one of our best meals of the trip that night at Boya (I hadn’t realized how much I missed pizza.) Walking back to the hotel, I realized I would probably feel safer walking on that boardwalk alone at 4AM than I would in daylight on any given corner in L.A.

After falling asleep to the Disney Channel’s closed captioning for the last time, my family departed Israel on Sunday afternoon.

We switched our Shalom's to Bonjour's for Phase II of our international excursion: Paris, France.

NYC

2011-03-12T16:40:00.000-08:00

At the news of Davey joining the cast of American Idiot on Broadway, we planned a quick weekend jaunt to our favorite city to see it with our very own eyes. The 7AM takeoff on Friday was brutal but it’s the only way to avoid wasting an entire travel day when heading east.

This hotel nerd was ecstatic to be staying at the newest addition to the Morgans Hotel Group: the Soho Mondrian, which had officially opened just four days before we arrived. There was comfort in the guarantee that it was one hotel that couldn’t have yet been infested by bed bugs.

The equally persuasive selling point was the hotel’s perfect location on Crosby between Harold and Grand. The main gate off of Crosby St. was still under construction but there will be a garden adjacent come springtime.

Off of the lobby is Imperial No. 9, a seafood restaurant helmed by Top Chef Sam Talbot, as well as an off-shoot bar/lounge area that we frequented twice.

The reservation desk is on the second floor, where there is an additional outdoor seating area that would be a lovely spot to sip a mint julep in the summer.

The comically small guest room didn’t make me any less optimistic at first. I know New York is crunched for space, but the fire escape map on the back of the door revealed that we didn’t even have the smallest room on the floor, which must be reserved for very skinny people that travel alone.

Straight away, I was taken by the hotel's décor. It seems obvious to call the styling “whimsical” but it was chock-full of fairy-tale, jewelry box whimsy. For the Mondrian Soho’s surplus of charm, it lacked something guests value in even greater regard: service. We excused the first few problems as hiccups, understanding that a newborn hotel would still have kinks to iron out. Still, after the fifth automaton reply of “I’m sorry, Sir/Ma’am, we’ll get right on it,” we just had to chuckle.
Foul one: Our mini bar was empty (not that we ever use it, but we'd like the option!) There was also no hotel literature in the room because they had replaced the ancient scrolls of room service and concierge information with a Mondrian Soho iPad. That did not turn on. The hotel engineer promised to bestow Room 411 with technology and rainbows up until day three.

Our reservation for our “casual neighborhood night” was challenged by the following confluence of events: Friday night, 7pm, Broadway Ave, zero cabs. Frigid and wind-chapped, we finally arrived at Zampa, a candlelit, intimate winebar/restaurant in the West VIllage. After devouring an order of burrata and delicious bruschetta, we happily shared the best lasagna we have both ever eaten. This casserole was a dream of homemade pasta, béchemal sauce, porcini mushrooms, parmaggiano and toasted bread crumbs.

Back at the hotel lounge, we shared a decadent chocolate caramel tart topped with sea salt on a bed of earl grey cream. Caramel and sea salt...a sweet flavor pairing rarely outshined.

At 5AM, some sustained beeping invaded our dreams. The hotel phone was notifying us of a low battery yet said low battery had depleted the on/off function. Even when unplugged, it continued its beeping death wail. A groggy Jade googled the number of the Mondrian on his phone and suggested that the front desk retrieve the dying phone before he threw it out the window.

The Soho Mondrian still had it’s location going for it (most notably it’s one-and-half-block distance from my first showdown at the Topshop Corral on Saturday morning.)

After getting that out of my system, we were ready for some culture and took the subway uptown to the Met. I tried my best not make the “expressive facial expressions” that people always comment on after I noticed the lady across from us on the train sketching me in her notebook.

Walking along Central Park, I had to get a hot dog a la Karen Festa: a tribute to my mom’s tradition of documenting her love of these popular street dogs. My family probably has enough of these snapshots throughout the years to fill albums (a testament to her and my mutual love of New York, not her age!)

We visited the Met a few years ago, so we took on a brisk-walk/overview approach this time since there is so, so much to see. Still, the two collections I had crossed my fingers for were disappointing. The photography collection of every museum is always a sad little hallway with 6 photos (Met not excluded) and the Met’s Costume Institute is coincidentally closed every time we are in New York. Every time!

An Ancient Egyptian copping a feel:

An art installation that appeared to be a diarama of our hotel room:

The special exhibit “Guitar Hero” with no photography allowed.

Oddly enough, we were both most into the American Decorative Arts collection. I'm fascinated by the depressing amount of brocade and tall, short beds that only Shaquille O’Neal could reach and Danny DeVito could fit in.

Ben and Paisley had arrived in New York that morning to see Davey's performance on Tuesday evening so we had a chance to double date in the Big Apple. We met them in the Meatpacking District for a meal in the beautiful, masculine dining room at Colicchio and Son’s.

To start, I had a fruit and vegetable salad because I haven’t had anything that actually came from the earth in weeks. I’m not too familiar with these food groups, especially identifying them when shredded, but the salad definitely included fennel. Jade started with gnocchi with black truffle (perfectly cooked but lacking in salt…or flavor.) Ben and Paisley were more daring with their appetizers, ordering a razor clam risotto and sea urchin and lobster spaghetti, respectfully. I tried a bite of Paisley’s sea urchin and it is certainly a strange, strange texture to put in your gob.
For entrées, Ben and I both ordered the one that rarely falters: braised shortrib (this preparation had a charred onion agnolotti that was pleasantly remniscent of barbeque sauce and celery root.) Paisley had roasted duck with a gingerbread polenta and cranberry that tasted identical to the Christmas-inspired dish that first made me fall for duck at French Laundry. Jade enjoyed a Portobello polenta gratin that erased the slight gnocchi misstep.

Observant readers born in the 1980’s may notice a certain Zack Morris (Mark Paul Gosselaar) behind these two gentleman…

We each ordered our own desserts. My buttermilk waffles with roasted apples and calvados ice cream were tasty, but it was a challenge to wrap my head around eating breakfast right after dinner. Jade and Ben both had coconut cream doughnuts with milk chocolate ice cream and a double blast of lime with lime marmalade and lime sherbet. Paisley had my favorite of the bunch: caramelized red velvet cake with poached cherries and crème fraiche. For petit fours, we had coconut and chocolate lamingtons that were a delicious cross between a hostess pastry and a macaroon.

The four of us took a cab to Little Branch but the one-person-in/one-person-out door policy was unsympathetic to the cold environs. We all agreed with equally guilty faces that we could go for another round of dessert in the name of research. So off we went to the lounge at the Bowery hotel, where the décor was the opposite of our hotel (it had the anti-whimsy moodiness of the Chateau Marmont…or a chic Benedictine Monastery.) There we shared a flaky apple tart and tiramasu while a fashionably dressed pug pranced around the lobby looking for crumbs. The cab situation on the Bowery at that hour was hopeless so Jade and I power-walked the mile back to our hotel. My footwear of choice (wedges) punished me accordingly with blisters.

The Mondrian Soho stayed loyal to its 5AM failure streak with the fire alarm blaring (three sustained beeps followed by a polite British robot declaring FIRE FIRE FIRE.) Groggily, I would have called the desk to confirm or deny this rumored fire but alas we remained phone-less and virtually disconnected. And oh, the walls. An hour later, I awoke to sound of our neighbor blow-drying her hair and calling down to the front desk to complain of a screwdriver being left behind on the floor of her room. (?!) To conclude my diatribe, we were interrupted several more times since we never received a “privacy please” tag in addition to the sound of reoccurring dings each time the elevator announced its arrival to the entire thin-walled floor. When Jade did try to check on the phone situation the following morning, he joined the line of guests without working telephones and hot water.

On Sunday morning, Paisley and I met for Topshop: part deux but we were turned away at the door for being overzealous an hour before opening. To bide some time, the four of us braved the rain to got coffee at Ground Works down the street. Paisley and I sufficiently scoured the store until she and Ben departed to visit a friend in Brooklyn. I recently read the news of Topshop opening a flagship in Chicago and as it inches westward, I am equal parts excited and scared.

Jade and I then took part in our NYC weekend brunch tradition at the most adorably executed restaurant concept ever: Public.

A paparazzo glimpse of Jade getting our treats from the designated muffin-and-jam table.

The patented across-the-table shot.

We would never have ordered Public's delicious version of granola had we not been markedly more health-conscious people that ate properly and actually engaged in exercise during our first visit to Public years ago.

After brunch, I spent some time shopping alone in the rain debating whether to treat myself to an 'investment' dream purse for the first time in my adult life. The conclusive rationalization was, “Heck, yes, I’ve been working darn hard and I darn well deserve it.”

We enjoyed our first real down-time during the Laker game before heading to the St. James Theater. I abided by the no photography rules and left my camera behind. Shame, though, since they didn’t even check my bag at the door and I would have liked to have it in tow for the rest of the evening.

Seeing Davey live out his dream onstage was incredible! The role of St. Jimmy is absolutely tailor-made for him and seeing him perform alongside the amazing talent on Broadway was just phenomenal to experience. After the show, we went backstage to congratulate Davey before going to a vegan restaurant downtown where we asked him a million questions about his theatre experience.

After catching a cab on a street littered with umbrella wreckage, I had a nightcap in the hotel lounge.

Jade did some comedic crunches in the lobby before we retired for the evening.

We departed the next morning on a frigid 30-degree day to tumble around in the Santa Ana winds before landing safely at home.

Spring Broke

2011-02-15T17:05:00.000-08:00

Prepare yourself, Readers, for lore of faraway lands as I will be out of town 19/31 days of March (15 of which will be in international territory with my offensively American family a la Griswolds.) Until then, I'll be quietly combating the upcoming unpaid time-off with overtime and listening to the sound of my bank account rapidly draining in the name of flights/hotels/fun. (Eeep!)

Portland, Part 1:

2011-01-26T16:30:00.000-08:00

I could see the question marks spring from people’s heads when I told them Portland was the destination of choice to celebrate my 25th birthday. I have long been curious about this Pacific Northwest city because of its rising rank as a seasonal, local, meat-centric food capital. And you know the objective is always eating.

We took off on a 75-and-sunny Saturday and landed in a puddle, where we rented a car and headed into the arterial bridge ways of Portland. Confusing one-way-only streets and generous bike lanes blemished my first glimpse of downtown before we perfected the overshoot-and-come-down parking method. Finally, we arrived at the Ace Hotel, sister to the Palm Springs Ace (home to the sticky date pudding we center our desert weekends around.) The Portland version was appropriately woodsier, but there is a fine line between charming ‘woodsy’ and woodsy disguising ‘shabby.'
Our room was on the 4th floor, accessible by either creaky pine stairs or the overwhelmingly fragrant creaky pine-coffin elevator.

The layout of the superior deluxe room was strangely challenging with divided closets and a visible bathroom in the middle of the room. In spite of the pro's (the antiques, the record player) the Ace seemed to sacrifice some comforts for utilitarian quirkiness (paint can as trash can, sink next to the bed, rough-as-heck eco-friendly robes.)

After a room service snack of salad and a cheese plate (which both looked especially sad in cardboard to-go boxes), we read a bit before dinner. Ever the modern couple.

For our first Portland meal/my birthday dinner, we chose Castagna. The new chef Matthew Lightner has been receiving both accolades and furrowed brows for daringly bringing molecular gastronomy (very un-Portland) to local, seasonal ingredients (very Portland.) After being seated at a cozy, well-lit table, we were presented a flux of unexpected amuses. Jade demonstrated the across-the-table pose he has mastered for my camera.

First, a buttermilk puff of aioli and seaweed powder. Buttermilk and seaweed powder, right? But it worked! My non-vegetarian follow-ups were gorgeously presented. On a rock with a little notch carved out to prop the dish upright was crispy pigs jowl smoked in molasses. While I prefer not to recognize the anatomy of the animal I’m consuming, it was a wonderful woodsy upgrade to bacon-and-maple. Next, served over a bed of aromatics, was a rye cracker of smoked sturgeon with homemade yogurt – a bite-sized bagel and lox. When these dishes were presented I was not sold on the flavor combinations. Yet post-swallow the flavors would interact with one perfect “hhmmmmm…” finger-snapping moment. Very sophisticated, beautiful dishes.

The prix-fixe menu was very affordable for four courses. To start, I had Dungeness crab warmed in butter whey with sunchoke pulp and crabapple juice, which was refreshing and light. Jade had smoked beets with buttermilk ash and grapefruit. Buttermilk ash! Next, I had the potatoes slow cooked with soft scrambled eggs and toasted garlic. After all these firework flavors, it was a little disappointing to get a standard scrambled eggs/hash brown/toast brunch item. Jade went on a limb (ha) and ordered pine curd with roasted chanterelles – a strong flavor of gourmet Christmas tree. For my entrée I had my first taste of pheasant – with roasted salsify (another first), wild licorice, bourbon and spiced milk. And what do you know, pheasant = chicken + duck! Jade had polenta with juniper and chestnuts that he thoroughly enjoyed.

For dessert, I had a dish fit for a Viking: Pear poached in mead with pear sorbet, twigs and meringue. And Jade had the “chocolate in different textures with crystallized sunchokes and coconut sorbet.” And we concluded with a heavenly praline truffle.

Portlanders, don’t fear this trendy, scientific cuisine invading your locavore territory. While Castagna showes a lot of fuss and elegance with the presentation and technique – it only serves to spotlight how good the ingredients are. Most notably, the ideas behind the flavors are still really, really weird. Just a sophisticated version of weird.

After dinner, we drove past the disorganized cluster in front of the Roseland Theater and decided to return after a drink at Clyde Common in the hotel. The hiccups from his Shirley Temple menaced Jade until bedtime.

We returned to the Roseland Theater at midnight shortly after Skrillex took the stage. It was a show we both wanted to see but truly impossible to enjoy. The scene reminded me of the beginning teaser for an SVU episode, when the audience waits for the inevitable ‘bad thing’ to happen.

All girls (mean age: 16) were fulfilling at least two out of the following three categories: rolling on ecstasy, drunk, munching a pacifier, wearing only a bikini in mid-January.
All boys (mean age: 18) were fulfilling at least two of the following three categories: rolling on ecstasy, drunk, munching a pacifier, shirtless and drenched, rubbing their shirtless drenched pubescent bodies against me.

I left my bulky camera in the car, so forgive my blackberry-filmed 2.5mb capture but you get the idea. The idea is sweaty.

It was truly strange how many people would go meters out of their way to aggressively wipe their soaking bodies against the frowny couple leaning against a pillar in the very back of the venue. I know personal space isn’t a luxury at a concert, but at least at a punk show people wouldn’t heckle me to “smile!!!” Still, it was nice to see Sonny commanding what remained of the room’s brain receptors.
We returned to our room via pine box and called it a night.

Portland, Part 2:

2011-01-26T15:33:00.000-08:00

Sunday we staged our first Voodoo Doughnut attempt, but the line around the block was too discouraging.

Driving around the city, it's apparent how Portland has pioneered the food cart trend. They've gone a step beyond the twittering trucks and established "pods," or communities, of food trucks in parking lots. Trailer parks of street food representing virtually every cuisine - a lunch-hour dream. (Also notable is the surprising amount of strip clubs - the most per capita than any other US city.)

We went over to east Portland, to find ourselves in the adorable neighborhood of Sunnyside, where I did some half-hearted thrifting. How I've missed that smell.

Jade realized we were near Pine State Biscuits, a tiny restaurant we read about specializing in the flaky breakfast treat. We walked through a quiet, suburban neighborhood over to SE Belmont, where we really noticed how Oregon is dominated by moss. On the curbs, walls, porches, trees...people must have no trouble figuring out which way is North over there.

After our biscuits (sweet vs. savory - savory won), we drove into the mountains with the objective of getting lost. The roads through Washington Park were precarious in the rain but the trees were lush and gorgeous with hiking trails everywhere.

The public park is a center for recreational activities - a zoo, the children's museum, an arboretum, a rose garden which must be beautiful in bloom. The park's forest was groomed and less majestic than the one we drove through on our own, but still so wonderful to have all of this just two miles outside of Downtown.

Foresting was followed by a very manmade activity: shopping. An activity that turned out to be quite expensive, from the $60 parking ticket we incurred after our 'receipt of payment' from the meter lost its sticky power and fell off the window. Even LA doesn't make people pay parking meters on the day of rest!
Before dinner, we watched the Golden Globes (and wow, does the awkwardness of live television give me anxiety) then made our way to Little Bird Bistro. The bistro is the new sister restaurant to the highly-praised Le Pigeon and just opened in the beginning of December. The appetizers were the best part: potato fennel soup with truffle vinaigrette and a fancy quesadilla disguised as a "gruyere crepe." My entree, steak frites, arrived upside down and without a scrumptious, buttery sauce. So really just soggy fries trapped underneath a nice steak.

We followed dinner with drinks at the Vault Martini Lounge in the SoHo-ish Pearl District. The music was a loud, but the decor was glam and there were little private booths for people to talk comfortably. The cocktail menu was a lengthy list of wild combinations (pad thai martini, habanero vodka) with cheeky names like "Joan Rivers." I had a cocktail of Champagne and St. Germain and Jade had a virgin cocktail that we suspected was just fruit juice.

Back at the hotel, we lounged in the lobby and took photos, inside the photobooth and out.

Apparently Vincent Gallo was sitting next to us but I am blind, and otherwise just oblivious.

I had kept an eye on a bag of croissants left outside of the deli next door since Saturday, presumably left there for a less fortunate pedestrian. By Sunday, the charity croissants had fallen victim to someone's carb-hating rage.

We spent the rest of the evening listening to records until we were lulled to sleep by Paul and Art's sweet harmonies.

Portland, Part 3:

2011-01-26T15:15:00.000-08:00

Jade had booked our trip through MLK day (logically) thinking that I would have a federal holiday off of work. Nope! Still, I was happy to use a hard-earned vacation day. After checking out of the hotel, we were shelterless until our 8PM flight which was delayed by half-hour increments throughout the day.
We attempted brunch at Tasty N' Sons. After Google Maps tried to navigate us into Washington state, we finally found the restaurant and the very long line trailing out of it. So we turned around on the appropriately named Failing Street.

In doing so, we found ourselves stumbling upon an alternate Voodoo Doughnut location! This place takes its kitsch seriously - pinball, Kenny Rogers paraphernalia and the $10 face-sized Martin Luther King doughnut he was probably crossing his fingers for as he fought for civil rights.

My maple-bacon bar was good but I think bacon bits would have worked to better distribute this wonderful flavor combination. Jade had a donut with chocolate, oreo and peanut butter drizzled on top. Sitting in the car, there was a sad moment of realization as we ate these monsters that we both should probably reign in our eating habits a bit.

We returned back to the Pearl District, so I could go to the only physical Solestruck store, the online retailer that fuels my weakness for wedges. No sales tax! We then walked around aimlessly, wasting some time at a guitar shop with a gorgeous collection of Gretsch hollow bodies.

Out of ideas for activities, we saw a movie (The King's Speech). Then had dinner, went to a different theater and saw another movie (True Grit.) Finally, we made our way to PDX hoping that we wouldn't end up staying at the curiously named Pony Soldier Inn next to the airport. Miraculously, our flight took off at 10:30PM.

I really like how forward-thinking Portland is yet still resistant toward big-city trends. There's something very respectable about a city wanting to keep an unhurried small-town vibe but not sell it. For me, Portland gave me the impression of being Seattle's sincerely offbeat kid sister. The unpretentious, cool tomboy you want to keep hanging out with.

Napa, Part 1:

2010-12-14T01:21:00.000-08:00

For most people Thanksgiving is the one day set aside to over-eat free of judgment. For us veteran gluttons, the holiday was mere training for the two days that followed.

For Jade’s birthday present, I took him on a weekend getaway to Napa to further the food inquisition we began there last year. I allowed him to open his supplemental gifts early (only because the cylinder took up valuable suitcase space.) Happy enough to receive regular old cookies, he was ecstatic when he read the label. Compost Cookies! Momofoku Milk Bar finally launched online delivery, so the delicious morsels had traveled across country to satisfy the half-year craving.

He also found himself the bearer of a gift certificate for Redd, the restaurant of choice for our second night in Napa.

On Friday morning we took the familiar flight into Oakland, rented a car and drove onward to wine country. So impressed with our stay last year, we returned to the Avia Hotel in Downtown Napa.
Can I rave? I love this hotel. Modern but cozy, and most importantly within my Napa budget. At check-in they upgraded us for the second year in a row, from a pre-paid regular king room to a master tub suite with fireplace.

See, they earned the rave.

We ventured north on the main highway in search of food to tide us over until our highly anticipated return to Bottega. At the city limits of St. Helena we stopped at Gott's Roadside, known in Napa (and now San Francisco) for their classic drive-in food. The spot is formerly known as Taylor’s refresher but underwent the name change due to some Napa family drama.

We ordered and ate our food at a communal concrete slab. A satisfying lunch, but my weekly In-N-Out meals have spoiled me.

The two-lane highway turns into Main Street in St. Helena and gets extremely congested so we took the alternate route parallel to it. On the Silverado Trail the only businesses around are wineries and their beautiful sprawling vineyards.

Later the AVIA really solidified my praise when they delivered a complementary bottle of Chandon to the room of their ever-faithful returning guests.

After cozying fireside, we drove into Yountville, where they were holding the their annual parade of lights. The town was twinkling with holiday cheer except for the drivers who could not maneuver through the barricaded streets and parking lots.
Still, we made our way to Michael Chiarello's Bottega where chef Nick greeted us. To re-blog, Nick is a friend of Jade's and the Chef de Cuisine at the restaurant. Last year he cooked us an incredible 5-course dinner with wine pairings and offered to treat us to the same incredible service again for Jade’s birthday.

The sommelier poured me a glass of Prosecco and dropped off warm bread to tempt us to fill up. Nick came around and asked (asked!) if he could improvise off-menu courses for us again. I apologize for being boastful, but the two of us were so excited to have Nick personally craft a menu for us again (with vegetarian versions for Jade.) I tried my best to take quick, top-secret snaps because I suffer from an irrational case of second-hand embarrassment when I see other diners photograph their plates.

With each dish Nick came out to introduce us to our course. First was a trio of mushrooms that had “walked in the back door this morning.” Version one was a panko-crusted tempura version with saffron rouille next to a grilled, purist rendition with only olive oil and lemon. Lastly, a shaved salad of mushrooms, parmaggiano and bitter lettuce. This plate may have cured the last of my resentment toward mushrooms after a bout of fughi food poisoning years ago because I thoroughly enjoyed them all.

Next was a cut of bigeye tuna with mandarin and braised fennel. Jade's dish was identical in presentation, except the tuna was replaced with fresh beets. The vegetable and fruit balanced out the ahi for a really light, acidic fresh starter served with a white wine from Michael Chiarello’s vineyard. And before I look like too much of a boozehound, I should clarify to readers that somewhere inside of me lives the tolerance of a male weightlifter. I left the restaurant after seven pairings with nary a buzz.

Next was a ‘surf and turf’ course, for me at least. The prawn was probably my favorite dish of the night. It was grilled and served with an apple and braised fennel slaw that had a delicious sweet and sour quality. Beside it was a slice of beef cheek with apple and sweet potato puree.

The following course was pasta, served with what could possibly be the best pinot noir I’ve had (a powerful statement.) The 2009 Rivers-Marie Sonoma Coast Pinot Noir by Thomas Bravo, Winemaker, for Chef Chiarello (yes, they wrote it down for me.)
Nick explained that he had learned to make this particular pasta while cooking in Italy (swoon). My version was a thick, al dente spaghetti-style noodle with veal ragu (Jade's was sans meat) that Nick generously shaved with black truffle table-side. The pasta was paired with a simple, pillowy gnocchi with the familiar mushrooms and parmagiano.

For the last savory course, I had ribeye two ways paired with another Chiarello red, a cabernet. The first was a really interesting take on steak - served nearly raw with fennel and cooked persimmon. The other half of the duo was a traditional preparation done perfectly - caramelized with a parsnip puree. Jade had a potato-themed dish with a vegetarian ratatouille quiche and polenta that he fawned over equally.

Lastly, dessert was serviced with a white sparkling wine similar to Prosecco (I had come full circle) and a thick dessert wine a la Port. Dessert was a panko-crusted slice of pastry cream that had been deep-fried. Fried pastry cream sounds like arterial poison but it was surprisingly delicate and airy. It was accompanied by miniature donuts with jelly, and a pannacotta with pineapple geletina and bits of sour cherry at the bottom.

Nick saw us off with another gift – a signed copy of their newest cookbook, “Michael Chiarello’s Bottega.” We are forever indebted for him spoiling us with another world-class meal that surely ranks among the top food experiences of my life.

Napa, Part 2:

2010-12-14T01:19:00.000-08:00

The next morning went unseen because we slept so late. In mid-afternoon we finally ventured toward the general direction of Sonoma in a foggy drizzle.

Aimless, we went off a side-road where residents in their lavish, private estates on hilltops could look down onto their lavish, private vineyards. These became fewer and farther between as we drove on until we found an eerily empty marina on the Napa river. As an ocean sailor, it is very odd to see boats docked in water that looks to be approximately ten feet deep.

Spooked by the boat's clanking masts, I dodged puddles and crossed the highway to a field where cows grazed vine-side. With only the occasional pickup truck, it was a picturesque, peaceful little scene. I didn’t even notice the wind until I went back to the car and Jade asked why there was mascara streaming down my cheeks.

We returned to Yountville to get “lunch” from the cubicle of sweets that is the Bouchon Bakery. The bakery is the bread-supplier/sister to Bouchon next door and Thomas Keller’s better-known French Laundry about three blocks away.

Yountville is such a small and culinary-minded town that you could throw a rock in any direction and probably break the window of a Michelin-starred establishment. Here we have Bouchon directly across the street from Bottega:

All the benches nearby were wet from the on-again/off-again rain so we ate our sweets in the least scenic location in all of Napa - the rental car. Phase one of lunch was coffee cake with a surprise layer of chocolate in the middle.

Phase two was a giant pistacho macaroon/macaron that was offensively saccharine (frightening if you consider our combined sweet tooth.) I much prefer the coconut macaroons of Passover to this popular French interpretation.

Since only one of us drinks and both of us are captivated enough by food, we consistently neglect Napa’s selling point: wine-tasting. Still, to humor me, we went to Mumm Napa which proved to be the perfect locale for a tasting.

It was less stressful to taste sparkling wine in Napa without the pressure to know the proper sip/swirl/spittoon etiquette. The set-up at Mumm is also comfortable for non-drinkers. Instead of standing at a counter, they have a “tasting salon” situated like a café where a server presents you a menu of flights, explains each pour, and then leaves you to taste at your leisure. They also have bottled sparkling grape juice for non-boozers.

I opted for the "sweet tasting" of three 3-oz. pours of Mumm’s Cuvee M, Demi Sec and the Cuvee M Red. I preferred the Demi Sec (it tasted the most familiar) whereas the Red, a sparkling wine/pinot noir hybrid, was way too bitter.

In champagne mode, I later popped open the Chandon in a luxurious bubble bath. And for his birthday weekend Jade finally had a girlfriend that was not frazzled by deadlines and Quicktime interlacing crises.

That evening we returned to Yountville to finally dine at Redd. I loved the minimalist décor with perfect lighting and gorgeous curved chairs. However we did not enjoy the very loud faux-foodies seated next to us. They were there when we arrived and still seated when we left and for the duration of our meal we were privvy to their analysis of every lettuce leaf.

I started with caramelized scallops over a puree of cauliflower boringness (saved only by the fleeting glimmer of golden raisins.) Jade had a superior heirloom tomato and bread salad that was delightfully fresh. For my entrée, I ordered duck breast that was presented in an off-putting pile with a side of bright red cabbage. Sadly it was a bit under-seasoned and not that tender, ducky flavor I hoped for. Jade ordered an off-menu morel risotto that was tastier than my dish but still not bringing much stand-out flavor. Dessert was unmemorable seeing as Jade had to remind me what we shared (a butterscotch sundae.) Redd’s Pastry Chef recently won a James Beard award so perhaps we should have ordered…pastry.
We really enjoyed the dark chocolate petit fours, but still left the meal mutually disappointed. Maybe my critique was too harsh or our expectations too high, but the dishes didn't live up to our excitement we felt when first seated. The redeemer was the half pound of saltine toffee we ordered to go. That perfect unison of salt and sweet - and fitting for the holidays.

On a more complimentary note, here is the lobby of the Avia.

They added a lobby bar since our visit a year ago.

On Sunday morning (Jade’s birthday!) we stopped at the Oxbow market before leaving town where I snuck away to buy some birthday truffles.

Then headed back to Oakland, site of Jade’s aggro salad-days.

And to the rental car return lot, where I tried to capture the steadfast bayside watermelon that has not moved one inch since my first glimpse at it nearly six years ago. Every time we pass it, Jade and I embellish the story of the future a little more. When the aliens will come down to earth and find only the wooden watermelon slice as the single clue to understanding us bygone humans.

Until next time, watermelon.
Until next year, Napa.

San Francisco

2010-11-02T17:22:00.000-07:00

After working late Wednesday, I had barely enough time to pack before we left Thursday morning for San Francisco (a futile feat since I totally outfit-repeated.) The one-hour flight up to the bay is usually the most painless of travel, yet this particular Southwest flight was transporting enough screaming children with balloons to make me want to tie my tubes upon landing.

After choosing the rental car that smelled least like chemical pineapple, we made the drive into San Francisco and beyond. The travel event, LIVE105's Subsonic Spookfest, was actually held outside the city of San Francisco in Daly City.

The drive into Daly City offered a new perspective where I saw just how cramped San Francisco truly is. The view from the freeway presents a panoramic scape of several story boxes (houses) differential only by paint color.
At the hotel, we only put our suitcases down before immediately heading city-ward again because alas, my workweek had not yet ended. The directions to the ad agency I was visiting led us right past AT+T Park. Home of the San Francisco Giants. At the start of a World Series game.

Once our rental car finally emerged from the sea of black and orange, we made it to the border of the Financial District and the North End and arrived at DOJO. The neighborhood is a bourgeois little pocket of high-end furniture stores and art galleries (that respectfully feared the beard.)

After a tour of DOJO’s beautiful office (complete with an all white “inspiration” room with brainstorms/scribbles on the walls), we found ourselves lodged in Downtown traffic behind slow-paced tourists, cable cars and buses. To escape the congestion, we turned off a street that led us right through the Tenderloin.
How do I explain the fear instilled in even the most unpolished of travelers upon entering the Tenderloin? This one street offered several Methadone clinics, a cop car that had rusted in the middle of the road and very few massage parlor and motels with their windows left unbroken. In daylight, in the passenger seat, through one square block, I still did not want to take my camera out. Jade summarized it accurately with, “The Tenderloin is Satan.”

Once we converged with Market Street, traffic and aggressive buses again plagued us. LA and NYC have earned reputations for aggressive drivers but San Francisco should really be given more consideration. By the time we arrived in the Castro district, we were frazzled and famished. So at the geriatric hour of 5:30PM we decided to get dinner - at Home, of course.

We enjoyed the empty dining room and our dependable favorites - cornbread, macaroni and cheese, tomato soup. During dinner, I learned that Rachel and Jared (see: Boston) had recently relocated across the country and now lived minutes away from Home.

Rachel left a jet-lagged Jared and met us at Blackbird Bar, a classy low-key place I deem adorable even if the decorative theme is my greatest fear. I overheard the bartender trying to extract clues from Rachel to offer a drink recommendation by asking, “So…you want something…effervescent?”…which tickled me. She settled on the My Clementine, and I had my usual pinot noir. Being so close to wine country, it would be rude not to.

The three of us caught up at a booth and were able to keep score of the game by the cheers erupting at the bar every so often. After, we walked around Rachel’s neighborhood which was the least loud, least cramped area of the city we had seen all day. Well done, guys.

On Market, we stopped at Hot Cookie to get some bedtime snacks.

Reticent to retire to Daly City so early, Jade and I drove around and watched the city celebrate the Giant's victory. We drove up to Coit Tower (a firefighter's monument with a beautiful view of the city) and I took some pictures from underneath the giant fire-hose.

Mad steady hand:

On Friday afternoon Jade had to be at the venue relatively early so he dropped me off back in the city in the afternoon to hang out with Abby, the mutual friend responsible for introducing him and I. Abby had texted me suggesting we eat at her favorite lunch spot, Home. However, the coincidence was short-lived when we met out in front and she realized she meant the restaurant across the street, Chow.
The two of us caught up under the covered patio and over a weak mimosa. She had just relocated to San Francisco for the second time earlier in the week. We spent a long time reminiscing about the road trip we took up to San Francisco as careless teenagers, when we returned home with a new wardrobe from "pay-by-the-pound" thrift stores.

Then my dreams came true (my dreams are about scooters.) Abby brought along an extra helmet for me and we scooted through the city over to the Mission district.

Being the scooter’s passenger was as wonderful as I'd hoped, if just a bit cold and awkward since Abby and I don’t usually sustain such long, tight embraces.

We scooted by Dolores Park but it was dewy and empty. So we parked and strolled around the Mission, stopping in a few boutiques like Candy Store Collective. Ultimately, we decided to have an almost-evening cocktail (day-drinking is generally forbidden by me) atElixir Saloon.

I am slowly becoming a sucker for seasonal mixology, especially if the season involves pumpkin. I ordered “The Homecoming,” which had 23-year old aged rum, 10-year old aged port, pumpkin butter, lemon juice and a maraschino cherry. Abby had the “Tender Knob” which had no less than ten ingredients - the only one of which I remember being granny smith apples.

After more gabbing over our refreshments, I walked to the nearby station to take the BART to Daly City. From the station there, I took a bus to Cow Palace. It was the Friday before Halloween, but still I was unsure if several of the other commuters were in costume or not.

Shortly after I found my way into Cow Palace, Jade and Davey went onstage for their first Blaqk Audio show in years. Though people were still trickling in, the crowd that formed was top-notch. It's really nice to see an electronic show where people want to have a great time and dance, versus rock shows with too-cool arms-crossed head-nodding.

Jade had worked up an appetite bleeping and blopping so we headed back into the city toward the Embarcadero.

We walked through the Ferry Building Marketplace, a warehouse of local, artisan food vendors identical to the ones I seem to describe often (see: Essex Street Retail Market, Oxbow Market, Chelsea Market.)

The Slanted Door was crowded on a Saturday night without a reservation, so we walked over to the nearby Bistro called MarketBar. We enjoyed our meal while eavesdropping a British teenage girl recite her travel journal entries out loud to her parents. Very adorable.
Despite the drizzle, we strolled around the piers outside to take in some rare quiet.

Driving through Downtown again, I noticed Wells Fargo had some surprisingly beautiful vaulted ceilings. Go figure.

We stopped at Hot Cookie again to get more midnight snacks before returning to Cow Palace to watch some other subsonic, spooky acts.
MSTRKRFT killed it. Pretty much every person in the Cow Palace was dancing. Cartoonish Mario and Luigi hands waving in the air, a full-body pinata waving glowsticks, neon wigs, mesh, pasties. The entire venue was raging - it was wild.
After MSTRKRFT, we watched as two kids gave a synchronized glow-stick performance for a girl (sexy kitty cat) that was entranced in an MDMA stupor. The display was overstimulating even to watch as a bystander.

Early into our dating days, Jade and I bonded over our mutual love of ...Entroducing, so we were really excited to both see DJ Shadow for the first time. Sadly, his set was a mood killer after MSTRKRFT. Visually, DJ Shadow's set-up was awesome. He performed inside of a giant white ball, with projections playing onto it and the screens behind him. He played one of his best songs, Midnight in a Perfect World, right out the gate...but it just wasn't danceable for a crowd that clearly wanted to go off.

We flew back to LA early the following morning, with only time enough for a sandwich before we hit the road toward San Diego for a few hours, for Blaqk Audio show #2.

Miami, Part 1:

2010-09-05T20:57:00.000-07:00

If Canada was a trip of downtown sophisitication and old world history, then be prepared to have such classy notions erased with the following entries. If you are eager to learn about the hidden neighborhoods and mixed cultures of Miami, then click away dear Reader. However, if you are at all interested in the fuzzy recollection of four over-worked girlfriends on a three-day bar crawl (you’re probably not), at least you’ve been warned.
Let it be known that Hemingway’s words or Annie Leibovitz’s photos couldn’t capture our Miami experience and these entries are but a meager representation. Neither my writing nor photos could record the zaniness, the out-of-character bedtimes and the exact number of quesadillas consumed during our stay in Miami.

I begin with the red-eye, my nemesis. Jackie, Ashley and Woz could fall asleep (mouths open) in the eye of a tornado, but my degree of insomnia just laughs in the face of Ambien.

After a toast at our terminal’s Gladstone’s, we boarded our Virgin America flight to Fort Lauderdale ($242 roundtrip!) Immediately, Jackie was the target of the seat-to-seat chat feature from the mysterious men in the 4th row.

The ladies zonked out (I half-zonked) and after what seemed to be the shortest cross-country flight ever, we were greeted by our driver - the most cheerful man I’ve ever seen at 6AM. He drove us into Miami, pointing out the sights and answering our questions (all of Woz’s questions were about Fisher Island.) He dropped us off at one of the few restaurants open that early, just a few blocks away from Gianni Versace’s mansion on Ocean Drive. It was likely the quiestest meal the four of us have ever shared together.

We were dropped off at our hotel in South Beach, The Gansevoort. In an unprecedented display of hotel service, our room was ready five hours early. It was the perfect size for four girls, seeing as Woz and Ashley fall into the “casual traveler” category in the over-packing department. Jackie and I represent the “expert travelers” with our manageable carry-ons.

We napped (it being one of the first naps of my life and at the hour of 9AM no less) then went to the hotel's David Barton Spa for treatments, capitalizing on the hotel’s end of summer spa deals. The girls got massages and I indulged with a facial.

During the day, we stayed at the rooftop pool to bask in the cloudy humidity.

Afterward, Ashley and I were inspired by the spa's 3-day guest pass for the Gansevoort's lavish gym, so we did a little sweating. I'm convinced that an impressive, clean gym would really motivate me to actually exercise at home...where my fear of the sweat and hairgel-laden machines at LA Fitness keeps me away for six months at a time.

That evening we met up with Daze, a friend of Jackie’s co-worker Michelle, who insisted that this mysterious character hadddd to be our official tour-guide of Miami. Michelle could only describe Daze's personality with exclamation marks (she was right, his exclamatory manner clicked with the four of us immediately.) His style could not be captured with only one stereotype but maybe this anecdote will help: at one point Jackie got hit in the eye with a dead turtle that had been tied into his dreadlock.

We met at Sushi Samba, a restaurant with a location on 7th in NYC that always seems to be bustling at all hours. The menu is an amalgamation of Japanese, Brazilian and Peruvian and the Asian/South American results proved delicious with the rolls we shared. Most of the dishes featured shellfish but would have an unexpected element like salsa, plantains or sweet potatoes.

Our first stop of the night was Mango’s Tropical Café , an establishment that exploits the commercial, day-glow vibe of South Beach to the upmost.
The jungle themed bar/restaurant/cabaret venue is completely blacklit, so there is no danger of missing the fluorescent zebra print underwear or chaps the cocktail waitresses wear.
On a side note, I like the idea of singles meeting each other under blacklight, with every flaw and piece of lint on their clothing illuminated. It makes my fake front tooth look like somebody shut the off-switch on it.

There are performers every other song or so. The entertainment (Michael Jackson impersonators, salsa dancers, dancing beefcakes) perform on stage (the bar) while a live band performs on the balcony.

Sure, there was a faint smell of mildew throughout, but everyone at Mango’s was participating in the irony (or non-irony) and having a good time. In short, Mango’s is tacky. But the sort of establishment that takes tacky as a compliment. Even the shot glasses come with built-in strobe lights.

I’m a wine drinker, but I can still get tropical.

I was especially enchanted by the diarama of Mango’s legacy. As was Woz.

Next we went to Lush, a hole-in-the-wall local's bar with a pool table, a good jukebox and beer pong table. This was a local, no-fuss establishment where Jackie made friends with the owner, who invited her to bartend the following night.

We continued along, and walked over to The Pawn Shop Lounge, a mostly empty bar that had taken over a former pawn shop. It did not stray far from its original incarnation with retro décor and salvaged neon signage.

Off to the side of the bar was a nook made out of the fuselage of an airplane, so we pretended we were drinking on the set of Lost.

Our only prompt was, “you’re an animal.” And we were all prepared when the shutter snapped this less than a second later.

We stopped at a reaggae bar a few doors over where we lasted approximately five minutes. We left after attempting to walk up a nag champa scented staircase that was mysteriously curtained off at the top.

We’re nice girls with hand tattoos.

We took a windy, expensive cab ride to Scarlett’s Cabaret, a strip club in what I later learned is Hallandale, Florida. I don’t know what it is about our girl’s trips that inspire us to frequent such establishments, but we definitely went to the farthest one possible. Woz kept asking if we were going to a strip club on Fisher Island but alas Scarlett’s is just off the freeway next to a patio furniture warehouse.

The girls were friendly to us (we’re very complimentary), but there was a noticeable absence of acrobatics. Not even a simple loop-de-loop.
Back in the room, we ordered room service. Jackie fell asleep before it arrived, so she slept with a cheeseburger next to her pillow.

Miami, Part 2:

2010-09-05T20:30:00.000-07:00

I was the first one to wake (mid-afternoon), so I went up to the pool to read and soak up some clouds. When my dreamy friends finally found consciousness, we embarked on the sole activity of the day: walking down Collins Avenue in search of a panini.

On our walk we passed the pastel, art deco hotels and expressed great concern for the fellow vacationers and Miamians walking out in the heat. On a side note - I’ve always attested to hating Miami, namely because of the humidity and the pyramid shape it inspires in my naturally frizzy hair. The miracle procedure that is The Brazilian Blowout has significantly alleviated my distaste.

Because of the heat, we settled on the very first place advertising food of any kind - Maxine’s. Halfway during our meal, I felt a sudden stinging pain on my pointer finger, which now had a tiny nibble taken out of it. As I was complaining about my tropical bug bite, we noticed that my finger was beginning to swell before our very eyes. Then my entire hand. Conveniently, Jackie had anti-histamines at the ready, which I believe stopped my entire arm from turning into the Nutty Professor.

One of the many Miami emporiums on Collins Ave (and the source of Ashley’s emergency sunhat.)

The lobby of the Gansevoort:

…which housed a long aquarium with two sharks. Sharks, kid, killers of the deep.

Such a spike in our activity level made my friends ready for another nap (sleeping beauty casting calls.) Woz recanted that she woke up periodically to find me sitting in a different corner of the room each time. We non-nappers get restless.

Before we went out, Woz found her calling as a lighting director and put on a show with the bedside reading bulbs.

She requested I take a picture of her mountainous bug-bites, so I spot-lit one of her wounds. This caused it to resemble the female anatomy and possibly makes this blog unsafe to read at work.

Our room was wonderful except for the absence of a full-length mirror. This room flaw required frequent trips to the full length mirror next to the elevator and seemed to cause confusion to other guests on our floor.

We took a cab to Downtown Miami to meet Jackie and Ashley’s friend, Romi, a spicy Chilean girl who used to live in LA. Our dinner was at an adorable restaurant called Dolores But You Can Call Me Lolita. Of course, my initial opinion of the restaurant was favorable because of the homage to my favorite book of all time.

The décor was very ‘Martha Stewart in Montauk’ – white, candlelit, maybe even seashells. The two-story restaurant overtook one of Miami’s original fire stations and they kept the fire poles throughout.

The menu was also a surprisingly affordable prix fixe, with an appetizer and entrée for under $20. The clincher was the featured wine deal – a glass of wine for $4, or a bottle for $13. I was expecting a bottle of Charles Shaw, but when the BV Coastal Estates arrived (which costs around $13 retail) Dolores…had my pledge of loyalty.
We shared plates of our choices from the eclectic 'world' menu. My offerings were spring rolls, and lobster and shrimp cannelloni’s in a tomato cream sauce. The cannelloni’s were delicious but extremely rich - basically lobster and shrimp mash potatoes wrapped in pasta, poured over with rich sauce and then littered with parmesan.

After dinner, Daze met us and followed in his van (Woz candidly told him, “I didn’t know you were a child molester until I saw your vehicle.”) We put our flats (dancing shoes) on and headed to Midtown Miami to the Wynwood Arts District – an area that I didn’t know existed. Made up of antique shops, art galleries and warehouses, the district seems like a successful version of what Downtown LA strives to become for the Arts community.

First stop: A hipster establishment called The Electric Pickle. A casual place that plays music I actually enjoy is generally my first choice in terms of bars, but this place teemed with pretentiousness. Antlers on the wall, an all-girl band wearing headdresses and warpaint playing with earthquake-level reverb and guys who seemed to think their beards were spun with gold. Unless my ears deceived me, I'd bet my bottom dollar that the band's main vocalist was the former singer of Pretty Girls Make Graves.

Though the bathroom did have adorable wallpaper:

Romi drove us to our next stop, Vagabond, off of 14th Street.

What we thought was just an empty bar with nice chandeliers and a lone (albeit very enthusiastic) dancer was another scene once we found a door in back. The next room was an open space with booths surrounding it, where tons of people were watching the impressive break dancing and dance battles.

We popped into a hoody establishment on 14th street on the way back to the car. PS14 could have been plucked from NYC’s Lower East Side: a rowdy bar filled with boys that won’t treat you right, with half-threatening phrases posted on the walls in Helvetica.

The night led us back to South Beach to Purdy Lounge, a mostly empty establishment with an on-point DJ. The dance floor was a small alcove with couches around it so it was like dancing in the living room at a friend's house party.

Before retiring, we wandered over to the W Hotel next door. The hotel's crowd must be sleepier than the Gansevoort's because it had already signed off for the night.

I did get to sneak a peek at the hotel’s beautiful lobby and pool though.

...and the unexplained Hello Kitty statue in front of the hotel:

The carriage/permanent advertisement for the club at the Gansevoort:

We called it a night and said goodnight to Romi.

…and the shark, which was sleeping with its nose in a crevice.

Miami, Part 3:

2010-09-05T20:20:00.000-07:00

Pre-arrival, our trip's itinerary was chockfull of activities: island tours, sailing, surfing, jetskiing. But on Friday (Woz's birthday!), our only successful day-time activity had been the pool and the panini.
So we went to the beach - an outing that deliberately let us remain horizontal.

The humidity was cloying so we made frequent trips into the water. During our initial dip in the Atlantic, my friends hypothesized about possible fish swimming around them and ran back to the shore shrieking. I stayed in until I saw a man's sock floating by.

We couldn't even make it back into the hotel without getting ice water at the coffee shop next door before jumping into the hotel pool.

Naturally, the vegetarian (Woz) wanted to go to a steakhouse for her birthday. We celebrated with a dinner at the upscale Prime One Twelve Steakhouse at the Prime Hotel.

Our reservation was made weeks in advance for 9:30pm. This is when we learned that Miamians are in no rush. In fact, when seated at 10:45pm, we realized the people of Miami may not properly understand this well-known concept of 'time.'
Thankfully when we did get seated, we escaped the busy be-seen scene happening in the restaurant's foyer. The hostess led us around the front patio to re-enter another room of the restaurant that was much calmer than the main dining room.

We fancy, huh.

By 10:45, we were looking at each other with Donner Party eyes and went overboard by ordering too much food. Including: the richest, creamiest lobster bisque fathomable; four-cheese fondue for the table (the texture of the fondue was actually too thick for a successful dip); two salads that would be fit for a buffet; a side of corn; and a side of truffle mac and cheese that possibly tops the list of the best version I've ever eaten.
And we still ordered entrees. Ashley ordered a petite filet and Jack and I shared the braised short ribs with buttermilk mash, crispy onions and collard greens. The carbohydrates seemed to affect our brain cells first, because we could barely form sentences after the meal.

We didn't return from the last supper until around 1AM, when our party lost two soldiers. Despite the sunhat, SPF100 and the beach umbrella rental, the UV rays still found a way to burn Ashley’s porcelain skin. We were sympathetic toward her body's shade of maroon and understood her decision to stay in. Yet, the birthday girl surrendered to the carb coma despite our protests, and opted to stay put too.
Jackie and I perservered and returned to Purdy Lounge, which was a completely different place on a Friday night. It was filled to capacity, forcing everyone to maneuver around with scrunched-up shoulders.
We attempted to dance in the constrictive environment, but we soon concurred it was unacceptable to be out without the Birthday Girl. We implemented Plan: Get Woz Out Of Bed.
Phase I required Jackie to take a trip to Walgreens to buy party hats, noisemakers and birthday candles while I went on a reconnaissance mission to order a slice of birthday cake from hotel room service.

We prepared our entrance in the lobby then went upstairs. We tiptoed into the dark room, lit the candles, slipped the queued iPod into the deck on the nightstand and let loose.
Candles! Kazoo sounds! Party hats! Rap songs about it being your birthday, shawty!

Our celebratory antics worked to rouse her out of bed. We had no concrete plans at this hour, so we went back to Lush where the manager presented us a "round" of free drinks in the form of unlimited Jell-o shots.

Soon after, the bar announced last call (I blame Prime One Twelve for the rushed events of the night.) We waited for Jackie to finish sending an e-mail with all her contact information (including birthday, mother's maiden name and gate code.)
While waiting outside, I asked the man next to me one simple question, “Is that a Jewish star tattooed under your eye?” He proceeded to explain his particular brand of Judaism, which sounded quite unorthodox. His ‘leader,’ he claimed was, “like the Rick Ross of Judaism.” The description of his leader was said with starry-eyes, which prompted me to grab Woz’s hand and write out an S.O.S., which would later prove to be an omen.

As our cab driver was waiting to make a left-hand turn at the light in front of our hotel, the cab was rear-ended HARD. The three of us were not wearing seat belts and were jolted forward, smashing our foreheads on the back of the front seat. From experience, I anticipated a residual smash to the curb or to an oncoming car and started muttering “Not again! Not again!” like Rainman.
The next series of events happened very quickly and as confusingly as possible. A woman suddenly appeared at our window (the driver? A witness? We had no idea.) She suggested we, “Stay put if you want the money.” We responded with more confusion and slight offense. The woman, now identified as the driver, gave us a drunken story about being a new mom and asked if we were okay. In the the jumbled seconds that elapsed, we diagnosed ourselves and answered with, “yeah, probably, I think so.” And off she went.
Still rattled, we exited the taxi. The cursing cabbie suddenly redirected his anger at US because he thought we were trying to skip out on the $6.10 fare. We gave him a tenner and he drove off. Even after the chaos, we still bought Ashley some aloe vera at Walgreens as promised.

The next morning, we assessed our whiplash and packed our bags (though I returned home with one less pair of shoes.) After check-out, we went to lunch on Washington Ave, where we were caught in the midst of the only torrential downpour of our trip. With time to kill, we walked to the Kardashian's clothing store, Dash, which was truly a time-wasting activity as they have one in our hometown. Also, for a clothing store their selection is very minimal (maybe 50 pieces of clothing total) so I assume their sales come from the shelves of Quicktrim and the water bottles with their faces on them. Continuing this reality TV tour, we went for gelato at Lecca-Lecca, the shop where the cast of Jersey Shore ‘worked.’

In the span of a five minute cab ride back to the hotel, Woz fell into a Weekend at Bernie’s stupor.

We still had time before our flight, so we lounged in the lobby. The Miami Heat's newly acquired LeBron James strolled in with a towel on his head and before I knew it, Jackie and Woz went over to 'look at the sharks' and had made friends.

Before leaving, we saw another group of girls departing but they were bringing home some inflatable friends.

We packed a van headed to Fort Lauderdale's Airport and gave a big wave to Scarlett's on the way. Ashley was still harboring resentment towards Jackie’s "spider monkey legs" that tried to cuddle her throughout the night.

Finally, we made our way towards home. All of us were in agreement that what we really need now is a vacation.

Toronto, Quebec City, Montreal Part 1

2010-08-29T21:15:00.000-07:00

Last week I embarked on August Vacation Phase I of II. Phase I was strategically planned so that I would visit Jade smack in the middle of his month-long tour with Green Day.

My flight out Tuesday took off at the ungodly hour of 6:30AM with a stop in San Francisco. The seating elements were not ideal (my seat-mates were popular and had people constantly visiting them/hovering over me for 5 hours. My headphones literally got caught in a shirt button.) However, flying Virgin Airlines is to be in a soaring discoteque, which eases the pain.
After customs, I shared a cab to the hotel with Fritch and his lovely girlfriend Ali, who was on my flight. Our hotel was already familiar, having stayed there during a Blaqk Audio visit, but this time our room was laid out like a miniature apartment.
The washer and dryer, for me, was the most grandiose of furnishings (I have an abounding love of clean laundry.)

For our jaunt through Canada, we decided to each pick a restaurant and surprise one another which we had to sheepishly explain to the cab driver when he wanted to know where to take us.

I chose Lee, home-based restaurant of undeniably impressive and hilarious Top Chef Master contestant, Susur Lee.

Photo: Bravo

Not only is he one of the most celebrated chefs in the world, but his foreign take on Americanisms made for hilarious sound bytes throughout Top Chef Masters. My favorite being, “that really bites my ass.”
After being dropped off on the corner and leading Jade to the secret locale, he read the restaurant name on the door and immediately surmised, “Lee…Lee? Susur Lee?!” I was congratulating my choice based on his reaction, when we opened the door and he followed with, “Woah! There is he right now, popping off!” Susur Lee was indeed popping off in his chef uniform, flurrying around the dining room with his luscious ponytail flurrying right behind him.

We sat in a cozy table in the back behind the bar. The atmosphere was very hip and young for a celebrity chef's restaurant - pinkish lighting, loud music and floor-to-ceiling windows to see the nightlife outside.

After a scan of the menu and more decisions based on the specials, we settled on risotto and cheese croquettes to share, with a creamy salsa and signature spicy mayo. These were delicious little tots, akin to the risotto balls I love so much from Little Dom's in LA, but with an Asian flare.
I also had the slow braised beef, with “sour cream, potato leek puree and crispy shallots,” which was delicious. Braised short ribs are a go-to among my favorite dishes and a solid execution of them is blissful. Jade had spicy crispy tofu, with a chili glaze and basil and enjoyed his meatless entrée in earnest.

Already well-aquainted with Queens St., I found its paralleled monarch, King St. West, a chicer, charming slice of neighborhood. The Niagara neighborhood seemed like the place for hip, young professionals: galleries, cozy restaurants, lounges and lofts atop them. Basically, my favorite part of any city is the area that best resembles SoHo.
We returned to the hotel, sweet tooth intact, and picked up a slice of apple pie from Fran’s, the diner we had approximately 3 meals in 2 days in during our last stay.

After a very necessary sleep-in the next morning, we went over to the Molson Amphitheatre. The venue is situated on the marina and next to a water park. We were relegated to stay nearby and inappropriately dressed for such lovely weather (pleather pants and a wool sweater, why?), so we were shut-in’s for the first half of the day. When we did jet out to see what lay on the other side of Lake Shore Blvd, there wasn’t ample exploration time.
Aside from Medieval Times and unopened carnival grounds, there were mysterious buildings for vague public usage (The Better Living Centre, The Press Building, The Direct Energy Centre) and vast public parks, all of which were virtually empty. The empty grounds carried a slight tinge of 1984, but apparently the Canadian government is very generous with its land and I am used to more selfish cities.

I also saw the Mayflower sailing by in Lake Ontario from a distance:

This was the first show I’d seen of the Green Day tour. At one point, I was crouching down between equipment to take photos when a sound comparable to a sonic boom went off. I was still recovering my hearing and wondering if I had accidentally pulled a wire or something to trigger an explosion, when a second misfire happened. Apparently these blast-offs go off during Green Day's set, but at less surprising and much louder moments. My eardrums have still not recovered from the combat.

An eagle flew out of Green Day’s camp.

Which inspired Jade to take flight.

We took a cab back over to King St. W., to look for a place to dine. We read a few posted menus and compared them to the reliable deliciousness of Lee beckoning our return with an inviting table for two on the patio.

Our repeat offense began with Susur Lee walking by and recognizing us from the night before. He introduced himself and asked what we ordered. For amateur food nerds, it was quite the moment.
A moment followed by the arrival of the gorgeous presentation of my duck confit roll:

...with spiced nuts (sticky pecans, really), oven-dried pineapple, goat cheese (broadening my horizons) and Canadian ice wine syrup. Such complex flavors that I could isolate and pair to my liking. A really clever half-savory, half-sweet dish.
Jade had the chow mein with lettuce wraps and a Mexican goat cheese tart, both which he heartily enjoyed. The patio table had a raised portion that was designed just perfectly for sharing/poaching.

Afterward, we strolled up Queens St. through the Fashion District looking for dessert and a tattoo shop. And found both.

Then returned to the bus to sleep and bunk onward through Canada.

Toronto, Quebec City, Montreal Part 2

2010-08-29T20:49:00.000-07:00

Quebec: a speck that causes much confusion by sharing its name with the providence that ensconces it.
I was concerned about visiting French Canada, having never visited France. Though I’m not privy to the motherland, I can still imagine that this little slice of it in North America must be quite different.

Our hotel's architecture didn't flow with the charm of the city. It was jarringly defensive and dense-looking, like a Communist-era building (but with a rotating restaurant as the building topper.) It did have a lovely view though.

We began our descent into the old city through the Grande Allée, where just about every single place of business was a bistro with a sidewalk patio. Curiously, we came to learn that the abundant number of restaurants in Quebec City all have the same exact menu (featuring nachos, surprisingly.)

In case I wasn’t sure I was in French Canada, this arteest quelled any doubt.

The Old City, was indeed old. And very European – winding, narrow streets and stone walls.

A massive cliff divides Old Quebec into upper and lower towns. Atop the plateau is the Citadel and the gorgeous Chateau Frontenac, a 1893 landmark that is now a Fairmont and known as the world’s most photographed hotel.

The steep hill is climbed via the Funicular or the L’Escalier Casse-Cou (“Break-neck steps.”) Regrettably, we took the steps.

The Notre Dame des Victoires church:

The arterial alleyways of the lower town are filled with crafty boutiques, busy bistros and tourist shops selling wolf shirts. And to my dismay, also wolf rugs.

The lower town borders the port, with ancient canons pointed at visiting cruise ships.

After learning the alleyways with other camera-wielding tourists, we began our search for lunch. Our hungry trek allowed us peek through quieter streets with B+B’s and churches.

We were on a very specialized mission to find a restaurant or artisanal shop to have local Québécois cheese. In preparation for our trip, I looked to Travel + Leisure, which promised, “For people who love cheese, Quebec is absolute heaven: there are more than 300 different varieties, and its cheese makers tend to be mavericks." Very well-hidden mavericks.

Instead, we ate at Il Teatro, an outdoor Italian restaurant in the d’Youville circle, where the staff was definitely taking a siesta. The circle across the street was apparently where the teen hooligans convened, so we watched them skate. Not one of them landed a single flip.

Next door, we got gelato.

We continued our wander on the Rue Saint Jean, which was somewhat more modern in style, but still charming with its epicurean shops, music stores, pubs, etc.

Rue Saint Jean Baptiste:

I was taken aback by the phenomenon of shiny metal roofs on the updated buildings in the city. The aging verdigris towers are what make the city so beautiful, so the juxtaposition of old world and modern is surprising at first. Or maybe it's just me, as I'm not used to seeing either.

Back near the hotel, we set out to see the park overlooking the river. Battlefields Park is no wimpy lawn, but an impressive Central-Park-level of gorgeousness. We sat on the area called Plains of Abraham, overlooking the citadel and the river below us. Canadians are spoiled with these well-kept grounds! The plains were immaculate and empty and so perfect for a mid-day rest.

Just unleashing tangles into the wind.

Jade instigated a bird’s nervous breakdown by pressuring it to make its neck work a la Will Smith.

Lethargy set in with nightfall, so we opted to cancel Jade’s reservation in favor of a more casual affair.

We roused ourselves to get dinner on the Grand Allée, which is clearly the spot for bustling nightlife in Quebec City. A very impressive turnout for a Thursday night. We dined at Le Grand Café, where the fare was a step up from mediocre, but nothing to blog about. Probably because I didn’t order the nachos.

Room service cookies to follow, of course.

Toronto, Quebec City, Montreal Part 3

2010-08-29T20:16:00.000-07:00

On Friday morning we said our sad goodbyes and off I went to the airport, fully intending to leave the country. However, the first leg of my flight home was delayed, making my second flight from Detroit to LA (the last flight of the day, naturally) an impossible catch. The airline had already reserved me a seat on the first morning flight out of Detroit the following day, meaning an inevitable night solo in a Motown motel. After accepting this bleak fate (going through security and waiting at my gate), I tried my luck with negotiations. And surprisingly, they let me reroute my plans from Quebec → LA to Montreal → LA the next evening for no charge. Happily (yet shabbily – I ran out of clean clothes), I took a cab back to Quebec City, to the venue for an unanticipated reunion only an hour later.

The venue was on the water, blocks away from the shopping area in lower Old Quebec, which we revisited before show time. I was searching for maple fudge in particular, but all fudge-handling employees snubbed us.

The show was fab, the setting was a beautiful backdrop for such beautiful twirling.

This time, a chipmunk:

I think America should get on board with the water-side venues. Everyone gets to enjoy a cool breeze, a pretty view and sailboats going by.

Afterward, we walked along the water, which was bustling with some reggae-centric events. As well as an unmarked troop that walked across the bridge playing trash cans in the style of Sesame Street or Devo.

A shadowy figure in the night:

We walked through the alleyways, looking at the windows of antique shops and cold-weather outfitters (fur hats galore.) We were still looking for the elusive cheese, but finally surrendered to have a dinner of delicious pizza at Le 48. Mid-meal, a very loud BANG! was heard. Green Day's theatrics were crystal clear throughout the restaurant, miles away from the venue, confirming that the earlier close-range assault to my ears was no exaggeration.

Back on the bus later, Fritch and Ali bestowed us with the most thoughtful gift: the maple fudge that got away. It was promptly devoured with a helping of Jersey Shore.
We bunked onward to Montreal, but our sleepy start meant the stretch of sidewalk next to the bus was my only glimpse of the city:

And this is what we look like in real-life, mid-sentence.

Sadly said goodbye to Canada, for real this time, and made my way home.

Mercator vs. Future

2010-06-10T19:53:00.000-07:00

The other day I bought a Future Map, which actually projects countries to their accurate size and proportion. It's so interesting to see how America and Europe-centric the maps that I've always taken to be correct really are.
I thought a wall map would be a fun, stylish way to chart travels. Even though the map lists and omits some odd choices in cities to recognize, I was feeling well-traversed with my map pinnings...

Until I was humbled by my worldly beau in blue.

Clearly I have some voyaging to catch up on.

Las Vegas, Part 1:

2010-06-07T13:23:00.000-07:00

Three of my closest friends share the same birthday. So two hours after landing and still discombobulated by the time difference, I joined in the celebration of my dear friend Brooke.

I returned home at a sensible hour so I could get some winks in before our 6:45AM meeting time to hit the road for Ashley’s birthday weekend. But at 5AM, still no sleep, so Ashley received a teary, sleep-deprived phone call saying I would somehow meet them in Vegas that day. The girls rallied me after a restorative two hour nap and by 8AM, a rented Suburban with Tenneessee plates picked me up. Inside were 4 best friends tiredly yelling ‘wooooo’ at me.

Left to right, front to back: Jackie, Wozniak (or Jackie G, but affectionately called Wozniak, or simply Woz. Jade gave her the moniker after repeatedly forgetting her difficult last name, which contains no legitimate vowels), Ashley and Kellie.

The drive there was filled with hilarity which deserved its own page of quotes on my phone’s memopad, the 90’s at 9 station and communal sighs of relief every time we weren't pulled over for speeding by the vast number of hiding cop cars. They must fulfill their yearly pull-over quota over Memorial Day weekend.

We did not stop for Alien Fresh Jerky.

We did, however, stop at a gas station that sold weaponry.

Four hours later, we arrived at The Hard Rock Hotel. We looked ready to attend a slumber party, still in our pajamas, shuttling our money-saving 10+ bags of groceries through the lobby.

Ashley’s parents had sent ahead some birthday goodies.

And no stop was left unpulled for our room. It was a gorgeous master suite with seperate living room and bar, which opened to an adjoining two-bedroom room.

With balconies and a view of the lazy river, which would prove to become very loud, very early.

Quickly, we set out for the first activity on Ashley’s birthday-itinerary (a girl after my own heart.) We went to the Encore for the opening day of the Encore Beach Club.

Ashley had pre-arranged a ‘lily pad’ for us, basically what would be a table with bottle service at a night club. Our lily pad was an umbrellaed ottoman in wading-level waters, with our own orange-skinned/orange-bikinied waitress (who was very lovely.) We ordered the first round of mojitos, followed by a fried American food buffet.

It was the most fascinating pool party I have ever experienced. My Vegas experiences are purposely limited. The only time I have ever seen a smidge of the appeal was after our previous trip there, which I attributed to the company. To attend an opening day hotel pool party is to parachute into the Vegas stereotype full-force. No baby steps.
I spent all day people-watching and asking myself life’s most important questions. Is it safe to wear high heels around the pool like that? Why does every columnar structure become a stripper pole? Am I in a Warrant music video? How can human skin look so much like a Slim Jim? Is that really Carrot Top? (Yes. It was.)

In the running for favorite moment I've ever captured on camera:

Talking wolf:

It was surprisingly difficult to achieve the minimum tab for the lily pad real estate, even between 5 thirsty girls and Jackie’s awesome co-workers that came by. After spending the day poolside, Ashley and I cabbed back to the hotel, by which time Ashley's friend Yelli had flown in to join in the festivities. Jackie, Kellie and Woz stayed at the Encore to gamble.
When they did return (with losses), Jackie thought it would be really sanitary to arrange the vegetable chips in the tufted pleather sofa.

We had the most tired looking dinner table that the tragically named Pink Taco has ever seen. The dinner was spent hydrating and inquiring about an elusive guacamole. We eventually walked through the small casino to gauge the scene queueing in front of the hotel’s club, Vanity. An endless glob of people stood out front shouting various sales pitches at the unimpressed door man. Half of the clamoring girls were dressed to defy indecent exposure laws, and large fraction of these ladies in waiting were adorned with tiaras, veils or sashes.

Wozniak still down on the gambling front.

Vanity is the Hard Rock’s new club, which was previously Body English. Both the hotel rooms and club interior have gotten quite the upgrade since we stayed there for Blaqk Audio’s pre-New Years appearance there in 2008. The bar areas were very dark with metallic details and faceted ceilings. Street lamps on the backs of banquettes function as stripper poles (what would girls do if designers started implementing only spherical or rectangular shapes in clubs?) Over the dance floors hangs a hammock-shaped chandelier that spans across the entire ceiling and hosts its own laser-light show.
The dance floor was a claustrophobic holiday weekend scene. Velvet ropes boxed people into separate pens where elbows flew dangerously close to eyeballs. We bopped accordingly to the same playlist that we would soon memorize. I'm not sure if there is a monopoly on playlists in Vegas or if all DJ's are really on the same page. The theme is repetition: Shots-shots-shots-shots!, I'mma-be...-I'mma-be...-I'mma-be..., Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-My-Gah, and Break-break-break-break-break-mah-heart.

We returned back to the room, with the newly acquired Nicole, our friend who had driven in late. There was talk of trying another venue but I was approaching delirium level, still having only slept 2 hours since New York.

Las Vegas, Part 2:

2010-06-07T13:20:00.000-07:00

We awoke Saturday morning to the hip-hop sounding from the lazy river. Before assembling ourselves to join the scene poolside, we conducted early morning makeover experiments. Aside from Ashley, I think all of us have had actually had our hair these colors.

We went through the airport-level security line (where I was sent back to our room to return my camera, since ones with detachable lenses required a press pass[?]) For the people that visit Vegas with dreams of gyrating hardbodies and yard-long margarita cups, Rehab is the capital of such splish-splash debauchery. A description I read today in Travel + Leisure described the adult water park as, "infamously boozy." Very apt.

Our cabana on the balcony level was a refuge from the overwhelming Jersey Shore scene. I mostly stayed out of the sun that day, so as to not out-tire myself for Ashley’s birthday festivities that night and was completely content watching the scene below from our perch. So many men unabashedly leering at the girls either confident, drunk or sure-footed enough to dance solo on the wet bars. I did dip in the sand-bottomed pool once though, thankfully. Or else I would have missed Jackie pantsing the Ed Hardy bathing suit off of a muscular man dancing Chippendales-style on a pool bar.
Our friend Shannon came by, who was part of our birthday group but multitasking Vegas trips with another group of friends at a different hotel. Shannon, Jackie and Kellie spearheaded a dance party in the cabana, and Wozniak gambled again (still down.)
Maybe years of sleepaway summer camp trained me to always get to the shower first when staying with a group of girls. Still, with 7 girls, 2 bathrooms and limited mirror space, we were late for our dinner reservation at the Encore.

Anywhere else, a big white swan sculpture with gilded feathers would be over-the-top, but returning to the opulent Encore post-Rehab was a welcome oasis. Ashley’s birthday dinner was held at Switch steakhouse, “where the ambiance may change as much as much as the flavors.” Steak with such showy interruptions could only exist in Vegas.

Every 20 minutes or so, the music would signal doom. The lighting in the restaurant would slowly change colors as the walls would rise into the ceiling and come down again with a new decor. When we first sat down, the restaurant was warmly lit and sans walls, so we could look out into the lobby.

Then some ancient walls appeared:

The next change swapped out the walls for curtains and pinkish lighting.

Watching a redecoration project take place throughout dinner is certainly gimmicky, but also entertaining. Everyone in the restaurant would pause and take in a panoramic gaze of the seconds-long show, but we were so taken by our delicious meal that we hardly noticed the fanfare by the end. Our starters ranged from carpaccio to lobster bisque (which I tasted and swooned over) and a caesar salad for myself. For entrees, the majority of our party ordered steaks but I also heard raves about the chicken.

Jackie ordered the seared ahi tuna, as seen before:

When she found a long hair that did not stem from her own head, her plate was replaced with a collection of the abundant sides we ordered (parmaesan fries, macaroni and cheese, creamed spinach, etc.) Her plate, after:

I was so excited to see a special entree of a risotto made from my favorite cheese of all time, which is a strong accolade for me to dole out. The heavenly sottocenere al tartufo. I had already introduced half the table to this wonder and the risotto did not disappoint: creamy and with a strong taste of morels and truffles shaved on top.

I chuckled when we ordered the menu item simply titled “chocolate lava cake” for dessert.

...which only two people tried. Everybody was too full to even attempt and I was the only one with enough gusto to do this:

Since it was Memorial Day weekend, lines of dressed-up hopefuls extended in every direction of the lobbies and casinos. However, we have Jackie, a boss-lady with limitless networking talents, which allowed us to evade the line that wrapped around the hotel and enter Surrender.

Which is also the Encore Beach Club, but at night time and sans lilly pads. Like the beach club, Surrender opened for business the previous day. The girls and I swiftly resumed our people-watching posts. At one point we were invited by a walkie-talkie toting man to the VIP section, which was revealed to be just an adjacent bar behind a rope. The only difference were the dancers whose beaded skirts clanked loudly on their poles.
We sought to expand our horizons and surrendered Surrender to walk through the corridor that connects the Encore to the Wynn.

This is when we approached the crux of the night, where we could keep observing wildlife in exclusive clubs or have fun in a more natural habitat. We took a limo back to our hotel, where a Mariah Carey singalong ensued.

By this time, my skirt of streamers had unraveled into a shredded mess.

We changed into flat shoes (makes all the difference) and pushed everyone out the front door before they could lay down in bed and call it a night. We went downstairs to Wasted Space, a more ‘rock and roll’ bar that Wozniak initially feared entering. There we danced into the wee hours to the alternating DJ and live band that performed classic covers along the likes of Journey and Muse. Ashley arranged such an amazing, lavish weekend for everyone and my friends ability to hop from an exclusive lily pad to spontaneously singing Queen at dive bars is precisely why I love them.

The next morning, the first person to rise informed us that we had 10 minutes to pack before check-out. This resulted in returning home with a suitcase full of lost and newly acquired clothing. In unprecedented hotel timeliness, the maid even appeared at check-out-on-the-dot to encourage us to get the hell out.

NYC, Part 1:

2010-06-02T15:13:00.000-07:00

We scheduled our 5-year anniversary/annual eat-our-way-through-NYC trip a week early this year because tour required Jade to be in Indianapolis on the actual day-of. We left Sunday, after our very tardy cab finally appeared to take us to the airport for our 7AM flight. After boarding (and passing by a very LA scene of yoga poses being practiced at the gate), we sat on the runway and watched the winds hinder our takeoff. An announcement clued us in to a new plan: unloading some fuel, stopping in Denver to fill up, and then proceeding onward to JFK. Once in Denver, the apologetic pilot had us wait an additional 30 minutes for compensatory pizzas, but they were a ruse. After landing 2 1/2 hours late due in part to the wind and imaginary pizzas, we cabbed into Manhattan.

We stayed at the new Standard Hotel in the Meatpacking District, a neighborhood in the gentrification process from the industrial, carnivorous world it once was. We’re both very familiar with the Standard hotels in LA, and the new NYC follows the same borderline-silly brand of stylized coolness. Andre Balazs’ chain holds a special place in my heart, since Jade and I first met at the Standard on Sunset Blvd through a mutual friend. Thanks again, Abby!

We stayed in an empire corner king room, with floor-to-ceiling views of both the Hudson river and the skyline. The view is reciprocated into the rooms as well. A note from the hotel reminded guests that voyeurs would be able to view our in-room activities through the untinted glass if the drapes were left open.

The room was laid out like a stateroom on a ship, with teak paneling and an adorable sitting area.

Even more uncomfortable for the modest, the openly visible shower and bath area:

After washing the plane ride off our faces, we went downstairs via the zany elevator. On opposite walls of the elevator are screens with Videodrome-like scenes playing. The scenes are basically visual collages of nonsense blended together in a psychedelic reel. For example, Ziegfeld Follies with the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, Flash Gordon and Michael Jackson.

The Standard from outside:

We walked underneath the High Line and past one or two remaining meatpacking companies to watch the sun set over the river.

Finally, we traipsed over to the West Village at dusk in search of food. I’ve mentioned our lengthy, celebratory food-research, but we left our first night purposely reservation-less so that we could find a casual, neighborhood place on our own. After long waits and unfriendly vegetarian menus hindered the plan, we returned back to the hotel to try The Standard Grill, which has been hyped lately as a new Balthazaar. It was surprisingly easy to get a table for two outside on the patio, where we were promptly served a baffling trio of turnips, parmesan and breadsticks. The bread was (sea-)salted with a heavy hand and apparently also a glue-gun.

I ordered a burger, which was very much a burger. Not amazing, not bad; just a by-the-book example of any DIY-BBQ. Jade felt equally nonplussed by his capellini, which must have been garnished with peas by the same sea-salter of the breads. We shared a side of fries, which slightly redeemed the abounding mediocrity. Jade ordered a baked alaska, if only because he has been scouring for it on menus for months. Sadly, the baked alaska 2.0 that arrived was seriously lackluster. The version was new-aged which swapped out ice cream for berry sorbet, encapsulated in what appeared to be toasted meringue but was truly just stiff fluff.

We also ordered a platter of cookies from the restaurant to-go, to enjoy in our room while we watched a Beatles documentary. Finally! Excellently gooey, homemade warmness.

The next morning, we started early and walked through the village over to Soho for our reserved shopping day. Behold, my itinerary:

We braced the chaos of Broadway and a threatening drizzle to scour Topshop, and the nearby usuals. We stopped for a lunch at Soho Park, where my tomato soup resembled liquid ketchup and Jade was equally unimpressed with his veggie burger. Not off to a good start but again, the fries acted as redeemer. We did many laps around, from Opening Ceremony to Oak and then over to the Bowery (where Jade saw Patricia Field walk in Patricia Field, but I am oblivious to everything.)

Exhausted from so much walking, we rested our aching feet at the hotel before leaving for our ‘wild card’ themed dinner. The restaurants we frequent are usually Italian, French or some American amalgamation, so trying Southwestern cuisine suffices for ‘wild.’ However off-putting his personality may be, (Iron) Chef Bobby Flay has built a reputation from throwdowns and secret ingredients. I was reticent to try Mesa Grill because of his 'tude, but Jade convinced me to see if the food lives up to the legend. Also, he can't be that bad if he is married to Stephanie March, also known as SVU D.A. Alex Cabot.

Going to the restaurant of a celebrity chef can be a weird experience. We both dressed nicely (what seemed to be appropriate for the atmosphere) but other diners seemed to just be popping in for a tamale in their sandals and shorts at 8pm. I ordered a special blend of syrah, which was apparently developed to compliment (all?) Bobby Flay’s food. I usually steer towards light, fruitier reds but this one was not too bold for me. We began the chowing with a white roll and a jalapeno cornbread. After being consumed by Home’s dessert-level cornbread, it was jarring to try such a savory version...but it was really tasty and not too spicy. We started with squash blossom fritters and shared a tamale with shrimp and garlic sauce (meaning I had the shrimp, while Jade navigated through some masa.) The tamale was covered with the exact same sauce as Gorton’s frozen shrimp scampi, which is to say it was really good.
I had the special of the night, a 16-spice crusted duck with pink peppercorn honey lime glaze, accompanied by a wild rice and thyme tamale. The 16 spices together seemed to make a rub similar to coffee, however a very complex, curious coffee. The flavor of the glaze was superior to the taste of the duck, which didn’t have the same distinct flavor as the (three) other times I’ve tried it. Jade had a cornmeal crusted chile relleno with roasted eggplant, manchego, sweet red pepper sauce and balsamic, which required lamaze exhalations to overcome the heat.
Again on the celebrity chef note, I was slightly disappointed to see an adjacent table paying the check and holding up a Mesa Grill t-shirt. I realize that most chefs would aspire to have such a food empire, but in a nice dining room, the scene seemed too Planet Hollywood.

After dinner, we walked around the corner to Raine’s Law Room, where we rang a doorbell at the bottom of some basement level steps. A head popped out, took the number of our party, and shut the door. The head returned and escorted us to one of the dozen or so loveseats in the low silver-ceilinged lounge. Like other en vogue speakeasies, the decor was very much like Gatsby’s living room: tufted velvet sofas, candlelight and a fireplace, mirrored table tops. The cozy area had only a few intimate groups of people, some behind banquettes behind sheer drapes. Despite Jade’s criticism of the stale truffle popcorn on the table, I immediately loved the space. On the exposed brick behind us was an electric doorbell with chain, which we pulled to illuminate and signal the waitress. In keeping with the sophistication surrounding us, I ordered a seasonal drink, the New Yorker Highball,“Bulleit Bourbon, lemon juice, sugar, Chandon champagne and a snap of Chianti.” While I don’t usually mess around with liquor, my familiar friends, champagne and red wine, made me feel safe enough to detour into cocktails. It was much like a fizzy bourbon, but the lemon juice made it seem much fruitier. Jade ordered a virgin gin rickey, and as you would expect, it was a fizzy lime drink, which improved near the bottom of the glass. The ladies room was adorable as expected, candlelit with a mirrored vanity and baroque wallpaper.

Afterward, we still hankered for dessert so we took a cab to Momofuku Milk Bar, where I devoured a blueberry soft serve with toasted streusel. Jade tried cinnamon roll flavor with toasted streusel and fudge. Both were new, unidentifiable flavors, but so delicious and so much more innovative than boring fro-yo. We also got a compost cookie to-go, made with: pretzels, potato chips, coffee, oats, butterscotch and chocolate chips. There is no better combo than salty and sweet and the bizarre elements, (potato chips!, pretzels!) added a nice saltiness to what would be otherwise be a traditionally fabulous dessert cookie.

NYC, Part 2:

2010-06-02T15:11:00.000-07:00

The next morning, I wandered around the streets surrounding the hotel, which were made up of a mix of high-end designer boutiques (McQueen, DVF, Louboutin) and high-end furniture stores (Vitra, Design Within Reach) housed in old factories, packing plants and slaughterhouses. Photography studios or galleries have moved into the warehouses along the streets that were formerly frequented by prostitutes, drug dealers and those attending underground sex establishments. Here is a great NY Times article that describes the district’s gentrification (or preservation, or revitalization, whatever you take it to be.) The neighborhood seemed even more de-gritted than fellow up-and-comer, Lower East Side. I saw very few traces of seediness left along the high-rent cobblestone streets.

I walked along The High Line, a new (and still unfinished) park built along abandoned elevated rail tracks formerly used by the meatpackers to keep freight off of the busy streets.

The wide pathway is designed to be modern, much like the new buildings it weaves through, with natural plants growing along the remaining tracks.

A section of the pathway continues underneath the Standard, which is architectually designed to stradle the rail tracks.

I walked through the High Line around noon and there were plenty of businessfolk and nannies (outnumbering mothers) enjoying their lunch outdoors. Repurposing a historical structure as a public park is a really great way for the community to enjoy the outdoors, especially since the district is relatively skyscraper-free.

Back at the hotel, I retrieved my hair-washed partner.

We took a cab to the Upper East Side to visit the Frank Lloyd Wright designed Guggenheim Museum, where no photography was permitted beyond the lobby.

The museum was housing an exhibit called Haunted, but little else. The exhibit was of (allegedly) haunting pieces of contemporary photography, video and performance that overtook all the wall space of the stories-high spiral layout. There are several rooms that are essentially offshoots of the main rotunda that house smaller exhibits or permanent collections. The first of these rooms, displayed the Guggenheim’s permanent collection, which included Monet, Renoir and Van Gogh. After viewing Haunted, the display of masterworks seemed even more impressive. I can take a picture of a chair. You can take a picture of a chair. And it isn’t that haunting, really.

Afterward we walked through central park, of course.

With a stop at the overwhelmingly large Jackie Onassis reservoir, looked even larger by having zero activity in such an expansive lake other than a few ducks.

We kept one eye on 5th Avenue looking for a place to eat along the way, but alas, there was only expensive real estate and hot dog carts. We settled on a makeshift picnic of a single pretzel, eaten under a tree in the park.

We walked past the usual caricatures and your-name-on-a-grain-of-rice!, where I was charmed by this handsome model:

Our feet still ached from the previous day’s marathon shopping, but we surprised ourselves by walking all the way to the end of the park in front of The Plaza. I had to admire the Bergdorf windows, done up in various Sex and the City scenes.

An embarrassing tourist picture, yes, but how could I resist?

We ogled in Bendel’s and a few other stops before heading back Downtown, with a stop at Chelsea Market.

Chelsea Market was originally a bakery complex (built in 1913, I read) that has been repurposed for office buildings (NBC, Food Network) and a ground floor of gourmet markets and artisan shops, restaurants and bakeries. Actually, the ratio of bakeries to anything else seemed very high, which made it a very dangerous stroll.

There was also somewhat of an exhibit throughout the ground floor where mustaches were the theme. It even had a DIY station.

Walking back to our hotel, we stopped at an open gallery in a warehouse, hosting an ongoing ‘Mr. Brainwash’ show. If you have not seen Exit Through The Gift Shop yet, you must. The best film I’ve seen so far this year, by far. The pieces are so blatantly ripped off and at least 5 times removed from any original source. A mimetic tunnel of horrors.

As if my grandfather’s treasured Herman Miller/Eames lounger being spackled wasn’t tragic enough.

Later, we cabbed over to Cooper Square to dine at Faustina. During our last one-day-only dinner NYC, we dined at Scott Conant’s restaurant, Scarpetta, which left us comatose in pasta bliss. After our first bread course of foccacia and whipped butter, we ordered stromboli (basically, fancy pizza-bread.) I started with a short rib appetizer with spaetzle and horseradish, which tasted like brisket someone's grandmother had perfected throughout a long rainy day.

For my entree, I had a lobster and asparagus risotto with preserved truffle. While those ingredients don’t immediately gel well in my mind, the flavor they created together was surprisingly complex. It was a steady asparagus taste with little surprises sneaking up on you. Jade had a mushroom ravioli with porcini and parmigiano. It was slightly too al dente, which is interesting to note if you ever watch Chopped, where Conant is often a judge. Contestants fear making pasta for him because he is undoubtedly the pasta authority. Such a delicious meal, even with the starters surpassing the entrees.
After a change of shoes, we walked through the East Village to revisit our newly-declared dessert spot, Momofuku Milk bar.

I ordered the same as the previous night, which came with additional fudge by mistake (fine by me.) Jade tried a new flavor, “cereal milk,” which was likely their version of ‘plain’ but still interesting (again, with fudge and toasted streusel.) We sat on a nearby stoop and enjoyed our creamy delights.

If you thought we stopped there, you are sadly mistaken. So impressed by the compost cookie, we got another. And a peanut butter cookie. And a blueberry and cream cookie.

Back at the hotel we expanded considerably while watching the Lakers lose, until I had to take initiative and throw away the last half of remaining cookie for fear we would actually explode.

NYC, Part 3:

2010-06-02T15:09:00.000-07:00

Wednesday acted as the understudy to our 5-year anniversary. It was also the hottest day by far, with the humidity level seemingly equal to the 90 degree temperature.
It was also a red letter day for another reason: we went to see Marina Abramovic at the MOMA. I have been interested in Abramovic for almost ten years, but am wary to use the word ‘fan.' That is to say, I am a very big fan of her best performances (most of which, in my opinion, were done with her ex-husband Ulay.) I am very much not a fan of a lot of her work, which frankly, is just silly. Performance art itself tends to be pretentious or needlessly kooky, but I've always respected the way she pushes boundaries and makes people uncomfortable. I apologize if my introduction comes off as a contradictory diary entry, but I’m finding it hard to succinctly explain the strange nature of my feelings towards her.
Abramovic's performances that have affected me are beautiful in an unnerving way. Here are descriptions of my two favorites, where I may be alone in finding the elements of trust and mutual danger strangely romantic.

“In one, Breathing In/Breathing Out (1977), with their mouths clamped tightly together and microphones taped to their throats, Abramovic and Ulay breathed in turn the air from each other's lungs, until - almost to the point of suffocation - they were exchanging only carbon dioxide.
In another, Rest Energy (1980), they held a taut bow with an arrow loaded and pointing at Abramovic's heart, with only the weight of their bodies maintaining the tension. Microphones recorded their rapidly accelerating heartbeats. “ (from Lacan.)

Her recent performance, The Artist Is Present, has received a lot of media attention. By the time of my visit, she had sat with visitors for 716 hours and 30 minutes.

In essence, she sits across from people who wait in line all day to have a staring contest with her in the atrium of the museum. Just sitting and staring. No talking. No movements. Staring, focusing, being there - present. Abramovic sits all day with no food, no water, no bathroom breaks. For weeks, I checked the MOMA Flickr photostream, which posts photos of those who sat and the amount of time they sat for. Some stayed for only a few minutes and others (selfishly) all day long. Some faces looked peaceful, some faces were famous, some confused, and a surprisingly number were crying.
When I first heard about The Artist Is Present, I was shocked by the lack of shock. Staring seems dull in comparison to Abramovic’s resume of performances where she’s pushed her own physical boundaries much farther. Yet I think sitting demanded more endurance from her emotionally. In some of the photographs, she is crying too.
And I can understand why. To get really diary-entry...I, for one, am a master level multi-tasker and go-go-goer. I am also very aware of how awkward I can be at direct/sustained eye contact with strangers or people I don’t know very well. As someone so reserved with eyeball-intimacy, the mere thought of strangers being so intent on one another makes me nervous and vulnerable. The hesitant anticipation I felt about seeing Abramovic, the mythical art enigma in-the-flesh, actually gave me a stomachache.

There were no photos allowed, so I had to be sneaky. This is a result of my tourist stance: camera-hanging-around-the-neck, aiming in the general direction and hitting the shutter as quietly and clandestinely as possible.

Being a spectator of other’s intense sense of awareness was like experiencing a fractional byproduct of the sitting experience. For some reason I expected complete silence, but of course there was still noise echoing throughout the museum. With the distractions around me (seen below: the lady in waiting wearing Marina’s matching cloak, but in black, and her ponytailed friend in a tuxedo holding a rose), I was suddenly very aware of how narcissistic and ridiculous the performance looked from the outside.

Later, we went upstairs to the top floor where a retrospective of her work was being held. There were videos of her past performances and several recreations (most involving nude actors.) Imponderabilia was recreated, where Marina and Ulay stood naked and perfectly still, facing each other in the narrow doorway (originally, the doorway of the museum entrance.) People must turn sideways and squeeze through the naked bodies to get past, which of course requires a choice: Do you face the man? Or the woman?
The MOMA recreation was of two women facing each other, which may or may not have altered the challenge posed to participating visitors. It did however cause me to witness a very awkward scene of a larger man struggling to squeeze through.

To be honest, walking into a dark room of violent images and nudity and heavy-handed nonsense stressed me out. Likely, that was the point, but seeing the videos and recreations made me realize that I liked it better from afar. All laid out for me, the performances looked silly: a lot of standing around and hanging out naked with skeletons and moaning and grunting. Basically, I left feeling as conflicted about her art as I already was.

We returned back to the safety of the museum’s middle floors, where most of the painting and sculptural art in the permanent collection had not changed much since last year.

I cannot believe Picasso neglected to title this sculpture, “Just Chillin.”

Every time we went up a floor, we’d peek, and see if the sitter had changed.

Photography is always my favorite museum zone, although it is usually largely neglected. So I was happy to see a new exhibit, titled “Pictures by Women: A History of Modern Phography.” I don’t understand the reason to separate good photography into gender designations (insulting, right?), yet the photography spoke for itself in proving how unnecessary the tag “...by Women” is. So, so good. Goldin, Arbus, Sherman. And most of them far more haunting than Haunted.

Tux Guy finally made it!

After the dosage of culture, we returned to Topshop to do some exchanging and have a late lunch at Delicatessen, where Jade’s breakfast burrito trumped my salad.

It was so hot out that a restaurant being open-air was actually a first-time flaw.

We returned to Chelsea Market for a coffee, before walking back to the hotel for a much needed read and rest. For our anniversary dinner, we chose Blue Hill, a seasonal farm-to-table restaurant, that sources their food from their very own farm in the Hudson Valley.

In order to actually arrive, we had to convince our cab driver that the street Washington Place truly exists. He fought us on it for a good five minutes, until the very moment he drove us right past it it.
The decor was very simple and cozy, and sat catty-corner in a booth (where faux cherry blossoms fell onto Jade’s head throughout the night like a Japanese dream sequence - I loved it.) While every dinner we went to certainly was elegant, the serving of the amuse bouche is the signal to prepare one’s appetite for fine dining. It was fun decadence, though, because our “almond bun” with sugar snap peas was shaped as a tiny hamburger. Jade made the comparison of a Chopped dessert challenge, where a savory ingredient will undoubtedly foil the contestants in the dessert round. A very successful execution.
We started with a beet, strawberry and ricotta salad. This could have possibly been my first real beet tasting, and I enjoyed it immensely along with the heavenly, syruped strawberries. Next, I had an asparagus soup with maine crab, pickled onions (more like capers), and tarragon. So green and creamy and rich. Jade had an asparagus dish which featured an egg that had somehow been cooked for one hour and was still soft, but my dish won this round.
For the entree, he had potato and ramp ravioli that could have been uprooted out of the ground, and I mean that in the best way possible - very fresh. Conversely, my pork (wild card) was undercooked, which the waiter noticed himself. He offered to retract it from the bill and then bestowed us with complimentary desserts. Jade was given the chocolate bread pudding, which tasted similar to the requisite ‘chocolate lava cake’ on every menu (don’t get me wrong, it is a trusty favorite) and I got busy with a strawberries and ice cream concoction that tasted like an updated shortcake.

Back at the hotel, we exchanged cards (and my eye make-up slowly slid down my face), then changed to seek more dessert. The hotel’s lounge and dining areas were overflowing with mysterious private events, so we wandered over to Pastis, the French bistro that arguably made Meatpacking the fashionable neighborhood it is. I will confirm this by noting that it was 11pm and Pastis was deafening, stifling and borderline trampling.

Since it was too loud to hear each other from across the table, we forfeited our table in favor of cookies to-go. We waited patiently for fresh-baked morsels, but back at the room we were disappointed by the platter of shortbread wafers, already cold to boot.

After two desserts at the restaurant and one failed cookie mission, our dessert plight continued with a return to room serviced milk-and-cookies from the first night. Just as delicious.

Jade packed his suitcase at 1AM, set a wake-up call for 3AM, boarded a 6AM flight complete with a stop in DC, to begin his tour in Rhode Island. My 1PM take-off was more leisurely, and I even treated myself to a cab instead of the ol’ subway heave-a-long. The JetBlue terminal entertained me for the hour, where I spent a nice amount of time in MUJI buying stationary I certainly do not need. I landed in late evening, exhausted, but only stayed put in LA for approximately 13 hours.

No travels, just:

2010-04-24T12:25:00.000-07:00

San Francisco

2010-03-30T10:44:00.001-07:00

I took a brief break to go with Jade up north for a pre-Bamboozle warm up show in San Francisco. And brief it was.
Our noon flight was cancelled, as well as any flights after that until five so we lost a half-day of precious city time. After our H1N1-ridden cab driver took us into the city, we checked into the hotel and immediately re-cabbed to our favorite restaurant in San Francisco: Home. It was pleasantly uncrowded, which is a rarity. This gave us plenty of elbow room to enjoy our favorite dish there: the cornbread. We ordered a smorgasbord of side dishes and appetizers to create some kind of comfort food buffet: the heavenly cornbread (with honey butter!), spinach artichoke dip with homemade chips, macaroni and cheese, tomato fennel soup and a side of asparagus.

Everything there is so simple and delicious and makes you want to feign sickness on a rainy day.

Jade channeling Nosterafu

Afterward we stopped at The Owl Tree by our hotel, which alluded to be much more charming from the exterior. There we watched the end of the Laker game and called it an early night.

…followed by a late morning, where I left a sleeping Jade in mid-day to satisfy my San Francisco shop-twitch. There is something about the H+M in Union Square that is superior to all other H+M’s that carry the exact same things.
I hit the pavement (very briskly through the Tenderloin, where the questionable massage parlors and interactions seemed somehow even more threatening than usual.) However I did not succeed in the shopping arena until Jade and I convened at one of my favorite San Francisco outposts, American Rag on Van Ness. I was happy with my two new pairs of jeans, until Jade bought the same exact ones in the men’s section, on sale for $11 each.

We scavenged for a place to eat around Union Square until we saw a clue directing us towards the basement level of Macy’s where there are fancy food-court versions of gourmet restaurants, including Rick Bayless’ Chicago restaurant Frontera. As avid watchers of Top Chef Masters and fans of Bayless' cheery demeanor in general, we were sold. And were pleasantly rewarded with our salad, tamale and tres queso flatbread that clearly communicated the message of “Fresh! Latin! Yum!”
Following soundcheck and sprucing up a bit, we had just enough time for a quick dinner even though Jade had already filled his stomach with candy. We couldn’t deny ourselves one last opportunity so we returned to the Castro to revisit Home, where I adventurously tried spring rolls and we shared asparagus and cornbread.

With one to-go, for fellow foodies Ben and Paisley.

We went over to Slim’s, where I got to hang out with Jade’s sister for a bit. I watched the show from the back of the venue to escape a large blowing fan that was threatening to make my contact lenses jump ship. I really like these one-off shows at intimate little venues where you can be surprised with flying somersaults, etc.

We retired early and popped on our plane early the next morning for a night of home (sadly not at Home) and then Bamboozle the next day where I braved a windstorm next to the cutest AFI fan ever to exist:

He knew every-single-word.

2010-03-14T03:02:00.000-07:00

We made arrangements to go down to the desert for the weekend, but lethargy shrunk our plans down to only one night. We didn't do anything worth reporting...because we didn't do anything. And it was great. Our only active efforts involved finding mediocre food, a nice bike ride to the polo grounds and some more golf carting. We did, however, partake in our new favorite desert activity: devouring two sticky date puddings from the Ace Hotel followed by a round in the photobooth.

2010-02-21T00:08:00.000-08:00

I've been a captive of real-life (read: no fun), so no travels for me. However, I have been on several international dates this week!

Saying good morning to Japan

and goodnight to Australia

Seattle/Vancouver

2010-01-29T01:04:00.000-08:00

I only half-believed my weekend trip would actually take place, due to the atypical rainstorm in L.A. Thoroughly zombiefied after 2 hours sleep, I headed to the airport in the early morning and saw a familiar blonde head in the security line. Followed by a familiar brunette head. I stalked Ben and Paisley throughout security, who were on their way to their own French Laundry weekend (jealous!)

I had only been to Seattle once, on a trip with a jaunt to Victoria with my grandma when I was 12. I didn't remember much about my few days there, except stumbling upon a Ziggy Marley concert on a pier with aforementioned grandma, who warned me "not to look" at the mysterious plant circulating around me.
My flight to Seattle was spent writing a travel piece and a story due that evening (Procrastinator I am not; being in-flight was my only “free time” of the week.) After landing, I walked through the airport to board the Light Rail, where I was disappointed that I only needed a one-way ticket and not a PugetPass. On the train I uncharacteristically recommended hip-hop to my neighbor before getting off at Pioneer Square. And walking to the wrong Showbox theatre – Showbox Market when I wanted Showbox SODO. Stupidly enough, I knew there were two Showbox venues, wrote down the address to the correct one, and STILL looked up train directions to the wrong one in my pre-flight scramble. After lugging my small pink suitcase in the wrong direction downtown for a mile I finally gave in to hailing a cab, which was surprisingly hard to do in Downtown Seattle. I was rejected once because he was “going in the opposite direction,” even though I am quite sure that all cabs are meant to be aimless. Thankfully, one stopped to deliver me to that lanky man standing outside of the bus two miles away.

After our reunion, Reno dropped us back off from whence I came - on the same street corner I stood minutes before. We ate at the Taste, the museum café at SAM, and had a delicious grilled cheese, tomato soup and fries. Afterward we walked around Pike Place Market, looking at vendors who all felt obligated to wear or chew whatever it was they were selling.

We weaved in and out of the market and stopped to buy a face-shaped ginger molasses cookie:

We made a pilgrimage to the very first Starbucks which had a soothing acapella quartet singing out front. As far as I could tell, they kept it as it was when it opened in 1971. So while charming and borderline-historic, it was also probably the shabbiest Starbucks I've ever been in.

We walked by the most beautiful open-air cheese shop. Cheese-ladelers scalding the curd. Panini's awaiting the press. The smell of parm wafting out.

(My great grandfather was a cheese-maker in Italy. There is cheddar in my veins.)

Being enamored by mysterious ocean life, I appreciated the hanging giant squid sculpture. This is the size of a baby giant squid, which would be double the size at full length. Terrifying and incredible.

We continued strolling Pike’s Place Market, then started heading back toward the venue, stopping at some boutiques along the way. Watson Kennedy had pretty french music and bus rolls, and the boutique next door specialized in my irrational décor obsession: white ceramics. Sadly, the only thing I could afford was a piece of white ceramic toast that I rationalized as unnecessary.

Even though I was only there for a few hours, I was really impressed with Seattle. I like the balance between the relaxed, crafty Pacific Northwest vibe and a big, bustling city. We walked all the way back to the venue, past rows of old warehouses-turned-galleries that still bore their original faded signage (including the J+M hotel.) I finished my writing assignments during soundcheck and a ten-pound weight dislodged itself from my brain the second I sent them off.

Later, we walked over to the day room for showers, and had a mediocre dinner in the lobby. Then, the show, which was fab-u-lous of course. The venue got extremely hot extremely quickly. A good sign.

For this show I had an optimal Jade-side photo-taking location:

I always enjoy the camaraderie-through-standing in the bean-shaker song.

My new SLR shoots HD video!

Afterward, we attempted to watch Conan's final Tonight Show on the bus, but the tv signal was not allowing it. We retired early, anticipating a 4am wakeup to cross the border. When I awoke in a dark, stacked coffin (after successfully sleeping a handful of hours for the first time in days), I groggily assumed it was 4AM. I was quite surprised when I learned that it was actually 10AM and we were in Vancouver. The border-crossing didn't require our wakeup in an unprecedented occurrence of international generosity.

We had a rounded-corner room on the top floor, with a view of the water, mountains and city.

My Canadian resumé was previously limited to Victoria and Toronto, which I can now add “one day in Vancouver” to. Aimlessly, we walked through Downtown, which seemed to soley be made up of hotels, over to Granville St. to shop. We meandered through the "entertainment district" and the high street shops on Robson St.

Later, we shuffled our cold bodies over to Gastown’s faux-cobblestone streets. It is somewhat preserved as Vancouver’s first Downtown area, but seems to be hover between ritzy and rundown. For example, very lavish furniture store with a toothless patron vomiting out front.

My favorite store:

My second favorite store was Nood, which had modern furniture, housewares and gadgets. And a miniaturized Eames chair and table for stylish babies:

We stopped for lunch at Chill Winston and had a prime perch at the front window for people-watching. I would never be able to properly interpret our particular language of romance to anyone, but it was confirmed when we simultaneously became bummed at the sight of a men's satin trench coat. That is a like-minded connection one could never explain.
We ordered poutine, a Canadian dish which I definitely do not approve of. An intentionally soggy french-fry is a travesty. The yam chips were deliciously sweet and crispy though.

Afterward, we watched the gorgeous view of the sun setting from our room. And we may or may not have watched Jersey Shore.

Our reservation for dinner called for our return back to Gastown, in a side-street with the grimmest Tim Burton address ever: 45 Blood Alley. We ate at the Salt Tasting Room, which doesn’t have a regular menu. There is an ever-changing chalkboard of 10 cheeses, 10 meats and 10 condiments from which you create a tasting plate. Predictably, we ordered 3 cheeses, which were all tasty but on the mild side. However I could have made a meal from the fig bread alone. We ordered an additional ‘special’ cheese, the Berkswell from the UK, which was nutty, grainy and delicious.

The only photographic evidence that I was actually on this trip:

I opted for variety and ordered a wine flight of 3 smaller glasses of red wine that were paired with the cheeses. Much like the cheeses, they were good but not standout must-have-again flavors.

We returned our cold bodies back to the hotel for room service dessert and a single-teared goodbye to quality late-night television.

The next morning we went to the venue, which was coincidentally limiting in my introduction to Vancouver by being located on Granville St. We ate at an upscale Italian sports bar nearby that had a Vespa hanging above the door and various aphorisms about meatballs on the walls. We were the only diners not very interested in "the big game" and ate a Jughead-esque lunch of pizza and French fries. Followed by cookies of course.

I have been lamp shopping lately. No light fixture will evade my attention ever again.

Loonies? Toonies?

We sought shelter from the drizzle on the bus until our pre-show goodbyes when a very lovely runner drove me to the airport. Since we didn’t explore any area beyond walking distance to our hotel, I was a dismayed to see what could potentially have been more interesting parts of the city whirr by from the passenger window. We took Granville St. to the airport, and passed what appeared to be a really cute (for lack of a better word) neighborhood that reminded me of Queens St. in Toronto and seemed like an area that we would have enjoyed walking around moreso than downtown.
Earlier in the day, I was concerned about the airline not letting me check in for my flight online. Then, looking through my passport, I grew more worried that I didn't actually receive a stamp upon entering Canada. Customs agents always succeed in making me feel really guilty and I am convinced 'the nature of my visit' sounds suspicious when I say it out loud. This time my flustered state became defensive after the agent flipped through my passport and interrogated me only about my Israel stamp. Her face told me "cousins in Tel Aviv" was not the answer she was looking for.
In summary, my first visit to Vancouver was very short above all things. Our downtown-captivity combined with the unusual buzz of preparation for the upcoming Winter Olympics may have made my impression of Vancouver a little unjust. All the more reason to return one day.

Joshua Tree

2010-01-17T18:20:00.001-08:00

December was a doozy.
It involved an unanticipated move, a hectic holiday-time scramble to find a new place, and then a delay between move-out and move-in that left us un-housed for 5 days. With the majority of our belongings in storage, we set out with suitcases full of what-I-might-possibly-need-or-want-for-a-week to spend a few of these itinerant nights at my grandparent’s vacation home in Palm Desert.
It was nice to get a chance to just simply exist. In the mornings, we would drive to get our cup of coffee in the new golf cart (oddly financed by Obama by way of an electric vehicle incentive rebate.) Our other activities were very non-active (besides a very squeaky bike ride.) They were not interesting enough to mention unless you also (happily) watched Gidget Goes to Rome for the tenth time.

However, the highlight of our desert diaspora was our spontaneous evening jaunt to Joshua Tree.
First we had lunch at King’s Highway at the new Ace Hotel in Palm Springs, which the hotel-nerd in me has been anxious to see. And it was just as I suspected: totally, totally cute. It stayed true to the sloped, open-beam mid-century modernism that is Palm Springs but a little bohemian hipster chimed in along the way. The wildlife diorama above the reservations desk was perfect.

After getting back in the car, we swapped our plans to furniture shop for an attempt to race sundown with a drive farther into the desert.

The single paved road that runs through Joshua Tree is 65 miles long through the Pinto Basin and can be entered through the north or the south. We entered through the south entrance, which took about 30 minutes past Indio and our exit from the highway coincided with the sun barely peaking over the highest mountain.

We debated whether or not we should begin such a lengthy (and most likely unsafe) drive, but we powered on through as the single car on the desolate desert road. Every so often there were a few granite rock formations, but mostly just sand. The pinks and purples emerged as the sun officially retired so we pulled over to enjoy what we considered a beautiful sunset, but soon realized that stage was only child’s play. Sunsets never capture well on film, so I fiddled with the low-light flash settings yet what revealed itself to me on playback was still nowhere near how bright it was.

We continued on and began seeing sparse Joshua trees every so often. By the time we got to the fork that seperates the road to 29 Palms and the route through Joshua Tree, we were submerged in the wonderfully weird environment. Both of us expected the trees to be few and far between, but the assigned nomenclature of forest is indeed apt. The trees aren't organized in groups or rows in the way that I picture a Yogi Bear type forest, but there are plenty of them in their own haphazard, eerie way.

The trees appeared even less earthly at night and their silhouettes in the headlights emphasized how freakish and sinister these plants actually look. Coicidentally, my writing professor gave me a book to borrow this week that cited Tom Wolfe’s The Right Stuff, which captures the mood perfectly: “Other than sagebrush the only vegetation was Joshua trees, twisted freaks of the plant world that looked like a cross between cactus and Japanese bonsai. They had a dark petrified green color and horribly crippled branches. At dusk the Joshua trees stood out in silhouette on the fossil wasteland like some arthritic nightmare.”

The scenery called for a very specific category of spooky, isolating music to compliment it. Kate Bush, Bat for Lashes and Pink Floyd played throughout.

When I was not attempting to take pictures out of the sunroof with 40-degree wind whipping my face, I had Jade be a lighting assistant with the headlights:

Then, a prop:

The sunset would not surrender.

When I told my dad about our drive, he mentioned that people often go to Joshua Tree at night to take LSD. From what I can infer about acid from movies, I would expect that a bizarre tree graveyard with mammoth rock formations would not be the best atmosphere to induce a pleasant 'trip.'

The following night we went back to the Ace Hotel after dinner in Palm Springs to try the sticky date pudding. And then we ordered another. Which is the most honorable distinction from our collective sweet tooth.

We only returned back to LA for the weekend because we had tickets to see Conan (my television idol), but missed the taping because of traffic. What timing.

Happy/Merry

2009-12-28T17:11:00.000-08:00

...and hello 2010!

Preface:

2009-12-04T12:36:00.000-08:00

Before I write about our weekend getaway to celebrate Jade's birthday, I beseech you to watch the following clip of A Cook's Tour. This is the show Anthony Bourdain hosted before No Reservations. Bourdain's tragic flaw may very well be his poor joke-telling but he has certainly earned his title as the authority of global cuisine. To see how nervous such an esteemed chef and foodie gets about Thomas Keller and the French Laundry really puts its reputation into perspective. Keller's attention to detail and creativity are legendary, and the honors he has received as a result have posited him as one of the best chefs in America, and quite possibly the world. The man has earned SIX Michelin stars!

We too have been waiting a culinary lifetime to dine at the French Laundry. The following book has been on our coffee table for a year, which is close to the wait-list to dine there. (Fine, hyperbole: two months to the date to try the call/busy signal/hang up/call routine.)

The book contains photos and recipes of the most famous dishes served there, which each involve about a day of prep and the freshest and most high-end ingredients imaginable. I could go on and on listing French Laundry's accolades, but I think watching the clip will give you a clear idea of its degree of importance.

Ukiah/Napa Part 1:

2009-12-04T11:41:00.000-08:00

We flew into Oakland on Thanksgiving Day to give Jade's family and Ukiah some face-time. I’m so glad I got to spend time with his family. So much fun: talking dogs! The tastiest thanksgiving ever! H-O-R-S-E shootouts! AND his dad brought me crab he caught just the day before – the absolute freshest and tastiest shellfish I have ever tasted.
That night we all went to see New Moon, where I tried to leave my vampire biases at the door. I haven’t read any of the books, but was definitely not impressed with the meandering storyline and poutiness.

We stayed at a hotel in town. In the morning we couldn’t locate the blowdryer so we called the front desk for one. The maid barreled in with a replacement blowdryer, paying no mind to me leaping into the corner in my underwear trying to cover my whole body with one pant leg. Awkwardness followed when we realized the unseen blowdryer was, of course, affixed to the wall.

California’s beautiful redwood trees, in very many pieces:

We took a scenic route from Ukiah to Napa through Geyserville, which took around 2 hours. It was the perfect season to drive through wine country: miles of orange and yellow vineyards, dotted with horses and cows and adorable little towns.
Remember when I said California didn’t have pretty east-coast leaves? The ones in Northern California were not quite as vibrant as the changing of seasons we saw in MD and Boston but apparently Jade had forgotten about the gorgeous changing colors that he experienced growing up while I was climbing palm trees, running from brush fires and playing with cement blocks.

We entered the valley from the North, driving through Calistoga, St. Helena, Yountville and ending in Napa.

We checked into our hotel in Downtown Napa, the Avia. They gave us an upgrade at check-in, which was a wonderful surprise since the room-rate for the regular room was already a great deal.

It was a really elegant suite with a marble bathroom and two flat screens three yards apart from one another.

After settling in, we attempted a one-mile walk to Starbucks, when it started pouring sideways.

So we tried to walk to the Oxbow Public Market, which was advertised as a “7-minute walk" to us by the concierge. Not so!
The Oxbow Market was great though; you can really see how integral food is to the identity of Napa. It reminded me very much of the Essex Street Market, with all of the vendors featuring artisanal food and local ingredients. Organic produce, ice cream, gourmet chocolates, cheese and wine, coffee - a really great place to get gifts.

We rewarded ourselves for the minimal activity with a pumpkin cream-cheese cupcake for later.