Last week, though (like the bad little blogger I’ve been lately) I only just realized, marked five years for me as a blogger. Reflecting on that time, both upon blogging and the content on which I write, I’ve experienced quite a bit of Life over those years…

I fell in love. And out of love.

I went to London, Jamaica, the Dominican Republic- twice, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Napa, Seattle, Alaska, Las Vegas, and South Carolina. And New York- how could I forget New York?- again and again and again.

I met a boy. And another one. And then another one. Until there came the one who’s stuck by me- so far at least.

I got a dog and am convinced within myself I’ve met my soul mate.

I wrote letters to Jessica Simpson and openly adored Tina Fey.

I got fucking WHOOPING COUGH like it’s the Eighteenth century or some junk, birthed a kidney stone as though I’m some infirm old fucker, and managed to garner food poisoning while stranded in Vegas for 48 hours after a flight cancellation.

I observed and questioned motherhood first hand. I feared babies and their ability to, like bees, smell that fear.

I gave voice to my angst for pregnant smokers, Drunk Bus, Facebook, Icky Couples and other such Toolbags.

I threw a pity parade for myself as friends got engaged, married, had babies, and moved on.

I swore a lot and not always as a result of Who the Fuck is Sharon.

I fell into a depression. And I admitted the one thing I’ve always kept secret and for which I still feel ashamed.

I authored posts about which I am proud and not so proud, and still others I have, at times, felt disappointed went nearly without comment.

I celebrated birthdays and turned 30. Then realized, holy fuck, I’m now IN my thirties!

I bitched about work and covered my ass by requiring a password as my blog took on a more “real life” following.

I said good bye.

I wrote and I didn’t write. And other times I wanted to, but avoided what needed (still needs) writing.

I discovered Twitter and became completely addicted.

I left my home of six years and moved in with a man for the first time in my life.

I baked, took calligraphy, made Thanksgiving turkeys, and ugly Christmas sweaters.

I met other bloggers and became close with several others, and others still whom I have yet to meet in person but hope to one day soon. I greatly admired/ still admire several others from afar.

I Dressed for Dinner.

I found inner peace. Other times, not so much.

I drank. A. Lot. Of. Wine.

I allowed two people and 60 minutes to throw me into what wound up being a mid-life crisis that I still wrestle with some days.

I moved from Blogspot to WordPress and became “Nic Narrates,” then rebranded with my own site.

I contended with the Bathroom Troll. And other related topics.

I mourned for those bloggers who blogged off into the sunset…Charming But Single, Petite Anglais, Anonymous Coworker, Little Red Cape, Ashton Likes, and Surving Myself.

I wrote the things I cannot say to my dad, my mother, my brothers, and my grandfather.

Five years.

In five years, I grew to embrace blogging, found my voice, and began to identify myself as a writer foremost. I’ve been heartbroken, infatuated, furious, defeated, whimsical, sarcastic, jaded, humorous, naive, envious, and sentimental.

In five years, I’ve let you in, let you “know” me. Let you have a bit of myself and tried always to be honest with you despite the discomfort of knowing who else may be reading.

Thank you for indulging me (and my obnoxiously nostalgic links). More than anything, thank you for joining me along the way.

Share

There was a faint coolness in the air as I slipped my sandals off and stepped, pensively, onto the fenced-in and manicured grass; barefooted and in want of a pedicure. The grass was slick beneath my toes from the overnight rains. And the locust tree branches overhead sprinkled their storm remnants upon my shoulders where I stood.

Seagulls and other such birds were drown out by the rush of the morning city traffic as cars and trucks and motorcycles splashed through the burdensome puddles. I closed my eyes and listened. And remembered.

I remembered a place and a morning, not unlike this one, though far away both in time and distance. I remembered the sunrise spot. That beach. Those waves. The cluster of palm trees. Coarse sand. And there was this same pale, pastel sky. Same coolness of air before the day’s heat.

That place only exists now in my memory; torn down to make way for a modern and posher resort for other travelers to marvel at other sunrises. My “happy place” no longer. Twice I stood upon that sand and that beach before it slipped away.

This morning, I stood on the edge of a memory and returned.

Share

I have to admit, my going is a bit out of character for me. I’m not a “go out drinking every weekend” kind of girl and have no interest in gambling. I’m more the drink some wine at home while yelling at the TV in your jammies sort. That said, I can’t think of a better reason to spend three days in Las Vegas than to meet so many of the bloggers I’ve been reading, commenting on, and emailing for so many years. 

Best of all, my roommate is so fancy and nice and funny that I honest to goodness feel like the coolest kid in school right now. I’m so excited to finally have the opportunity to meet her and so many other funny, interesting, and relatable bloggers all in one place for a weekend of bloggy debauchery. (If you want to join us, there’s still time and no you don’t have to know anyone because we’re all friendly and welcoming and if you don’t believe me I promise that we will hang out and have a lovely time as long as you don’t mind my swearing and/or running jaded commentary!)

Of course, ever since I decided to sign up, I’ve been augmenting my closet. Living in Chicago and working in the suburbs, I’ve been passing my days in jeans, snow boots, wellies, heavy winter coats, and many a shapeless sweater. It’s a wardrobe of convenience and true laziness and none of it says VEGAS. With jazz hands. 

But, I’ve been a busy girl and am at last prepared to share with you the fruits of my online shopping; including but not limited to some key purchases of my own with some additional finds for those of you who are also looking to add a little “Vegas” to your own wardrobes. For where to buy, click on the “i” in the upper right-hand corner of the gallery below. Cheers!

Share

There for two and a half days, we visited:

• Trefethen. We lingered over reserve flights in cushy leather loungers with the tasting room practically to ourselves, then received a complimentary and impromptu behind the scenes tour of everything.
• Peju. A quick stop that was kind of forgettable in truth with a congenial enough Steve Martin look-alike pouring.
• Domaine Chandon. Also a short but sweet visit involving a cheese platter with sausage and stone ground mustard that, in the words of @bayjb, swiftly devolved into an episode of When Animals Attack.
• Mumm. Hi, Mumm, I love you- I do. Alongside Trefethen, you’re my favorite and I would like to here and now thank you for replying to my tweet and for the “pour-friendliness” and, oh, for just everything.
• Domaine Carneros. Home of Tattinger’s Le Rêve (The Dream), also known as the most expensive wine I’ve ever purchased and would not have without the 30% “industry” discount they gave me- to you, I also say thank you!
• Cakebread. By appointment only, we lucked out at the last minute and were there first thing in the morning. Lacking a formal tasting room, we sipped our 10 am flights in the working barn where they began harvesting their 2010 vintage that day.
• Chateau Montelena. Way up in Calistoga and home of the infamous Bottle Shock, it’s worth the trip despite Chris Pine being nowhere to be found. I typically dislike Chardonnay, but quickly forked over $50 for a bottle of the sort that put Napa on the map.
• And indulged in lunch aboard the Napa Valley Wine Train. A whimsical ride up to St. Helena and back, during which there were mimosas, wine, and some seriously amazing food followed by Fancy and I hanging off the back of the train taking it all in.

Rather than launch into a flight-by-flight account of Napa Valley and its subsequent appellations, I’ve opted for the less verbose preferable route of simply showing a highlights reel (thank you for obliging me). I am, however, more than happy to provide recommendations or suggestions for where to stay, eat, and sip (both for the places we went and for the ones we intended but never made it to). And, if you’d like to see the brief picture captions, just click on the “i” in the right top corner. Cheers!

I must add that I loved the experience of learning about the grapes, the land, the winemaking process, and of course tasting, so much that I want to make it a yearly four-day sojourn.  Who’s coming with me?

*As in, a glass (or two) of wine and a cheese platter have become a daily institution in my household.

Share

No "sweater weather" here!

Last week, my friend Fancy and I went to San Francisco and Wine Country (for those of you who follow me on twitter you’re likely all too aware and I apologize for being an asshole with all the Foursquare check ins!). A girls weekend to Our Lady of the Vine, albeit during the week.

We gave ourselves one day in San Francisco, which to our dismay quickly diminished into only half a day thanks to American Airlines’ four hour delay due to late boarding, pushing off from the gate, a fuel pump light that wouldn’t turn off, finding a new gate, waiting on a repair crew, waiting on repairs, deplaning, finding a new aircraft, and finally reboarding and waiting in line to take off.

In that time we managed to watch two episodes of The Office and the boarding video all the way through to the credits. Yeah, turns out there’s actually credits to that video of flowers and waterfalls set to sleepy music that they show before takeoff. Once we were finally underway, we settled in and realized that from the time we arrived at O’Hare (5:30 am) to the time we arrived in San Francisco (noon), we could have flown internationally. It certainly felt like we should be landing in Japan!

Aboard the cable car to Fisherman's Wharf.

After checking into our hotel (the surprisingly-lackluster-for-a-Kimpton Serrano Hotel with utter Sketchville a mere block away), we scrambled to get in line for the cable car (a feat in and of itself after a couple of wrong turns that landed us in The Tenderloin- we’re talking actual human feces in front of a boarded up storefront, half-naked cracked out women laughing as they shuffled down the street, and having to step over a man laying in the middle of a sidewalk) to make it to Fisherman’s Wharf for a late seafood lunch and boat tour of the bay.

We glimpsed the Pier 39 lazy ass sea lions; zippy dolphins along our boat; a shoreline view of the city; barge, sailboat, and kite board traffic; Alcatraz, and of course the Golden Gate. The bay was a bit rough and hella windy, but I still managed between my hair slapping me in the face every three seconds to chastise children whose parents neglected to inform them that throwing food overboard “for the fishes” was, at the less than observation-friendly speed we were traveling, basically just littering. Brats. The wind unfortunately carried away my sentiments.

Blue & Gold Fleet boat tour of the bay.

After the boat tour, we had planned to take the cable car back to our hotel, but short on time, we balked at the once again long line at the cable car turnaround and tried unsuccessfully to hop on a few blocks up.

Fancy Chinatown billboard.

For all our savvy, every cable car passed completely full both inside and out. So, we did what any torqued city dwellers would do. We said screw this noise and we walked. Strike that, we CLIMBED A VERITABLE MOUNTAIN. In a heat wave (so much for that cool bay weather- it was 90 freaking degrees!). With clam chowder and Sierra Nevada IPA sloshing around in our bellies. Stomach. Bloat.

Union Square at dusk.

We felt drunk. We looked drunk. And a few of those lucky souls passing by on the cable cars actually took PICTURES of us- we, the super smart girls who said to hell with you “San Francisco treat.” Ding ding, my ass.

Parched and panting, we dragged our sorry asses into a corner store and bought lukewarm water and a Pellegrino Limonata which we sucked down at an 8% incline. But then we found the Chinatown gate and strolled through Union Square, and all was right in the world again. An hour later, we arrived back at the hotel in a pile of sweat and blowsy hair and wound up a mortifying 35 minutes late for our dinner reservation.

Foreign Cinema's courtyard & movie screen.

But the people at Foreign Cinema in The Mission were understanding and kind and seated us right away at a great table. Both Fancy and I loved everything- from the food we were too full to really eat to the ambiance of the courtyard where they play old movies on a screen-lined wall to the friendly service and greeting. Definitely a unique restaurant concept with a caliber of food and service that make it more than just a “cute place” to go out to eat.

Remnants of sea bass, heirloom tomato, & garbanzo bean deliciousness.

The night we were there they were showing Monsoon Wedding and we lingered over our meal, then dessert. The restaurant staff was so accommodating that we were still there as the movie started over! I have to admit, being a slow eater and worn out from traveling, it was the perfect way to finish the day. I’ve never had a more relaxed meal at such a beautiful restaurant.

In the morning, we picked up our rental car, which was easier said than done (transportation did seem to be the bane of the trip). Our quick five block cab ride turned into a fiasco involving me having to remind the driver that we didn’t ask to be dropped off three blocks downhill from the address we’d given, then making him drive us around the block to the right address only to find out it had been relocated up the street another four blocks. Thank you Kimpton for providing the wrong address! Which reminds me- I have an angry email to write.

Tartine, aka porn for bread & pastry lovers everywhere.

The salve to this early morning drama took the form of pastry porn at Tartine. Oh my god Tartine. I want to make out with that place and can’t stop thinking about it…I’m head over heels absolutely smitten. I just…I…I have no words for how much I adore it. Needless to say, the Tartine cookbook is already on this girl’s Christmas list.

Croque Monsieur- I ate all but two bites!

I should note that our experience was all the more enjoyable because we went on a Tuesday at 11, thus managing to avoid the lines that plague its doors and small seating area.

With the majority of my Croque Monsieur devoured and the plate of my lemon tart literally scraped clean, and with a morning bun in my bag for later, we took to the road for Wine Country.

I leave you now with the promise of a similar post (tomorrow Thursday?) on our time in Napa and mayhaps a Very Special Edition of “Dressing for Dinner” later this week. But, most importantly, I leave you with Tartine’s LEMON TART, (i.e., a “tart” that even church going sorts can deem heavenly).

I actually debated getting the larger size, which is intended to serve 8.

Share

I got the idea from reading Alice Steinbach’s Without Reservations, which I very much enjoyed and would recommend.

So, six weeks ago I sat down with a croissant, a café au lait, and a pen and I wrote. I wanted to capture the moment, the little and the great, the feeling of being there if only for four days. When I finished my breakfast, I sent my words on their way, then promptly forgot them. Until, that is, they returned to me this past Monday, a particularly bad day…

Like a miracle, the worn paper fell from a pile of junk mail I was about to throw out. As I picked it up, the recognition was that of seeing a lost friend. It couldn’t be! But it is. That’s right, I had almost forgotten! On the back I had written:

Sunrise spot. Napping in the shade. Coffee in the afternoon at Taino. Learning the bachata. Fruit smoothies. Hablo espanol un poquito. The color of the ocean. The beach waiter, Henry, always ready with another drink. Writing “bliss” in the sand at dusk. Listening to the downpour from the balcony rocking chair. Birds at sunrise. Massage on the beach. Wiggly toes in the sand. Feeling all at once- happy. Not being able to turn and walk away.

As I read each word again, I couldn’t help but smile, remembering. And I felt grateful for even this small kindness that I’d found a way to extend to myself.

Share

Before I threw myself into the ocean, giggling at my absurd doggy-paddling and tippy-toe bobbing lest I get my face wet; before I took my first picture of my toes in the sand (because when you’re alone you wind up with a lot of those pictures, I guess)- all I could think was, “What am I doing here?”

Not everyone can travel alone. A lot of people are shocked to hear about the trips I’ve taken and continue to take solo. They question my safety or how much fun I can possibly have. They give me the once over and accuse me of unseemly shenanigans and illicit beach-side hook-ups with strangers. And sometimes, they think [quite comically actually] that I’m brave.

The thing is, I don’t know that I’ve ever been scared to travel alone. I certainly can’t remember ever thinking that way at least. There does always seem to be an “Am I really doing this?” moment, but it quickly passes. This is what I’ve been wanting to do for as long as I can remember.

I grew up camping at national parks out west and going to Disney World and Florida beaches each year with my family. I vacationed the way they wanted to vacation, ate the food they wanted to eat, saw the towns and museums they wanted to see. I’m grateful for those experiences and memories, but I also spent the better part of my adolescence planning how I would do it instead one day. On my own terms.

Now that day is here- arrived a couple of years ago actually- and it’s become one of two things that I consistently do for myself in order to keep hold of sanity and happiness and to find optimism in the day-to-day. For whatever reason, knowing I have a trip on the horizon makes each day more bearable when all I want to do sometimes is yell at people to “SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!” as I did at the TV last night during The Marriage Ref. At times, the prospect of traveling is the only thing that can pull me out from the figurative (and sometimes literal) covers that I crawl under to hide.

But I didn’t wind up traveling alone overnight. It’s been a natural progression for me. First, learning to eat alone- breakfast, then lunch because they’re the easiest to manage. Sometimes I’d even venture out to a movie alone- matinees in the beginning, then Saturday nights amidst date night couples. Not long after that, I’d find myself going to a musical, the ballet, or the symphony- when you’re “only one,” you can get a surprisingly amazing seat even at the last minute. Somewhere in the midst of my twenties I realized that I’d rather enjoy the things I love alone than not be able to enjoy them at all simply because I might not be able to share them with someone else.

So I went. I ate those dinners and drank that wine. I applauded at the end of Avenue Q on my birthday. I cheered the ABT for their skill and beauty. I strolled through Central Park in the fall and skated at Rockefeller Plaza at Christmas. I toured London- the Tower and the Abbey. And I’ve now been to the D.R. three times. Alone, and not at all lonely.

But standing there on the beach at that moment, something about vacationing alone had changed for me. The solo traveler shtick didn’t feel the same as in years past. If traveling alone was a pair of comfortable go-to shoes, they suddenly pinched my feet. For the first time, I wanted someone to join me.

In the days that followed, I went on to enjoy my time in the sun, relearned the bachata, kept my top on, befriended the entire resort staff it seemed. But the whole while, I kept thinking of how much I wanted to be sharing it- the sunrise spot, the balcony rocking chairs, the early morning beachfront massage, even the terrible food at the lunch buffet- with him.

xoxo, nic

Share