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.

My experiences leading up to 30 have been a bit…different.

A couple of years ago in a session with my therapist, at the end of a long term relationship, she asked me to think about where I wanted to find myself at 30. She asked me to make a new “list.” I haven’t thought much about it since, I’ve been busy working and living out the days between as I would have regardless. My inner compass always seems to guide me toward opportunities or people or places that I’m happy to find along the way.

So with or without that list, I’m excited to turn 30 tomorrow. Thirty feels “right,” feels like the age I’ve already been for years, feels like where I belong. And the list? I revisited it the other day and was amused by what I read. For the most part, I think it holds up.

1. Find a new job.
2. Get out of credit card debt.
3. Go to Paris.
4. Buy the Louis Vuitton Speedy 30 handbag.
5. Keep writing my blog.
6. Be a better friend.
7. Date again, and hopefully find someone to have a relationship with.

Taking stock against that list: I’m still with the same company although I’ve just been promoted, I’m $700 away from being out of credit card debt, I haven’t seen Paris but went to NYC three times, the D.R. twice more, am in Seattle right now (hellooo, Seattle!) and am about to board an 8-day cruise to see Alaska instead, I haven’t and no longer want to buy the LV bag, I still (sometimes and would like to make the time to more frequently) write here, I’ve worked hard at making new friends and maintaining both old and new friendships, and I began dating again and am with someone who makes me feel safe and loved whether or not marriage or babies are down the road for us or not. All in all, I think I’ve done a pretty good job of ending up where I wanted to be at 30.

Looking back at who I was when I began my twenties compared to who I am as I depart them, I’m still very much the same hopeful girl. Only now I’ve realized that you can’t really “plan” life, that sometimes life happens and it’s more about what you make of it than what you make of what you didn’t end up with for all your planning.

At 30, I’m not going to make a new list. I’m going to keep living much the way I have since I made the original one. But there’s one glaring omission that I’d like to add and hopefully “achieve” in my thirties.

I’m still battling the same insecurities as I was when I was 10 years old and it harms me in countless ways. I don’t necessarily show it or write it or talk about it, but it’s there inside my own thinking nearly every day. I may know my capabilities and strengths better 20 years later, but I’m still my own worst enemy. I’m the first person to criticize myself, deem myself “not good enough,” and take that disapproval out on myself. Still.

The eighth item I’d add to the list is “be kinder to myself.” I want to find happiness at 31 and 35 and 39 because I’m nice to myself, because I’ve learned to no longer rip myself to shreds over what are ultimately inconsequential things. I want to unfasten my negative inner monologue and accept and appreciate myself flaws and all. No small task, but it’s probably the most important one.

The thing is, I can always be a better person, a better friend and daughter and girlfriend and coworker and neighbor. I can always strive to be better than I am. But the person I already am is pretty damn good too. If I write it enough, maybe I’ll believe it. If I think it enough, maybe I’ll feel it.

I haven’t seen my therapist in three months, but I know she’d approve and be proud of my addition to the original list. I know she’d tell me I’ve figured “it” out, that I’ve learned a lot from my twenties, am on my way to many happinesses in my thirties, and that when sadness or hardship finds me again I’ll be better equipped to not only live through it but thrive.

I think she’d be right.

Salomon Exit Aero Hiking Shoe

Today I am wearing a really special pair of shoes. They’re not strappy sandals or brightly colored peep toes or even Tall Girl shoes. No. These shoes are a completely foreign concept…they’re comfortable and supportive and built for wear and tear. These shoes are what I plan to wear when I turn 30! next month, when I first step foot in Alaska!

Oh, by the way, I’m going to Alaska.

In a matter of weeks, my boyfriend and I are flying to Seattle to spend a day bumbling about (restaurant recommendations anyone?), then cruising the Inside Passage for a week. We’re going to Juneau, Hubbard Glacier, Sitka, Ketichikan, and then Victoria, B.C. We’re going to go whale watching and glacier hiking and mountain biking and ohmygodIcannotwait!

I’ve always wanted to go to Alaska, always wanted to smell the pine trees and the rain, always wanted to measure the blue streaks of the ice against the blue sky, always always always wanted to see a whale. A whale! I will literally cry if I see a whale. They’re miraculous to me. I don’t know why, but they are.

So, for my thirtieth birthday, I’ll be celebrating the best way I know how- doing one of the things I want to do in life now rather than waiting until “someday” or until I “retire.” I don’t want to wait because…well, what if? I want to do it all, see it all, now.

At 10, I went to Disney World. At 16, I backpacked Glacier National Park in Montana. At 27, I went to London and Derbyshire (and a part of me never left). Now, at 30, there’s Alaska- where I’ll wear these shoes to run and jump and hike and bike and…knock down all the old geezers who’ll be on the cruise with us (you better believe I’ll be the first one off that boat in each port- look out Mildred and Herb! I’m spry and swift like a cheetah!).

Alaska. Even just whispering its name feels like an adventure. A mere word, but it instantly brings to mind all that is still wild and beautiful and untamed…and seemingly so far away from my little world here in the Midwest where there are no such things as oceans or whales or glaciers. A world away, finally within reach in four weeks time.

So this morning, as I sat in the center lane of an intersection to turn right (because crossing traffic for the Lake Shore Drive on-ramp backs up and blocks the right-hand portion of the intersection), I was simply doing what any city driver would do. I was going to work and I knew where to avoid getting hung up. Apparently, the silver BMW X5 in the right turn lane next to me didn’t share that knowledge.

When the light turned green, I pulled forward to turn right around the line of stopped cars blocking the intersection, which is when the X5 moved to cut me off. Incredulous, I laid on the horn for dramatic effect and made eye contact with its driver- a twenty-something platinum blond sporting sunglasses on a cloudy morning. I’m going to be straight with you, neither the make and model of her car, nor the physical traits of her persona did her any favors with me. Before I knew what I was doing, I muttered, “cunt.” GASP!

Now, I have to pause for a moment because this is the first time I’ve EVER called anyone this word. In fact, I never say it and I won’t let anyone around me say it either. It’s ugly and hateful and derogatory. But, while I’m not proud of my verbal reflexes today, she shouldn’t be proud of being such a c*nt either. Moving on…

C*nt or not, I knew I was going to let her through, but not before I fucked with her a little. I surged the car forward and slammed on the brakes a few times to make her think I was going to go ahead anyway. She wasn’t very happy about that. When I did let her go, I did so knowing about the double turn lane ahead where I would be cutting her off, which I did. She really didn’t like that.

Normally, you’d think that would be the end of Ms. X5 and her shenanigans, but 10 minutes down the road as I sat in a row of cars on Sheridan, she found me. She slammed on her brakes in the adjacent lane and tried to ridicule me with her own horn blaring. Notwithstanding the cars backing up behind her, her window came down and her sunglasses came off. She extended a tanned and bony arm, and then….a finger. One finger on the hand laden with the weight of her diamond engagement ring and wedding band. My own windows were rolled up and I had music playing, but I was still able to clearly hear her parting epitaph for me: “Fuck you, you fucking bitch!” before she sped off in a blur of bourgie glory.

I proceeded to spend the remainder of my drive to work reflecting on her antics. Hers was not the most creative of come backs, but she got her point across. And I have to hand it to her, she really went out of her way to track me down and tell me to “take that.” I’d venture to guess it was that level of gumption and studiousness that nabbed her the husband who likely bought her that WASPy pre-motherhood crossover. Good for you, honey. Good for you. So it must really suck for someone like her when even one little thing doesn’t go her way in life. With that in mind, I feel fairly certain from what I could see that she’ll wind up being adequately miserable simply by virtue of being who she is.

Lesson learned: driving in the leather-seated comfort of your BMW, to the job you expected your marriage to make obsolete, is hard.

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]]> http://www.nicnarrates.com/2010/03/26/change-of-lattitude/feed/ 1 http://www.nicnarrates.com/2010/02/25/damn-the-man/ http://www.nicnarrates.com/2010/02/25/damn-the-man/#comments Fri, 26 Feb 2010 05:00:08 +0000 Nic http://www.nicnarrates.com/?p=2830 Each morning, I stand at the bus stop. Twenty minutes later, when the bus finally arrives, I board and a sea of black greets me.

Black wool pea coats and puffer down jackets. Black berets and black gloves. Black dress shoes and ballet flats and knee high boots in black tights. Black trouser pants and skirts and suits. Black messenger bags and laptop cases and satchels. Black iPhones and Blackberrys.

Black. You’d almost think they’re all headed to a funeral. Maybe they are. They are, after all, on their way to work. An all black funeral procession dreading that 8 a.m. conference call. Dreading that “chummy” office banter- pedantic and forced and not all that funny really. Dreading the 3:30 vending machine run for overpriced but absolutely necessary Snickers because it satisfies. Dreading the pre-meeting to prepare for the meeting that will be followed by the post-meeting recap. Dreading brainstorming sessions with “the team” to throw even more words about synergies onto the heap already accumulated.

Black. They’ve accessorized their dread with sullen, sallow, vacant faces to match. So even should the sun brave the gloom, it’s always dark dark dark on this bus with those faces and their dread and all that black.

Briefly standing there, I scan the huddled masses- one onyx coat sleeve blending into the next- and TRIUMPH! find a coveted seat. It is then that I proceed to virtually slap my seatmates across the face. WAKE UP!

I’m on my way to a funeral too. But I’m the girl in the blood-orange toggle coat.

I immediately rule out one of those seemingly innocuous seats toward the front of the bus because I’m liable to lose it. My route is prone to a few elderly regulars and at least one expectant woman. Who, incidentally, I wasn’t aware was expecting in this weather with all the heavy coats and such- although that didn’t prevent her from shooting daggers at me for not hopping up with alacrity to give her my seat. Perhaps she’s practicing for the day The Baby turns 13 and decides she hates her mother? Or the day her husband realizes his growing resentment of marriage/house/baby around age 43?

Moving toward the center of the bus, game time decisions must be made. Where to go? Where to put my butt? Where? Where? WHERE DAMMIT?

Not there…that man is in fact taking up a seat and a half, despite his best efforts to the contrary. He can’t help it, but still. And not across the aisle either…there’s a double whammy of both a woman talking to her fellow co-worker or neighbor or what have you (which is peculiar on this route, as we’re a generally sullen bunch- all sallow and droopy eyed and silent as a library) and another woman chowing down on a freaking bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. Breakfast of champions indeed.

So if not there, where? Certainly not next to the man aggressively reading his paper, scorning all would be seat mates from daring to deign on his elbow room. No need to expose myself to his moody shenanigans. But if I go too far into the bus without selecting a seat, I’m likely to find myself without any option whatsoever. And at that point, there’s no turning back. I’ll have just committed myself to standing and shuffling amongst all those who will exit the bus before me. The elbow jabs, the pole wrestling, the computer satchels and messenger bags unceremoniously poking and prodding without abatement. Asses and elbows, asses and elbows.

Despite all of my efforts, despite recognizing all the places I ought not to sit, wouldn’t you know I often find myself darting into a less-than-desirable seat? Bus seat stage fright. There I sit broken and defeated next to the stinky food eater, the cell phone talker, the personal space “creeper,” or the seatmate who wants to be my new friend and won’t take a hint. Foiled again.