The rainbow's end

You'll find unicorns, pastel castles, princesses with flowy hair and bejeweled crowns, fairies, mermaids and other whimsical beauties in a pack of glittery stickers if you look hard enough. They are happy and bright creatures and objects, earning them a permanent place in 5-year-old, girly girl hearts - where good in life means strawberry shortcake and puppies, and all bad can be solved by a kiss on a boo-boo and some chocolate pudding. Rainbows, by their very nature - delicate and colorful - are inevitably deemed imaginary and given an honorary placement in the land of la-la. 

Somewhere between the "Mat-Bat-Sat" book reports and the Big Books that we as kindergardeners were to take home and have our parents sign , I can still remember the day I learned about rainbows. Over and over, my class recited the rainbow colors in order - Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Violet. We then used cotton balls dipped in paint and construction paper to create our own rainbows. On the small paper, using my small hands, I formed horseshoes, childishly (though age-appropriately) failing to recognize the profoundness of the colors and how in real life, they seamlessly flow into one another.        

  

Surely throughout my years I have seen rainbows after storms or after midday rain showers. But it wasn't until yesterday that I finally got it.  

I visited a rainbow's end. Actually, it visited me. Now I am not one to believe in signs and I am a firm believer that we make our own destinies, but when I was leaving my house , I walked out my front door and had a majestic view of a rainbow. Normally, I'm lucky to spot a faint line, or perhaps a fragment of one before a cloud intercepts it. But on this particular occasion, I saw an entire one - end to end, unobstructed by any cloud, tree or house.  

The great thing about rainbows is that unlike imaginary friends, everyone can actually see them. Adults don't need to rely on children to verbalize what they are seeing and then piece together the outline. Everyone can appreciate rainbows and know they are staring at the exact same manifestation of light. Even though they can't touch it, they can capture it on film to reconfirm the reality of it all, like I did yesterday with my camera phone. 

After appreciating its beauty, I got in my car to head over to Rachel's house, keeping my eyes on the breathtaking prism of color (and the road, of course).  And then, as if I were day-dreaming, an airplane came flying through the band of color of one of the rainbow's legs and climb higher into the sky (I promise, I could not even make this up!). Dumbfounded, I stopped my car, poked my head out the window like a floppy dog and rubbed my eyes to make sure it wasn't an illusion. I sat there bamboozled until some angry man driving in the lane going opposite my direction honked at me. 

Like I said, I am not one to believe in harbingers. But whether it was science or some higher power, I could swear that rainbow I saw in its entirety and the airplane were signs. It was as though someone had set up a larger-than-life projection screen in the sky, saying "Hey KP! Here's evidence that fairy tales really do exist." I like to believe it was showing me a missing link, the secret to how reality and truth can be mixed with make-believe on special, rare occasions. 

When push comes to shove, fables, myths and tales (supped up with love-at-first-sight, knights in shining armor and happily ever after) are just that - sparkly comfort food for the brain; a snapshot of a perfect reality we as adults are all too often sure cannot actually exist. But where the line gets hazy is when something you'd swear is a fairy tale meets real life. When I can see a complete rainbow. That's enough proof for me. I'll remain a believer and a dreamer so long as I can skip at the rainbow's end. 

You only live once?

Take a walk down Las Olas on a Friday night. Circa 8 p.m. No, really, do. Patios are jam-packed with people waiting for tables – upwards of an hour, have you – and sipping on martinis made with premium liquor. The valet guys can only catch a break from parking Mercedes, Ferraris and Porsches when Hummer limos pull up. And women too old to show so much leg are attempting to keep eyes from their varicose veins by loudly displaying their two, humongous fake additions in dresses that appear too trashy to have cost $250. Men sport toothy, perfectly white smiles as they usher appetizers and drinks to bimbos they’ve never even met. As for an economic crisis, I wouldn’t even believe it. I suppose people would rather spend money on a fancy night out than on their mortgages?

At the culmination of my first official week of work, I felt entitled to a delicious dinner at a trendy hot spot. Missing Barcelona’s late-night scene and my “there’s-always-something-going-on” social life, I needed to escape from a dinner in the confines of my home. Las Olas, with its plethora of expensive, yet usually tasty restaurants, promised not only dinner, but a chic ambiance for a Friday night. I selected YOLO – a restaurant that opened after I left for Spain and nightspot that friend’s raved about.

YOLO (You Only Live Once) had mixed reviews online, but an eclectic menu with main plates ranging from $16 to $35. A call the morning of snagged me reservations at 8:30 p.m. (apparently everyone makes reservations for 7:30 p.m. and 8 p.m.), and my best friend, Andrew, and I arrived early to enjoy a drink on the lounge-style, South-Beach-wannabe patio before our meal. It was here that we played a rousing game of “Who can spot the most fake boobs.” Andrew, naturally inclined as a male, of course, won, but I like to believe this was because I was more intrigued by wads of cash folks were doling out, drink after drink (what about this economic crisis my parents swear we are going through?)

With a name like YOLO, I envisioned oily, bready, creamy foods smothered, covered, sautéed and flambéed in butter and, oh, I dunno, chocolate. I mean, that’s what you’d want to eat at a place that stands for You Only Live Once, right? The one-sided menu was more like that of a high-end wedding reception, with a choice of fish, chicken or beef. I opted for the rotisserie chicken marinated in crushed herbs, served with herb mashed potatoes, and Andrew ordered the New York Strip on special with gilled veggies and the same mash. I must say it was pretty “cool” that the hostess used a rather large stamp to punch the list of specials into our paper tablecloth.

My chicken was good, and the portion size was adequate. Just good and adequate. The potatoes were light and airy. You-only-live-once light and airy…not at all. The atmosphere, trendy and modish, added some needed pizzazz, and the meal overall was enjoyable (but perhaps that’s because I was in great company). So if you can really only live once (and you actually are in an economic crisis), then perhaps you should take a trip over to Jaxon’s Ice Cream Parlor and really enjoy some relatively cheap, worthwhile calories and fat in the form of a kitchen sink.

Adult Xs and Os (hey, at least you’ve been warned)

Is it that X marks the spot, or is it that your eX knows your spot? And no, that’s not what she said.

My eX and I went for our semi-annual coffee catch-up because we always promised we’d remain friends. Admittedly, I was initially hesitant with the whole “friends” thing, coming up with this or that as an excuse to bail. After four years of a whole lot of feelings, it’s almost impossible not to come up with a whole lot of reasons why it’d probably be bad idea to meet up. But since we are both only home in South Florida a few times a year, we decided that we shouldn’t lose what’s left of our friendship.     

Last night, we met up at Starbucks, because, well, that’s just what we do. It’s one of our spots. He didn’t need to ask, and I didn’t need to beg; we both just instinctually knew – when we meet up, we meet up at Starbucks. Like an algorithm.   

Ironically, on my drive over, Y-100 was asking listeners if it’s possible to hook up with ex’s and not feel anything, not have any strings attached (funny how life works, eh?). Some people called in and said “yes, but only if you were both never in love.” A few just said “yes.” But most agreed that “no, someone is bound to get hurt.” If I were to ask some of my best friends, I am positive they would tell you it’s 110 percent impossible.    

With my coffee in hand, I sat with my eX and laughed and reminisced and talked about who’s pregnant, who’s engaged and who’s up to what. This chitter-chatter mixed with the radio’s topic of conversation, of course, got me thinking about the strange relationships we all have with have with our eXs.

Do we go back because our hearts can’t let go? Do we go back because we don’t want to raise our numbers? Or do we go back because our eX’s know our spots?

Two years since our break-up, I can still tell you my eX’s cologne with my eyes closed (Armani Black Code) and his favorite old movie (Top Gun). I can still tell you he loves a slab of prime rib and he’s always down to share spinach dip. He still loves pens (Mont Blanc) and if I suggested going to Marian’s Bagel Host, Chima’s or The Mariott Harbor Beach Club – I could bet you he’d say “When?”  

It’s scarily simple to fall back into the comfort zone. To play the same roles you played during your relationship, even during the short amount of time it takes to drink a tall latte. To wonder where the time went. How quickly the mind forgets the hurt and the pain and the illogical fights, and the whole reason you broke up in the first place. It’s all so shockingly easy.

People have this emotional need to desperately cling on to the past and to wish they could relive and retry everything, which is why we can’t help but remember our spots. We associate every great meal, fun day-trip and crazy night with people. We don’t remember exactly what we wore or who drove or what we ordered, but we remember being euphorically happy at drive-ins and at sushi restaurants.   

But while memories are crucial, they are simply that: memories. Fixations that keep us content. And though I can’t say it’s easy, maybe it’s best to forget old spots so we can find new ones and make more memories.

Our eX’s may know our spots. They may promise to trigger great responses, but only by keeping us tied down. However, when the S&M (sameness and melancholy) becomes daily routine, we find ourselves desensitized and bored.

Thus, as in Tic-Tac-Toe, our eX’s can only block our Oh’s, and who wants to live an unsatisfied life? Now that’s what she said. 

We all gotta start somewhere...

It’s pretty tough for a suburban slicker turned city chick returned slightly changed suburban slicker to keep her many lives separate. After four months of here and four months of there and yet another four months of somewhere else, I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster and just when my stomach catches up with the rest of my body, the ride plunges again. I find myself mixing my “excuse me’s” with my “perdona’s” with my “get the hell out of my way’s.” And I can’t for the life of me remember if I should walk, take the subway or drive my car to my destination.

Being home means being a team player. Contributing to household chores, running errands and remembering birthdays. With my newfound love of cooking (especially after taking a cooking lesson in Spain) and since I have to wash the dishes anyway, I figured that for my mother’s birthday I should prepare a dinner.

Calling myself a beginner chef would be a fallacy. If I told you I have prepared more than simple scrambled eggs, tortellini, oatmeal or tuna fish, I would be lying. I’d also be lying if I told you that I am an expert microwaver because I have been known to reheat food that’s still wrapped in tinfoil, and I have set off sparks when trying to boil water in a metal-insulated coffee mug. On occasion, I have left a pot on a heated stove without anything in it, and aside from packing the occasional brown paper bag lunch or baking pull-and-peel cookies, I can scarcely tell the difference between a whisk and a monkey wrench. I was never one to participate in preparation or cooking of my childhood family dinners, and it probably didn’t help that we ate out at least four nights a week. Thus, I got the gift of dinner table gab, but not the flare for food.

That being said, I suppose I should call myself a sorry fledgling – desperately trying but completely vying - in the kitchen. Mother bird is about to push me out of the nest and I am smart enough to know that I’m gonna land with one heck of a splat. So a dropped red wine bottle, a fried microwave and a terminally screwed-up electric can opener seem like minor issues that I’m sure every great chef messed up at one point. My mom’s birthday meal is a great excuse to catch up with my cooking faux pas in the comfort of my own home under the direction of my not-so-little younger brother, who relatively knows his way around the kitchen.      

I flipped through my mom’s Bon Appetite and the darling cookbook my mom’s friend, Cindy, sent me after I raved about her superb scallops. Because I believe every meal should be centered on a theme, I selected a hodge-podge of items to create a menu inspired by my trip to Spain (plus, I knew it would help my homesickness for Calle Aribau, 80).

A feast in honor of Mommy’s birthday

Assortment of Mediterranean olives

Creamy gazpacho with chunks of fresh cucumber, tomato and onion, garnished with basil and grated parmesan cheese

Spanish tortilla made with chopped sweet onions and sliced potatoes

Steak fajitas with grilled peppers and mango, served with a special, whipped sour cream-based sauce invented by my brother

Steamed carrots, broccoli and water chestnuts

Chocolate birthday cake (bought by my stepdad) 

The olives served as a Spanish “pica pica,” or a small delight for my family to nosh on about 20 minutes before the commencement of the formal meal. Thanks to Bon Appetite, I prepared a tasty tomato soup with a tad of garlic. I chopped and blended a day in advance so my gazpacho would have time to chill in the fridge. Cold soup is always my mom’s favorite, and I knew a completely homemade gazpacho would serve as a tasty treat in the humid Florida heat. It actually turned out to be everyone’s favorite part of the meal. 

The tortilla recipe I used for my premier plate was a traditional Catalonian one that I learned during my cooking lesson in Barcelona. It is, by far, my most preferred Spanish dish, so I knew that I would have to incorporate it in my menu somehow. The second plate, steak fajitas, was a concoction invented with the assistance of my brother, who has always enjoyed a hefty hunk of meat for his main course. I did, however, put up a few fights.

Perhaps I should backtrack for a moment. When I dine out, my orders tend to be reminiscent of Sally’s from “When Harry Met Sally.” “I’ll have the grilled chicken sandwich without the bun, but with extra lettuce and extra tomatoes and honey mustard on the side. You can hold the pickle. As for sides, well, I won’t eat French fries, so can I get a side salad with balsamic vinegar? Of course, I’ll want the vinegar on the side too. Thank you and that’s all.”

Needless to say, I needed to fight for my brother’s special sauce to be served on the side of the fajitas (not all of us are so athletically inclined and can easily lose unwanted calories). Plus, I have never been a fan of anything drenched in sauce - I think it’s a sign that either the main course isn’t strong enough to stand on its own or that the sauce isn’t flavorful enough to be served in moderation. I also suggested chunks of mango on the side since I felt the meat and peppers could use a bit of tangy sweetness (I have always had a sweet tooth!).

Lastly, to compliment the heavy fajitas, as well as to help out our digestive tracks, I served steamed veggies. I must admit, though, these came from a bag of SteamFresh and were nothing special. But when served with the rest of the dinner, these light veggies were just what we needed.  

Good food, however, does not make a good meal. A beautifully set table and proper presentation are key (at least all those childhood years of dining out taught me something!). I served my olives with rainbow-colored toothpicks, and the tortilla was cut like a pizza pie (I figured that if my food was awful, at least it would look pretty). The piece-de-resistance was my gazpacho, which I served in chilled wine glasses with a basil leaf sticking out and grated cheese.

The steak turned out a bit overcooked. The potatoes in the tortilla were not soft enough. I added a bit too much extra virgin olive oil in my soup. We didn’t begin eating until 8:30 p.m. since I totally miscalculated how long everything would take. And I put the SteamFresh bag with the wrong side up in the microwave. But everyone seemed to enjoy the meal and it was my first true experience cooking. No blown up microwaves (just a blown up bag of veggies) and no cuts on my fingers from all the chopping. Alright! 

So voila (and I learned they actually do say this in France) - my meal was a success. One small step for womankind, one giant leap for this kook in the kitchen KP.  

Legally a guardian angel

I used to have a joke with a friend that I was a guardian angel - as in someone who seemingly magically appears at the opportune time to serve as a reminder that the core of life is good. I always shrugged his compliment off because to me, guardian angels were figments found only in the la-la land of childhood movies, like Whitney Houston and some guy named Duddly in "The Preacher's Wife."

Now, a little bit older and a lot bit wiser, it is my genuine belief that everyone has a guardian angel and everyone is one to someone else, even if they never realize it. Whether we help each other with personal problems, relationship issues or simply provide a friendship, it’s the human interaction that keeps us afloat through our toughest times and provides the advice we so desperately need to help us carry on.

I never took my friend to be a soothsayer, so I don’t really know when our joke became a prophecy, but somehow I have become an actual, legal guardian angel. Well, sort of. I’ve become a guardian ad litem thanks to my summer internship with the Guardian ad Litem Program in South Florida. With hopes of attending law school and needing to do research for my senior thesis, I wanted to combine my love for the community and children with my political science background.

The Guardian ad Litem program, funded by the state, provides children, from infants to 18-years-of-age, with assistance in the dependency court system. Thus, it is my job as a law intern to represent children alleged to be abused, abandoned or neglected and work in their best interest regarding legal aspects of their lives. Essentially, I play a big role in a little person’s life.

While jeans and winter boots and weekend getaways to the French Riviera or Amsterdam seem like dinosaurs in my not-that-distant past, it’s back to the real world, business attire and all. It’s time for me to give back to those who will most likely never get to experience even half of the wonderful things I’ve done. By meeting with and representing these children, I am not only helping them, but I am also paying a huge thanks to all those who have been my angels-in-disguise at one point.

'Tis better to give than to receive. Now if only I could sing like Whitney Houston.

Queen of the airwaves

So how is it that you keep a devastated girl’s eyes from bawling at 4 a.m. when the taxi comes to pick her up in Barcelona to take her to the airport, burst her dream-world bubble and send her straight home, totally broke, to a boring reality? Well, you put her in First Class on a Delta flight, of course – especially when she needs to fly from Barcelona to Madrid, Madrid to Atlanta, and then Atlanta to Ft. Lauderdale for a total of 20 traveling hours.  

And this jetsetter did just that. Row 1, Seat B, baby, on all three legs of the trip. While I expected it to be good, my goodness, was I naive. It was - I am talking - feel-at-home, wait-you-hand-and-foot, “Yes, Ms. Packer, what can I do for you” good. I was a celebrity in my own right, sipping sparkling wine before take off and ordering a 5-course meal.  

My lap of luxury began in the VIP lounge of the airport, where I helped myself to a totally free self-service bar, coffee machine, snack fridge (fully stocked with croissants and sandwiches), and refreshment machine. The fluffy, velvety couches were more welcoming then the bed I had been sleeping in the past four months at Senora’s place. Needless to say, with my rolling carryon in hand, I stepped off the elevator in to the exclusive lounge and my mouth dropped. I am certain that I looked like a little child in Toys-R-Us who had been given a blank check. Who know that the other world lived so well and how had I been missing this my whole life?

The other VIPs wore the room – better yet, ballroom – well, playing on their laptops and iPhones in Ferragamo suits. Perhaps, I should mention I didn’t quite dress for the occasion. My black, velour sweatpants, green American Apparel V and straw fedora weren’t assisted by my no-makeup face, and I wouldn’t be shocked if the three-piece suits wondered who let this “child” in here. I, however, had plans of being comfy and shrugged it off. I woke up at 4 a.m. for Christ’s sake! If I am gonna pay for first class, by golly, I am gonna wear whatever I want.

I helped myself to the free goodies and delicious coffee, before snagging Spain’s version of Yoohoo from the fridge and going down to board my nine-and-a-half-hour flight. After bypassing all the common folk at the gate, I became acquaintances with 1B. He was a beauty in his leathery blueness and the full-sized pillow and comforter he was wearing fit him well. And what’s better, he brought me a present. I took my seat and immediately threw off my shoes to put on my gifted no-slip-grip socks (apparently, I am very easily impressed, but what can I say? It’s not everyday an airplane gives you a sleep mask and a toothbrush!). While all the business people were frigid, still blabbing endlessly on their phones, I was smushing my tush into my seat and electronically moving the seatback and footrest up and down and up and down, as if I had never sat in the chairs outside of Brookstone. When I got tired of that, I popped my personal reading light and mini TV in and out. I then proceeded to figure out how my big table and my small table worked.   

My mental process during all of this went like so: Oh yeah! Oh yeah! Check me out! I am living like Richie Rich or that kid from Blank Check. Woohoo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And the flight attendants didn’t help my ego with their “Hello, Ms. Packers.” When one came around ask for drink orders, the men and couples around me ordered wine and top-notch sparkling alcoholic beverages. I had other plans for easing my edge and asked for a bottle opener for my stolen, glass-bottle chocolate milk. In the most serious voice, but with a genuine smile, the flight attendant said, “Gladly,” and brought me a glass cup with ice so that my milk would be cold. It’s a damn good thing she didn’t bring me a straw because I may have been tempted to blow bubbles in my chocolate drink.

When the man sitting next to me asked my name, I contemplated saying Annie Warbucks and I was a heartbeat away from asking him to pinch me.

The rest of the flight was sheer bliss. When I slept, I reclined. When I ate, it was surprisingly delicious. Actually, it was scrumptious. And perhaps the best part was the expensive wine the attendants kept refilling. White, red, sparkling and port.  

And so my flight went as such: Glass of wine. Eat. Sleep. Another glass of wine. Watch Slumdog Millionair. Eat. Coffee. Wine. Watch Marley & Me. Eat. Sleep. Eat. Wine.

Come on folks, does life get any better? For the first time since my sorority presidency, I felt like a queen. A queen of the sky - up above the clouds, having people wait on me.

But since what goes up, must come down, so to did my attitude in tandem with the plane itself. I went from my mile-high high to a thudding splat by the time I exited the plan in Atlanta.

As I exited, my nostrils were filled with the nauseating, deep-fried odor of Popeye’s, McDonalds, Taco Bell and Burger King. The bright, neon lights in the airport stung my retinas. And, oh, the people. Americans. Gross. Overweight men in floral shirts. Sweatshirts galore. Flat, rubber flip-flops that should only be worn to the beach. And the worst of it all, men in shirts, ties and shorts all at once. I guess I became a European snob while I was away.

For all the missing home I did, I seemed to have forgotten that home means fat, grungy, loud Americans living on fly-over land without much history or ancient ruins of any sort. Feeling terrible for myself, I picked up a Starbucks, but it only soiled my mood more. I subjected myself to sipping on burnt-bean, coffee-flavored water that some American thought would be funny to call coffee.

Welcome home, air princess, welcome home. You should've blown chocolate milk bubbles while it lasted.