Growing up doesn't mean growing old

I am in my early 20s. My skin is flawless and soft. I have the energy to stay up until the wee hours of the morning, cat nap from 4 a.m. to 8 a.m. and then be up the next day. As far as I’m concerned, I’m in the prime of my life.

I’m old enough to know right from wrong, yet I am still young enough not to care. My parents still have a vital say in all of my decisions. My bed is still a twin. I’m still a student, so my true responsibilities are minimal. I spend money recklessly on manicures and pedicures because they are important to me. I still think it’s cool to call my grandparents Grammy and Papa. And everyone, no matter where I go, asks to see my ID because maybe I am still 16.

So if someone could someone tell me when I got old, I’d appreciate it greatly. Since when does being in your early 20s mean you must revert to fond memories of the “good-ol’-days” or look at pictures of how you “used to look back then”?   

Today, I was skimming my online NY Times, as per usual - a few food reviews, some travel articles, some Obama health care plans, a little fashion and style, and some horoscopes. Then, I came across an article entitled “Harry Potter Is Their Peter Pan.” Being a huge fan of both, I eagerly began reading.

It reported:

“Let the boomers have their 40th anniversary of Woodstock. Let Generation X commemorate the 15 years since Kurt Cobain shot himself. For Generation Y — those born roughly between 1980 and 2003 — it’s the pop culture of the late ’90s and early 2000s that makes them wistful.

“Other older members of Gen Y expressed…longing for late ’90s popular culture like AOL buddy lists and compact discs — the once-dominant music medium now in its declining years.

While boomers or Gen Xers might have no idea what the phrase ‘classic Nickelodeon’ implies, to anyone in his or her 20s, it means fondly remembered cable tween shows like “All That” and “Clarissa Explains It All” (whose star, Melissa Joan Hart, recently showed off her weight loss on the cover of People magazine).”

Sheesh! The nerve of this article.

Of course, I love AOL Buddy Lists (Heck, I still use mine!). And I did love “All That” and “Clarissa Explains It All” (sometimes I even catch reruns on Noggin!). But that doesn’t mean I’m old.

I still have my photograph of me with N’SYNC. I loved my Tamagotchi, my Baby G, my Limited Too clothing, my Lite Brite and my Easy-Bake Oven. That doesn’t mean I’m old.

I played with Pogs and Pokemon cards. I watched Captain Planet and Rugrats and other Saturday morning cartoons. Still, I’m not old.

I thought Topanga and Cory’s only competition for a better couple was Zac and Kelly. I still say “You got it, dude.” And I was around for the premier of Lion King and Aladdin and Pocahontas, you know, the  “Disney classics.”    

Oh. My. Goodness. This can only mean one thing…..I AM OLD. My best days are behind me with Full House, rainbow-swirl bread and smelly markers.   

When I was watching Armageddon with Andrew a few nights ago, I commented on how awful the graphics were. With movies like Transformers, how can Armageddon even compare? But what difference does it make? Its days of glory have long vanished. It now sits on the middle shelf at Blockbuster instead of along the back walls.

To make matters worse, my mom asked me the other day if I had seen some videos on YouTube. Something about horrible sing-alongs…who knows. Anyway, when I said I didn’t have the slightest clue about what she was referring to, she said that all “millennials” know about it. I should have recognized my age-factor then.

But what about Facebook and Twitter? What about blogging? What about iTouches? I use all of them. I can still text message and BBM and fix my wireless connection when I really need to. I’m still hip and young and cool and “with it.” 

You know what World, here’s a news flash: I’m from Generation Y, or what I prefer to refer to as “Generation Why?” Why not invent new technology? Why not explore Mars and Jupiter? Why not create iPhones and the internet and DVDs and flat screens? My generation is the forefront. There’s practically nothing unimaginable, nothing we as humanity can’t do.

No, I don’t watch Wizards of Waverly Place, and I don’t really know who Miley Cirus is. But I can still plan a goofy girls night of vegging out, lip-syncing and dressing up. I can still squeeze into a tight outfit and go out for a night on the town after watching my favorite episode of Gossip Girl and borrowing money from my parents to buy dinner. I can still blow bubbles in my chocolate milk on an airplane and then sip on an ice cold flute of Riesling. 

So excuse me if I seem to be a bit defensive. I may be growing up, but I am not growing old. I’ll laugh at all those ‘tweens still awkwardly trying to figure it all out, while I raise my glass and drink to being young and beautiful because as my favorite Pop icon Britney Spears once said, “I’m not a girl, not yet a woman.”  

Why We Travel: Make-believe isn’t so far-fetched after all in Florence and Madrid

There’s nothing quite as fanciful as embracing under a frilly umbrella during a light, midday rain shower. If I didn’t know any better, I would be tempted to believe this scene is a reenactment of an outtake from The Notebook or a day-dream sequence that every hopeless romantic dreams of.   

Passersby can’t help but feel a tinge of envy as this couple, passionately intertwined, shares a drawn-out kiss smack in the middle of the gardens in Florence. They are enjoying each other, not caring who is around to see or snap a photo. They embody true love.  

Fairy tales can and do exist. 

I’d always thought that Santa was imaginary - a figure to give children the hope that life is good and the incentive to be good boys and girls. This Santa, dressed in layman’s clothing, is in Madrid about two-weeks after Christmas day.  

As he sits in a plaza eagerly awaiting someone to come, his gold-rimmed spectacles hang from his neck. His potbelly hides behind his puff jacket. And his hat subdues his snow-white hair.   

He might be fooling everyone else, but those of us with magic in our hearts can tell who he really should be. 

Why We Travel: Fashion statements in Venice and Paris

Right about now, I am desperately longing for my European days. It's not the day-to-day occurrences or the nightlife promising to keep me out until 5 a.m. that I miss the most, but rather it's the ways of life. Sometimes it's the passion, other times it's the food. Today, it's the fashion. 

As such, I have decided to choose a photo (or two or three) that I took and write a detailed caption about what it does for me in relation to the lifestyle I miss. Photos, in addition to just being "pretty" or "cool," have the ability to still life and to tell so much more about place or an item. My "Why We Travel" blogs from here on out will be photos related to topics that leave me longing to travel.    

If gondola rides were sins, then black-and-white pinstriped, collared shirts would be whispers in the confessional. Every gondolier dons one. Every tourist wants to buy one. And you’d be hard-pressed not to see children walking around Venice wearing one. 

In this photo, gondoliers converse as they try to fit under a narrow bridge off of Venice’s Grand Canal.  At the beginning of tourist season, in the midday heat, on some of the tightest canals in all of Europe, gondola traffic jams are common. Tourists, perched atop a centuries-old bridge, can’t play “Where’s Waldo?” because every gondolier appears identical. They can, however, beg their loved ones for a shirt and stop by any vendor in any piazza to purchase one.

Public transportation uniform turned fashion statement defines this European city based in canal travel. 

The children of Paris are exquisite. In the dead of winter, this child looks either like a porcelain doll or a little adult. Her matching fur hat and coat belong on the runway or on a mannequin instead of outside in front of a street-corner crepe stand.

But parents will still dress their children like wealthy angels, even though they know children will be children. This little Parisian girl, despite her mother’s glares, couldn’t resist playing with leaves that fell on the icy ground while her mother ordered a breakfast crepe.  

Watching this child makes me wish there were 11 more of her so that I could chant one of my most favorite childhood-story lines: “In an old house in Paris that was covered with vines, lived 12 little girls in two straight lines. They left the house at half past nine. The smallest one was Madeline.” 

This picture-perfect, real-life Madeline goes to show that they don’t recognize Paris as a fashion capital for nothing.

Journey: Bimini and its backyard baker

In addition to being about sparklers, picnics, grilling and those ever-so-pesky mosquitoes, the Fourth of July conjures images of time off and laughing with family and friends. Normally, my body craves a day of swimming in my pool, soaking up the sun and sinking my teeth into a buttery, open-flame-cooked corn-on-the-cob. The muggy Florida heat can’t hamper my excitement for the “snap-crackle-pop” fireworks that I like to believe are Rice Crispys for the sky’s midnight snack. 

But for this year’s Fourth, one of my best friends, Rachel, and her family invited me to Bimini, an island in the Bahamas that celebrates America’s independence just because its heavy hand in tourism forces it to. I joined Rach and her family on a private boat to the island for a four-day getaway full of snorkeling, scuba diving and racing around in golf carts on the “wrong” side of the road. The two-hour boat ride from Miami made Bimini a quick, laid-back escape from the hustle and bustle of South Florida city life. And I didn’t even forget my passport.

Since the only way to get to the island is by boat or seaplane, Bimini is as close as I’ll probably ever come to being stranded on tiny island. And there is not much to do other than stay within the pastel-colored houses that make up the Bimini Bay Resort (which is evocative of Desperate Housewives and Pleasantville) or venture out to the small town in a golf cart to see a handful of run-down shops and some corroded houses. I am a stickler for getting a local feel of wherever I am, so I knew I needed to explore all that was beyond the Atlantis-like arc announcing the entrance to our resort.

My favorite way to get a local feel is to try the local flavor. If Guy Fieri has his Diners, Drive-Ins & Dives, then I’d like to have my Homey Hole-in-the-Walls worthy of Homage. It’s a passion of mine to try a city’s most well known cuisine. In Marseille, I feasted on bouillabaisse. In Paris, I munched on Nutella-filled crepes. In Barcelona, I ate Iberian ham and Spanish tortilla. In Amsterdam, I devoured poffertjes. In Jamaica, I tasted festival bread and Ting. And in Ireland, I had stews and Guinness.

Another family on Bimini spoke highly of authentic Bimini bread. Needless to say, I was gung-ho about tasting some. So Rach, her parents and I piled into the golf cart and head out in search of Charlie’s Fresh Bread.

We found the hand-painted sign on the outside of a house and cracked concrete steps, which signified we had found just the spot. We parked our cart and walked in. It was like entering someone’s home. We walked by the couches and photos hanging on the wall as we made our way to the kitchen, which lacked air conditioning. It seemed we were trespassing instead of entering a Bimini bakery. 

A sweet and coconuty smell filled the house while easing the damp heat. A man was removing loaves of bread from a single, normal-sized oven in the kitchen. And on what looked like a kitchen table, the man’s wife had more loaves of bread sitting out and cooling. The woman informed us that the regular loaves of Bimini bread are $4 each and the coconut Bimini bread loaves are $5 each. Of course, I had to try both.

Since the loaves aren’t sliced, Rach and I reached in the plastic bags and a broke off hunks of the light and fluffy (almost spongy) white bread. The regular Bimini bread had just a hint of sweetness, but the coconut – my personal favorite, even though I normally hate coconut – was even sweeter.  We bought quite a few loaves of both types of bread to bring home for our friends and ourselves.

Though I wouldn’t suggest going to Bimini if you desire lots of action and tons to do, I would say that it is a great beach-town for a weekend getaway. If you do make it to the island, then trying the coconut Bimini bread is a must.  Be sure to bring some back because they make excellent gifts. And don’t forget to pick up an extra loaf for yourself so you can make some tasty French toast for a breakfast reminiscent of Bimini.