KP in the City

Key Kids

2011-02-21T19:54:00.001-05:00

My students hold the immensity of the world - and they hold it in their keys. They wear them around their wrists, hanging from their necks, tucked away in their pockets and hidden in secret hiding spots at the bottoms of their shoes - for losing these sacred front-door keys is apocalyptic. My students' hands - only 10-years-old - hold their little brothers' and sisters' down the hill and around the bend to open empty houses and cupboards. They unlock doors with keys of all shapes and sizes to no one. They let themselves in and they keep themselves safe. Key Kids, I call them. And all of them are key kids.

Growing up in suburban South Florida, I distinctly remember my school days. My mom, or our carpool, would drop me off at school, and I would chat with friends while reviewing previous days' notes. At the end of the day, I would make my way to daycare and wait for my mom to arrive at 5:30 p.m. or so to drive me home safely and feed me a filling feast. I'd think of answers to questions like "What did you learn today?" and "What's your next big project?" so that I'd be ready to share at our nightly dinner table conversations and games. Childish, yet very real worries of how to divide 25 by 4 or how to possibly read 5 chapters in a night plagued my mind, but work always waited until after dinner.

My key kids don't have time to worry about chapters or arithmetic, and "after dinner" could mean 10 or 11 at night. They are worrying about finding food for dinner, getting clean, staying warm once the sun goes down and drowning out the sounds of sirens - worries that I shouldn't even have at my age.

Though they'll never know that their kid counterparts in suburban communities around the country do not withstand even an eighth of the weight they carry, my key kids are showing up to school, homework gripped as tightly as their keys, maintaining as much sanity and heart as possible. It's no wonder my students act out - they play the role of child, student, adult and parent all at once without guidance or support. I tip my hats to them for their courage and strength, hoping that perhaps the cycle will break, and parents will hold the keys for kids who deserve to use toy keys to open pretend cars instead of real keys to open the very real doors of the burdensome responsibilities of life.

The oil that fuels my miracle.

2010-12-01T22:09:00.004-05:00

Today is December 1^st and winter, in all its chilling glory, has finally arrived in Baltimore. Department stores have begun to put out their festive winter displays. Radio stations have switched exclusively to Christmas and snow tunes. Streets are lined with tinsel, even in the projects. Christmas lights abound in front of porches. And ABC Family has begun its ever-so-anticipated 25 Days ‘Til Christmas.

Somewhere between all the Christmas hoopla that stores grasp their greedy hands to, it has somehow become Hanukkah – this year, shafted by its unfortunate timing and my overly chaotic life.

After lesson planning and PowerPoint-making, I lit the shamash candle using my temperamental gas stove as a lighter and then sang in a mousy-sort-of voice to myself to celebrate an anti-climatic Hanukkah. I watched my candles burn, flames dancing in the chill, and let my busy mind wander to thinking about the true miracle it must have been to have oil last for eight days.

The candles make me long for days in which my mother would gift me bottles of shampoo and packs of underwear, disguised in wrapping as million-dollar presents. My father would make brisket with beer. I miss homemade sweet potato latkes and my most favorite Hanukkah song, “I’m a little latke,” toe-tap and all. Then I realize I am a young, working professional who can’t get gifts and gelt every night of the holiday and who doesn’t have time to cook brisket for one.

As I wallow in self-pity, staring at the two sole candles, I realize I have found the new meaning of the holiday within the past three months. This year, the oil that keeps me burning is my students. My job is hard. Really hard. But little Thanksgiving notes that say “Ms. Packer, you are my favorite teacher because you care about me,” and comments like “Ms. Packer, don’t take this the wrong way but I love you” and “Hey! She’s my teacher not yours” are the few small drops of oil that I need to keep burning bright for at least 9 months of school. This year, I am the miracle that continues to give every day making sure that 68 minds are growing and learning. On the few days, like today, where students love to learn, I am filled with enough oil to last, and I have every Hanukkah gift I could ever need.

One giant mug of hot cocoa, cracking lips, a sweatshirt four-sizes too big (just the way I like it) and I have found our way into bed way past our bedtime. I sleep with not one, not two, but three blankets to simulate my native Florida hibernation conditions.

In honor of the holiday, this poor teacher has mustered up the courage to give herself a gift – finally, writing a blog, even on a night when she should be far too busy worrying about her 68 children to be enjoying getting lost in words and verbose analogies. Happy Hanukkah, Ms. Packer…keep burning, it’s worth it.

Lesson One: Being a teacher is hard work.

2010-06-28T22:01:00.005-04:00

My name is Ms. Packer and I'll be your 5th grade language arts teacher...that's right folks! Yours truly was hired by Bay Brook Elementary/Middle in Baltimore City (Bmore), Maryland, to be the sole 5th grade language arts teacher. I couldn't have picked a better placement for myself if I selected it (truth be told: they asked me what I wanted and by some trick short of a miracle, the school had an opening to meet my exact wants!). I will now officially be carrying on the legacy of all the English-teaching greats, even attempting to match those as fabulous as Mrs. Winrow and Mrs. Morris. Quite a feat!

At this point, I AM Teach For America. As one of 180, 2010 corps members in Baltimore, I have taken a vow - one to education, one to teaching, and one to pushing myself to my max, giving 100 percent of myself, 100 percent of the time to 100 percent of my students. I will make a difference.

Last week, in the blistering heat that apparently envelops Baltimore mid-summer, I lugged my business attire, teaching supplies and snacks to my 4th floor dorm room at Johns Hopkins University for a week of Induction. Hundreds motivational speeches, way too many informational sessions and a few too many soggy turkey sandwiches later, I have made great new friends who challenge me daily and even seek to compete with my organizational skills. I have acquired even more motivation to be the best first-year teacher I can be.

Somehow, in the midst of running to and from sessions booked back-to-back, I found an adorable, completely charming row home in Canton (young, fun part of town), and have solidified two other roommates (TFAers) to keep me sane. I went out twice, to encourage "camaraderie," and sang my heart out at a dueling pianos bar. Demanding sessions offset by a blossoming social life mean that I am keeping it together.

And good thing because my feet are not. Heels suck. Yes, I am an English teacher and yes, I said it...high heels suck!! The blisters on my feet ooze and sap at the most awful times and I have to walk barefoot across campus before re-shoeing my poor toe-sies. But I am not alone in my struggles, every other female looks as though they just begun dancing on point - with bandages stuck tightly to their raw skin and gel insets to cushion their aching arches. I have a whole new appreciation for blister Band-aids.

I passed health screenings and fingerprintings and was accepted officially to Johns Hopkins before making my way to Philly for my five-week INTENSIVE institute.

Today was my first day. I woke at 5 a.m. Had breakfast at 5:45 and loaded my bus to an elementary school in Philly by 6:30 a.m. At the school, I am giving my crash-course in lesson plan writing and teaching. For the summer, I will teach 6th grade math in a 90 minute session all by myself, but under the direction of a mentor teacher. Though the grade and subject don't directly correlate to my placement in Baltimore, I am anticipating strong transferable skills that will make me a fabulous, well-respected teacher.

Every moment of mine is practically booked solid, but I will provide e-mail updates as often as possible. I miss you all and must keep you all in the loop.

For the time being, I am reminding myself to "B' More," no matter what it takes...I'm betting on pots of coffee!

Dear College, thanks for the memories

2010-04-19T15:44:00.005-04:00

College – the highly coveted four years that most every middle/upper class kid experiences. Attending is not a possibility, but a requirement to make proud parents prouder and to prove the level of one’s education. Sure, school choice matters – Harvard and Yale, or the University of Florida and Florida State. But we all continue our education for the same reasons: the college years provide the perfect canvas for the transition to maturation – four years (or maybe more) away from home, an excuse to procrastinate a real-life job, a time for self-discovery, and perhaps, a place to acquire a more concentrated skill set.

People always refer to their college years as “the times of their lives.” They warn you to enjoy every moment, promising that the four years will fly by. They urge you to stay summers and get involved. They tell stories from their hay day, which must be missing the essential details that make the stories funny in the first place. They can’t help but reminisce. Is it because of the great educational experiences they encountered? No. It’s because of the friendships they created, the places they went, the bad choices they made, the independence they gained, the tailgates and football they watched.

Everyone seems to know, but no one really seems to care that college life is more about self-discovery than it is about higher education. Memories of sorority functions and weekend away trips to football games fill the spaces in our brains where statistics and comparative politics knowledge should be. Still, we leave our university, diploma in hand, only slightly smarter than we’ve ever been, but with more confidence, self-esteem and stories than we knew possible.

I sucked the life out of orange and blue. My time at UF can been categorized as anything but dull. Summer B, I took advantage of meeting new people, ordering pizza and pokey sticks for late night snacks and adding a second major (political science) after thoroughly enjoying my first international relations class. By the time fall semester arrived and rushing a sorority took priority over classes, I was well acquainted with the campus.

My journalism major made it acceptable for me to be curious about every hidden nook and cranny in Gainesville. I traveled to High Springs, Starke and Alachua looking for stories to write and people to meet. The only “A” in my entire collegiate career that I didn’t receive was, ironically, in Intro to Journalism (B+). I learned never to skip extra credit assignments, no matter how solid I thought my grade was.

Odd jobs defined my time not in class – a Texas Roadhouse hostess for two days before I quit (who likes to clean bathrooms?); a door girl to collect money on Thursdays at a downtown Gainesville club, where I’d watch bloody brawls take place; a beer tub girl at Gator City, where the lower my top meant the greater my tips; a tutor for Advanced Learning Centers, in which I tutored a first-grader twice a week in reading; a freelance food and restaurant critic for Examiner.com that allowed me to try each and every Gainesville restaurant my heart desires; and an ice-cream seller at the Gator football games in the alumni section, with weekly regulars. Attending games meant selling ice-cream, not watching.

I studied abroad – twice – with a greater emphasis on the “abroad” than on the “studying.” On my journey spring semester of junior year, I ended up on a fourth-floor “piso,” or apartment, in Barcelona, Spain, for four months. I lived with a host mother who spoke Spanish a-mile-a-minute – the most apropos breeding ground for misunderstandings. Dinners consisted of my broken chit-chat and offensive slurs. I would say accidentally that I was pregnant instead of embarrassed, or talk about my anus instead of my age. Despite my inevitable flaws, I practiced, and my trip became an on-the-go education. Spanish class took place in cabs and small boutiques. Home economics occurred mid-afternoon as I watched a woman scale fish in an open market, and my new Spanish friends taught linguistics – more aptly Profanity 101 – as we enjoyed tapas. By the time I shared my final meal with my Senora, Spain had become my home, and my educational experience became part of my life lexicon. I traveled to Paris, the south of France, Italy, Amsterdam and all around Spain on weekends, learning there’s more to life than school. I returned from gallivanting halfway around the world to realize that the love of my life was my best guy friend, and we would begin a relationship that makes others envious.

My second journey, 10 days in Icapuí, Brazil, with Pulitzer-Prize-winning photojournalist and professor John Kaplan for the coveted, invite-only Florida FlyIns class taught me the wonders of international journalism. I combined my love for travel and writing while producing a story on a Brazilian fisherwoman and getting class credit.

Internships, the mantra of UF faculty, became my goal. Us Weekly, Universal Republic Records, the Guardian Ad Litem program, Vertical Textiles, The Gainesville Sun, a stringer for The Independent Florida Alligator, and a freelancer for Tea Time magazine each became bullet points on my ever-growing resume.

The rest of my college experiences were a potpourri of this and that that I somehow found the time to accomplish/do. I was president of my sorority, a member of the prestigious Freshmen Leadership Council, a campus diplomat. I won an AT&T scholarship for three years. I was named the John Paul Jones, Jr. award winner for excellence in writing, as nominated and voted on by the journalism faculty and administration. I became an Anderson Scholar for the College of Liberal Arts and Sciences because of my stellar GPA. I graduated Summa Cum Laude (highest honors) and paid $45 just to wear the three cords at graduation. One of my professors dubbed me "a human highlighter." I created my first two blogs: KP in the City and Fork First Spoon Later. I went on a road trip to South Carolina for a Gator game. I spring breaked in Coast Rica. I “dated” my TA.

Only once I’ve cleared my head of each life-changing experience that has already become my college story, can I remember the classes – classes like food politics, in which I wrote and published my first book, "The Taste of Culture," and MMC2100 (Writing for Mass Communication) with an instructor who, to this day, remains one of my most valued mentors. I can think back fondly on once-dreaded papers and projects that have made me expand my personal boundaries while helping me to discover myself.

With a tear in one eye and a wink in the other, I pop the college bubble that I’ve been living in and prepare to tackle real life – Teach For America in Baltimore - where waking up at a normal hour is socially acceptable, working anywhere other than a bar or a club is smiled upon and going out nearly every night of the week is impossible. I leave feeling scared, yet ready to face those challenges ahead. Nostalgia for years past sets in and I long to relive it all over again. I wish I could go back to college.

“Now the world’s gonna wake and see, Baltimore and me!”

2010-01-28T00:10:00.002-05:00

It’s almost surreal.

I knew Teach For America decisions would be e-mailed on January 21, 2010. I knew they said the decisions would be posted at 8 p.m. But still, I couldn’t help myself from clicking the refresh button on my e-mail at least once every five minutes starting at 8:30 a.m. A night of tossing and turning, dreams of children in my classroom and waking up practically every other hour didn’t help to keep my naturally anxious self from relaxing.

Going to class was painful. My thoughts of lessons and lectures were interrupted by notions of decision letters – good and bad. By the end of each class period, I had thoroughly convinced myself that I wasn’t gonna be offered a spot.

“Well my interview went well, but the one-on-one had some silent moments.”

“Perhaps you came across too strong in the group interview, Katie. I’m sure they don’t like that.”

“Why would they pick you, Katie? There are 35,000 other amazingly qualified applicants.”

Every thought, every self-realization of doubt had decided to flood my brain during my two-hour ethics of journalism class. My pen tapped; my legs bounced; my breakfast went uneaten. Texts were sent to my boyfriend begging for support.

By some miracle, I had managed to calm myself down on my drive home from class. Knowing that it was only 4 p.m. allowed me to persuade myself that there was no use in worrying for the next four hours. Menial tasks on my computer while talking to Andrew on the phone lead me to check my e-mail.

And there it was.

“Congratulations! We are pleased to invite you to join the 2010 Teach For America corps and are excited to assign you to teach elementary school in Baltimore.”

Woah, hold your horses, it’s only 4:30 p.m. Was I just accepted? I then proceeded to read and re-read and re-read again.

Nearly one minute after those congratulatory words embedded themselves into my mind, I had to alert my new best friends, Facebook and Twitter - they’re such gossips that I knew I could count on them to get the word out.

About five minutes later, one of my best childhood friends, Jamie Goldstein, a senior at Vanderbilt University, called me. Between tears of joy and childlike, giddy screaming, we realized that we would both be teaching in Baltimore as 2010 TFA corps member – a total fortunate fluke.

Jamie and I were elementary school buds to the 10^th degree. Sitting together on field trip buses, sharing lunch food (Lunchable pizzas!) and participating in color group activities didn’t even begin to scratch the surface.

My most fond memories of grade school all seem to involve Jamie. My very first day of Kindergarten in Ms. Cowan’s Scooters class introduced me to her. From there, she helped me practice and audition for the oh-so-prestigious Sunsations, our elementary school choir. We sang duets (“In the meadow we can build a snowman…”) and practiced our mini-show, “It’s Saturday.”

We cheated together on in-class spelling tests, and we roomed together on overnight trips. Our parent-child book club, beginning in fifth grade, brought us even closer. WU-TV, our school’s own news program, and Dear Sunny, our school’s student-to-student help club, were a scream.

Outside of class, Jamie and I celebrated every single birthday together – pull-apart sunflower cakes and all. Brownies camp-outs and meetings filled our days. Sleepovers and flat-ironing hair filled our nights. Multiple group projects and partner projects were completed at her or my house.

Funny how life works, isn’t it. The happiness of my elementary school years will be joining me as I tackle primary school all over again. I can’t wait to see what’s in store.

As a Teach For America teacher, I will be making a difference. I will make direct impact on students. I will serve as the bit of hope and encouragement that many students have never had. I will teach not only knowledge, but life smarts, and I will instill my love of learning to all within my reach.

So KP in the City will, from here on out, more aptly be KP in the Classroom….'cause that’s where you’ll find me. Baltimore and me!

Turkey day

2009-12-01T12:23:00.002-05:00

Turkey day (or in my case, turkey days) sucked all life out of me. Stuffed even fatter than each turkey I engulfed and woosy from celebratory “I’m thankful for…” toasts, writing and blogging was far from my mind. Food comas ensued, parades were watched and catch-up sleep was a must.

Of course, like everyone else, I said thanks for my family (adopted and real), my friends, my health and my happiness, but I also added a few new “thanks” this year. I attended not one, not two, not three, but FOUR Thanksgiving meals, making me realize just how thankful I am for all the love in my life – love for one another and love for food.

Everyone wanted to host and celebrate the day grounded in gobble-gobble goodness. I gladly obliged and reaped the benefits.

Thanksgiving meal #1: Cuban Thanksgiving meal, Aventura, Wednesday night Though I arrived late, even by Latin standards, to meet up with my boyfriend and his family, I nibbled on a few scraps of pulled pork and moist pumpkin muffins, the latter made by my boyfriend’s sister. I washed down my glass of red with café con leche, a bite of birthday cake and flute of champagne for dessert.

Thanksgiving meal #2: Mom’s Thanksgiving feast- half Italian, half American, Plantation, Thursday afternoon My mom and stepdad have friends who live to cook. They enjoy preparing dishes that guests go ga-ga over – the tried-and-true crowd pleasers. Appetizers began at 1 p.m. Spinach dip, artichoke dip, sliced meats and veggie trays competed with “sausage bread,” a take on my stepdad’s special pepperoni-and-cheese pinwheels. Certainly no lack of food.

Usuals – the turkey, the stuffing, the green bean casserole, the cranberry sauce – made their appearances. My plate, however, was taken over by the sweet potato concoction that makes me salivate even six months before Thanksgiving. Like dessert for dinner, the sweet potato mush is cooked with butter, brown sugar and candied nuts on top. Nothing else on the table is worth eating. But just to add some variety to my meal, I opted for a heaping portion of my mom's delicious salad with chopped apples and Gorgonzola cheese. Italian-style stuffed artichokes and green peppers were also too good to pass up.

Thanksgiving meal #3: Boyfriend’s family’s intimate dinner – the non-thanksgiving Thanksgiving, Plantation, Thursday night Andrew’s sister, a chef extraordinaire in her own right, doesn’t do the whole “you gotta have turkey on Thanksgiving.” Instead, she prepares a medium-rare rib roast with a perfectly seared outside. Cranberry sauce is spruced with oranges and apples; mashed potatoes are chunky and with the skin, just like I like. While I was too full to take anything more than one bite of each, I was able to enjoy a taste. Andrew, his parents, his sister, her boyfriend and I laughed as even the cat begged for snack.

Thanksgiving meal #4: Daddy’s Thanksgiving extravaganza – Jewish-style, Cooper City, Friday Let me put this out there – my dad is an awesome cook. I called him frantically the week before turkey day begging and pleading for a free-range turkey (I am on a new kick, adamantly supporting free-range and organic items because artificial drugs, pesticides and plumpers disgust me). Without so much as a complaint, he ordered my special turkey from Whole Foods.

Turns out, my turkey prepared by my stepmom was the most moist I have ever eaten. Even its gravy was juicy. In true Jewish tradition, food abounded. As if an entire turkey weren’t enough, sweet spiral ham was served. Full trays of green bean casserole, stuffing, sweet potato casserole and cucumber salad filled the serving table. My dad’s moist pumpkin bread and my grammey’s chocolate-covered, crunchy Chinese noodles had me fingering the dessert tier before dessert was even served.

My immediate family is notorious for too much food. Left-overs were boxed and sent home with guests, and that that couldn’t find a home was frozen for later enjoyment.

Spending time with family (especially my baby brother, home on leave from the Coast Guard Academy) and friends at all my meals made this November even more special. I did, however, somehow manage to miss the pumpkin pie at all my meals.

It’s funny – normally, I hate Thanksgiving, but not this year. Though my family didn’t set aside differences like the pilgrims and the Native Americans did, I was able to celebrate with all those whom I care about. There’s always enough of me to go around…too bad I can’t say the same about all the sweet potatoes I devoured.

I am the light of the world.

2009-10-06T22:13:00.005-04:00

Once you’ve seen what I’ve seen, you can’t help but yearn to share it - to shed some light on the community that has graciously let you in with open eyes and open hearts.

Sidneia, my fearless fisherwoman of a subject, had me follow in her footsteps for a week. Her deepest fears, weakness and secrets revealed themselves explicitly and implicitly. Her biggest accomplishments and feats did too.

Her heritage dictates children by age 20 and a sedentary life of daily sweeping and cooking. Kicking soccer balls, climbing coconut trees like a Spiderwoman and heaving and hoeing on fishing boats are simply out of the question. But Sidneia doesn’t care. She does it all, and most of the time, she does it better than any boy and man out there.

I wonder if she knows her American counterparts – those in the concrete jungles of New York and Miami, and in the high-heeled Capitol of Washington, D.C. – have already bent cultural barriers and stereotypes. I deliberately say bent instead of broken. It’s no surprise that firefighting women, lady plummers and female construction workers live in the shadow of laughter. Nonetheless, they still pay their bills and provide food on their tables.

While many of us in the United States take affirmative action for granted, Sidneia still remains the lone fisherwoman in her town though men and women claim they accept her. Tolerance is slow to take hold.

But the world is rapidly changing, even in communities that have trouble finding a spot on the map, such as Icapuí. Stability’s definition is unknown, or at least invisible to lady warriors, who live to bend societal norms and challenge daily standards. Sometimes acceptance on a larger scale just requires attention – perhaps in the form of a documentary; maybe as a magazine feature.

To communicate the challenges of her cultural heritage and to show that Sidneia is not just another female success story will require page-turning empathy for manual labor (or better yet, WOmanual labor), for antiquated traditions in small towns and for Sidneia as woman.

Her message, one of power and hope, is inspiring. Her “can-do” attitude had ability to light my spark, and it will keep me burning to share her story.

Woes on a flight over the Amazon

2009-10-03T14:36:00.005-04:00

I’ve never hated 4 a.m. as much as I did today.

It’s not the painstaking time of day. It’s not fumbling through my things to find where I hid my passport. It’s leaving Icapuí.

The same potholes that haunted me my first night, cooed me to sleep on my four-hour taxi journey back to the Fortaleza airport. Portuguese “hellos” and “thank yous” now roll off my tongue.

Sitting on TAM’s 5C, sipping my last guarana and ogling my photos, I ruminate first experiences and first meetings that have since morphed into life lessons and everlasting memories.

It’s hard to forget the little faces and little shoes; the sheets that double as blankets in the brutal heat; the mototaxis threatening to send you flying. Plastic Havaianas will never look or feel the same. Naps in bed will be passé; only hammocks will do.

Strangers I met seven days ago are like family – goodbyes are dreaded and heartbreaking. Pasa Tempo chocolate cookie morsels still linger on the back of my molars. My fingers still smell like churrasco from last night’s feast.

We go abroad to learn other cultures – to appreciate them and to understand them. Somehow, by the end of this adventure, I have learned more about myself. Even when my skin disagrees, I can blend in. I can see poverty and despair, yet rejoice in its happiness. I can throw a “thumbs up” and be everyone’s friend.

Pity is for the ignorant – those who think that money is life and civilization must be modernized. With a few tree trunks and smiles brighter than the sun, communities such as Icapuí tug on the strings of the heart, swearing to leave a tattoo forever.

Redonda Beach, Icapuí, Brazil

2009-09-30T21:14:00.015-04:00

In the still heat that creates a natural sauna, faces hang out of windows. Bodies cocoon themselves in thickly woven hammocks. Feet find solace in the clay-colored sand.

These people think they are ugly. Their two-toned, sun-soaked faces beg to differ and they don't protest my third eye.

I can see their fathers, grandfathers and great-

grandfathers legacies shining through. Their wrinkles speak of fisherman's tales. Their smiles display a simplistic happiness that only innocence allows.

Children play in the streets and on the beach in such a way that all children do – games of chase and catch turn into soccer games on the sand. They use all their might to hoist their peanut-sized bodies onto jangada boats that have washed ashore, pretending to be fisherman. The workout they are getting now will sculpt their bodies without even a whisper of a dumbbell. Some of them play on weekdays when they should be in school.

Their mothers sweep steadfastly, keeping what little they have pristine. Even the salt from the sea can't wither away their homes or their pride.

What the people of Redonda lack in richness, they make up for in color. Green, as though it has squeezed itself from a lime tree, blankets the bricks of homes. Pinks, yellows and blues have forgotten how to clash here.

A spoonful of sticky, homemade cashew candy and a swig of Guarana soda make lobster woes disappear. Paradise, without all the accessories, is still paradise - happiness, pride and kindness radiates as strong as the sun.

The all-powerful journalist

2009-09-30T14:53:00.002-04:00

What is it about journalists? Everywhere I go, people are talking about what they read in the newspaper, what they saw on television and what they read online. Most people know that it’s the journalist’s job to get that information and disperse it.

No matter what country I am in, when people hear I am a journalist, they equate me to an all-powerful being – someone who can put their picture in print and tell their story. Sometimes, they think I will make them famous. Even when they don’t know the correct term to call me, they are quick to discover that a camera will capture their image and a recorder will save their voice and thoughts. Things are no different in Icapuí.

In Icapuí, an impoverished fishing town with no more than a few thousand people, outside influence is minimal. Everyone seems to know everyone. Outsiders, even those from other parts of Brazil, are rare.

With my arrival, the Icapuians feel important. To them, only important people have their picture taken; only important people get interviewed. This is, of course, what they see on TV and hear from their friends.

I found that if I shows an ounce of interest in them, they beam from the inside out, trying to remain humble and not let their smiles grow to broad. Even though they know I am American and they won’t see my article, they let me ask my questions and take their pictures. They especially love when I flip my digital camera around to let them see themselves. Children burst into uncontrollable giggles; grandparents flash toothless smiles. Is this is first time they have seen a camera?

I remain professional so that they will respect me and others like me, though I have no idea if another journalist will visit. They thank me in Portuguese and give me a "thumbs up" - the universal sign for acceptance.

From the taxi drivers who don’t ask for a penny until they have not only dropped you off but have returned you home safely to the waiters at restaurants who suggest the tastiest dishes instead of the most expensive, the people of Icapui are honest and hard-working. Without outside influence, they might not even know that there are places where taxis run their clocks double time to get more money or people who stand customers up.

Here in Icapui, I feel like a parent whose children don’t yet know there is no Santa Claus. I could never bring myself to spoil their views of the friendly American journalist who loves to ask them questions. It is for the Icapuians that I feel a strong commitment to accurate and ethical reporting. I know that these people are expecting me to return to the United States conveying nothing but their sense of utmost pride for their community. Plus, I know that the majority of readers in the US will never venture to Icapui; thus, I must do more than tell stories from my perspective. I need to remain unbiased and completely balanced as I report on everything I see, here and experience.

As a journalist, I can’t help but feel a yearning drive to advocate for these people: for the children who run in the scorching sand without shoes because their parents have no money, for the 16-year-old who is pregnant with her third child and for the fisherwoman, the only one of her kind, who has overcome monstrous obstacles to become accepted as a lady of the sea.

Though I understand that this advocacy may, in turn, be construed as unbalanced, I am certain I’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who would visit Icapui, even as a fly on the wall, without a sense of compassion and a desire to advocate. This advocacy must remain subdued, but nonetheless it will underscore any article.

I never thought of myself as powerful, but I know that I have the power to choose words and pictures; I have the ability to share with others what they can't share about themselves. Only now am I truly able to understand the concept of a journalist as a gatekeeper. My great responsibility is not just to the journalistic profession, but to humanity as a whole.

The never-ending day

2009-09-29T15:39:00.004-04:00

After a two-hour drive to Orlando, an eight-hour red-eye flight to Sao Paulo, a three-hour layover at the airport and a three-and-a-half hour flight to Fortaleza, I patted myself on the back in silent congratulation for skillfully arriving in Brazil after traveling by myself. Then, I realized my pat was premature. I still had 5 more hours to go…a trip from urban Fortaleza to costal Icapuí, where my story about impoverished Brazilians, most of whom have never left Icapuí, will unfold. Five more hours of travel after a painstaking 16, but at least I was done with the “scary” part – the flying.

Little did I know, I actually have a bigger fear: bus travel.

My journey across the Cearán state begins at the Fortaleza bus station at 3 p.m. My ticket is handwritten. And as I enter the bus, I learn my seat is assigned to two of us. “No problem,” I am told, and the driver just crosses out her number and writes another one.

My cloth seat on this early 1990s motor coach has the stench of decades’ past. I try hard to get comfortable squished into the window, but I feel certain that five more hours of sitting in transportation vehicles will surely result in bedsores. Before my body has time to protest, we are off. And just as soon as we get going, we stop at the first stop.

Bus stops don’t exist. People are burped out on the gravel and sand. Sometimes there’s a wooden stake in the ground indicting a known stopping point; most of the time there’s not. And occasionally a passenger will murmur something in Portuguese, making the driver divert from the well-worn-path of a road to drop him off elsewhere.

The driver reminds me of an excited 15-year-old with a permit. Sometimes he swerves off the road to avoid bumps and holes. Other times he rolls over them at full speed. My stomach, my thighs and my cheeks (both sets) jiggle. Worst of all, the driver speeds up and then slams on the breaks, as if he has no idea where he will stop.

Every time the bus stops my heart and stomach drop in tandem. I’m not sure whether to vomit from motion sickness or pray that the entire bus doesn’t tip. But once I get used to stopping short, I try to enjoy this leg of my trip.

Looking out the window, my eyes have new perspective. A sad perspective.

There are stray dogs, stray cats, stray chickens. There are even stray people. The pathetic cows and horses don’t have enough meat on their bones to keep their ribs from jolting out. The chickens wouldn’t be enough for one chicken finger.

The trees are beautifully aged, but unlike people, they enjoy their protruding roots that look arthritis stricken and their gnarled branches indicating their age. These trees are so massive and so old they threaten to compete with the majesty of Animal Kingdom’s man-made, concrete one.

At some point during the journey, people are building a bridge like beavers do: whittling down the wood with machetes and their bare hands, and then stacking them.

Children jump on mounds of rocks and play in leaves. Toys are sparse. The bus whizzes by the kids, but they remain unfazed. Their parents, sitting on plastic, white chairs outside, aren’t the least bit nervous.

The dwellings I pass need not be referred to as houses, but only as homes. There are homes without walls; walls without homes. The sun has taken its toll by muting their hand-painted colors. I can see inside. Many of the homes have one television set where families gather to watch. I equate it to the days when people used to sit around the radio in American to hear Roosevelt speak (or so I’ve read).

I find myself hoping that the towns will improve, but they don’t. In fact, the further east we travel, the worse they get. The handmade homes look as though they will crumble like cake from the sheer speed of our bus, but they don’t.

McDonald’s hasn’t made its way here yet, but I’m pretty sure it won’t. A hamburger would likely cost too much. I feel ashamed I even brought my eyeliner.

People, mostly in bathing suits, hop-on and hop-off the bus. Sometimes their ride is 5 minutes; other times it’s hours. The driver’s right hand man walks up and down the bus charging different people different rates depending when they hopped on.

By now, I’ve been at least thirty-six hours without a shower. I can taste the filth in my teeth; I can feel it beneath my nail beds.

I have no concept of time whatsoever. I have no phone and no watch. My best guess is it’s late at night. The sky, which has turned pitch-black, is encapsulating, but not with the typical comfort its enveloping blanket normally provides. As the night grows darker, so do my fears.

The bus roars down a pothole-filled, sand road from Aracati to Icapui (or so that’s what I think this “road” connects). It creates a sandy wake. I can feel the rocks and holes on the path. I’m jiggling uncontrollably now.

I try so desperately to suppress the sounds that come out as whimpers every few moments as we take screeching turns. Turbulence doesn’t even begin to compare.

Every once in a while the bus comes to a jolting, swerving stop. Someone is thrown to the road, and we are on our way again not even 20 seconds later. There’s no way of knowing or calculating when the driver will abruptly stop, especially in the dark. I tell myself to imagine I’m on a jerky rollercoaster. When that stops working, I remind myself of why I am in Brazil – to write a moving story about an extraordinary fisherwoman and the boundaries she has overcome. This seems to do the trick.

By the time I miraculously arrive in Icapui, I have decided that I can easily understand why only a few of its people leave. It’s not that they don’t want to, it’s that they are probably too afraid.

Home sweet home

2009-08-17T22:38:00.005-04:00

Well it’s been a while. A long while. A long long long while. More than 10 months, to be exact. But I’m back. Back in Gainesville (which some fondly refer to as Gainesvegas, The Ville, Gville or other such nonsensical names). Whatever you prefer to call it, I call it home away from home – where all my friends live and play and parents are not allowed (only for move in and move out, of course).

Normally the start of every year is filled with happiness and “It’s so good to be backs,” but this year it’s different because we all know what atrocity is about to occur. This is the year we graduate. When purchasing Gator tickets will require Bull Gator status, hanging around the sorority house isn’t cool anymore and going out to bars and clubs until 2 a.m. simply won’t be acceptable.

To ease the pain just a tad, my girl friends and I moved in to the most adorable cottage you have ever seen. Ever. It’s a two-story, three bed/three bath abode with real wood floors, stainless-steal appliances and granite countertops. Not quite your typical beer-pong-playing, crazy-dirty, college-kid-type apartment. But it will have to suffice. It's is brand new and all.

Perhaps you’d like a tour, no? Downstairs is my roommate Steph’s bedroom, the kitchen with our center island that doubles as our table and the family room. Upstairs proudly houses my other roommate Rachel’s room and our makeshift workout area fully equipped with an elliptical machine (Now I have no excuse for not working out, huh?) But la crème de la crème is my bedroom down the hall from Rach’s.

One 16-foot Budget truck, two “moving men” (aka Andrew and my cousin, Stormy), and one cranky mother were what it took to furnish my living space. And getting this entire place set up was quite a feat. Somehow the guys lifted all my heavy pieces up the narrow stairs and then were subject to my mom’s and my finger pointing as to where everything should go. After a few sweaty hours, my room was looking pretty in gold, pink and blue. I decided to go simple and clean instead of overly crowded with childish pictures hung on every wall. A mere bed, dresser, end table, desk and television set fill my four walls and everything in between.

Unlike my straightforward room, my closet is a totally different story. My walk-in closet also consists of a makeup vanity, which I so craftily (and economically) put together. My purses hang from the wall and my pairs upon pairs of shoes practically devour the floor. Love it.

Know what I love more? For the first time ever in my life, I have my very own bathroom! Exciting, I know. I lined it with candles and flowers and girly bathroom pictures, just the way I like.

[Welcome home, KP, welcome home. Now if only your roommates were here….]

You see, Steph won’t be home until Sunday, and Rach doesn’t arrive until Friday. Bummer. Gainesville is oh so boring when not so many people are around. Plus, there’s no one to sneak out with to get late-night dessert.

Right about now, as I sit here craving chocolate, I am stuck resorting to eating apple-cinnamon-flavored mini rice cakes to do the trick (not like I’m gonna go to D’Lites by my lonesome). Oh well. Guess me and my comfy-cozy cottage will just have some catch up time.

Note to self

2009-08-10T22:41:00.004-04:00

Dear KP –

Let me begin by metaphorically smacking you on the head. How could you have been so blind? I guess I shouldn’t be so harsh, but come on, how many people can say I told you so? You know they can…

You see, my dear KP, life works in mysterious ways. No, really, it does. You travel half way across the world, all the way to Barcelona, only to realize that the guy you are crazy about was right by you all along. Your best friend for years. The one who would go to the moon and back in a heartbeat and not even think twice about it. The one who compliments you whether you are in pajamas or dressed to impress. Yeah, that one. Remember him?

Foolish girl. You always thought he was “just Andrew.”

“Who are you going to the movie with?” Just Andrew. “Who are you having dinner with?” Just Andrew. “Who are you texting?” Just Andrew. “Who are you Skyping?” Oh just Andrew. “Who’s driving you to that party?” Still just Andrew. “Who do you call first when you have good news?” Ugh just Andrew. “Whom can you cry to?” Stop it all ready, it’s Just Andrew. He’s just Andrew, damn it!!!!!

Well well well, you silly girl you. You tried your hardest to ignore it. Even though it was so obvious he was nuts about you, you pushed him to the back of your mind. Instead, you meany, you asked him for boy advice and threw him through the ringer.

But, KP, do I need to remind you? Just Andrew isn’t just anyone. Do I need to tell you he’s wonderful and funny and athletic and smart and way taller than you are? More importantly, KP, he’s got a heart of gold. Did you hear that? Did you process it? A. Heart. Of. Gold. It’s not everyone who will help you study LSATs day in and day out without complaining he’s bored, and it’s certainly not everyone who will tuck you in every single night just ‘cause he wants to spend every waking moment with you. He lives to take you out and show you off. What they heck were you looking for in Europe? This one’s a keeper, I tell ya.

Just to jog your terrible memory, if I may, KP, I’d like to bring some events to your attention. I know you can still taste the delicious Matzo ball soup he made for you at 3 a.m. when you were sick. I know you still laugh about getting dressing up and going to see The Rocky Horror Picture show at midnight with him. I can tell you still hate him for almost allowing his car to run out of gas halfway between Gainesville and South Florida. I bet you still miss those 8 a.m., Saturday morning, 12-grade-physics tutoring sessions. Bowling with him is sure to annoy you, but you know you love it. And you know that no one else in the entire world will give you a three-hour massage without tacking on a hefty price tag. Heck, he loved you in 6^th grade!!

KP, earth to KP, read this message loud and clear: HE IS YOUR FAIRY TALE.

So go on girl, scream it to the world. You’re one pretty lucky chick, KP. And if I may say so, Andrew’s pretty darn lucky too. Enjoy it (and don’t mess it up!). Life should be this fun and easy.

XOXO,

Meeeee

Growing up doesn't mean growing old

2009-07-24T16:02:00.017-04:00

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

2009-07-22T16:48:00.007-04:00

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

2009-07-17T11:36:00.010-04:00

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

2009-07-14T14:06:00.008-04:00

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.

Tattoo

2009-06-29T14:00:00.027-04:00

I don’t believe in tattoos. But that all changed this weekend when my best friend turned 21.

Perhaps I should backtrack for a moment.

The best way to dine, in my opinion, is tapas style - getting lots of dishes and just trying a bite or two of each. Some may guess it’s because I spent so long in Spain, but I am certain it’s because I can never get enough. I want to taste and see everything. Normally I can’t afford (literally or figuratively) the opportunity to do this on my own, and typically the portion size in the United States is too large for me to order more than one dish. To make matters worse, the majority of my friends are simply not that adventurous or that hungry to be able to keep up with me.

But for Rachel’s 21^st birthday, she invited 12 of us to Tatu at the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino in Hollywood. Tatu specializes in Asian dishes with Cantonese, Mandarin, Szechwan, Vietnamese and Thai influence, and it provided the ideal occasion to share a whole bunch of different dishes.

Upon entrance, it’s obvious that Tatu is a dining destination – a mix between a Disney dining experience and that that’s found at upscale South Beach locales. Though the two-story restaurant might seem large, the blue tint and warm lights give it a more intimate feeling and don’t make the sardine-packed tables appear to be on top of one another. Though a bit too noisy from a romantic dinner, Tatu is truly conducive to large groups and special celebrations, with silver beading hanging to section off some tables.

The hostesses were ready to seat our party at 8:30 p.m. (our reservation time) promptly.

To begin with, and in celebrating Rachel’s 21^st, I ordered a lychee-tini made with peach vodka, white cranberry juice and fresh lychee fruit. Rachel ordered a super-sour pomegranate martini with sugar on the outside. And some other friends ordered a scorpion bowl for two, which mixed sweet fruit juices, rum and amaretto served with a flaming Bacardi 151 float in a large pitcher.

Our attentive waiter warned us ahead of time that at Tatu dishes are served when they are ready, not when all the plates are. Normally, I find this disgusting. If I am going to dinner with friends, then I want to eat with my friends, not watch them or have them watch me. As such, I was pleasantly surprised when all our food arrived within 5 minutes of each other.

For appetizers, our table of 12 ordered firecracker spring rolls with crispy chiken and peanuts, butter lettuce-leaf cups with minced chicken, shitake mushrooms and pine nuts, and tender greens with a miso ginger dressing. All were flavorful and large enough for everyone to have a taste of everything. The best starter, however, and undoubtedly the most fattening, was the crispy crab rangoon. I have always been a fan of crab rangoon, but these were exceptionally wonderful. These cream-cheese-crab-and-scallion-stuffed wontons were small enough to pop into your mouth in one bite. And the warm cream cheese under the fried wontons made the rangoon crunchy, yet soft and surprisingly filling.

The main dishes ordered included sesame chicken tossed with sesame caramel and chili peppers, charred rare tuna with a vanilla teriyaki glaze and wasabi mashed potatoes, a grilled NY strip steak served with crunchy shoe-string chips and an assortment of fresh sushi. My most favorite dish of all was the one I selected, the Mongolian barbequed duck – perfectly tender and succulent in a tangy sweet plum sauce served to taste (not to drench) with pieces of grilled eggplant and scallion. All the main courses were as large as their price tags and taste did not yield to beautiful presentation. Forks flew as everyone tasted everything.

The guys and girls alike were stuffed after our eating extravaganza, but I wouldn’t be satisfied until the waiter brought Rach (the Queen!) a piece of dessert with candles and tons of spoons. I secretly selected the chocolate propaganda – with chocolate almond mousse, fudge brownies, chocolate ice cream and fudge sauce – from the dessert menu cleverly entitled “Happy Endings.” The girls gobbled it up.

In keeping with the theme of the restaurant, with the check came gimmicky, yet tasteful press-on tattoos – an adorable concept for children of all ages, not only to remind patrons about the restaurant they just ate at, but also a fun, after-dinner activity. My friends and I took turns using the damp washcloths Tatu provided to wet the Asian-symbol tattoos to our wrists.

Additionally with the check, our waiter brought over two helium-balloon-sized, sour-apple-flavored cotton candy hunks to complete our feast.

Rachel’s birthday crew then head over to the dueling pianos bar also at the Hard Rock Village to enjoy more drinks and feel-good, sing-along music until the wee hours of the morning.

All I can say is the yummy food, lively atmosphere and proximity to great nightlife will keep Tatu tattooed on my mind forever. And that’s one tattoo I can handle.

The NEW Pinkberry: Lutz

2009-06-29T10:49:00.006-04:00

In an exceedingly modern world, fro-yo joints and ice cream shops are adapting. Of course there’s nothing quite like homemade, creamy ice cream or twisty soft serve; however, there are innovative, frozen concepts opening the door to novel indulgences. Pinkberry, a frozen yogurt chain in California, New York and Texas, has been tantalizing taste buds for years now with tart yogurt in shops just as modern as the treat it serves.

My first experience with it was when I was in NYC. It’s all the rage there. Unlike typical frozen yogurt, Pinkberry’s yogurt is not super sweet or overly rich. People eat it for breakfast with cereal on top; people consume it in place of lunch with fresh fruit; others savor it for a healthier dessert. Though my dad says it tastes like a cross between shaving cream and chalk, I would say it’s more of an acquired taste. I’d be bluffing if I said I loved it at first bite. It actually wasn’t until my third cup or so that I really started to appreciate its refreshing, tasty and utterly addicting qualities.

The problem is that just as soon as I began to love Pinkberry, I headed back to Florida only to be robbed of my newfound enjoyment because my home state had nothing like it. Well, not anymore, baby! South Florida is finally - I repeat finally – jumping on the bandwagon and living up to its “exclave of NYC,” “most-northern-part-of-the-South” status.

Pinkberry has arrived in the form of Lutz.

Yesterday night (after much begging), I went to Lutz following dinner. The ultra-modern, colorful plastic tables and chairs, the neoteric gadgets lined up along the wall as decoration and the modish neon lights transported me back to my NYC days.

Lutz boasts the health qualities of yogurt and is proud of the fact that a half-cup is only 80 calories. It offers only two staple flavors – Original and Green Tea – and an assortment of toppings including fresh, bite-sized fruit, cereal, chocolate and mochi. Special for the summer, Lutz also offers pomegranate, blueberry and acai flavors.

Last night, the line to order (practically out the door) reaffirmed my notion that such a place would do a killing in SoFla. I ordered a small Original with chopped strawberries and bananas. Though normally I’d skimp on the bananas and go for chocolate chips (especially at dessert-time), Lutz was all out. They were also out of fresh raspberries. Nonetheless, and despite the almost $5 price tag for a small, which is practically criminal in these times, my order tasted just like my favorite Pinkberry and made me very happy.

Copycat or not, Lutz certainly filled my void for a quick, relatively healthy swirled treat. And I’ll certainly be taking a trip back soon.

Rocky Road can be an obstacle or an ice-cream flavor…

2009-06-26T12:21:00.002-04:00

Rocky road baffles me. It’s an interesting concept to be able to quell your personal rocky road with some rocky road in a pint or a gallon.

Perhaps one of the few things they have in common is that we hover over both.

We, as humans, tend to be hoverers. We harp on everything and can’t let go. Not because we don’t want to. Not because we are rebelling against what we know we should do. But because society just won’t let us.

No one wants to let anyone forget Michael Jackson. Television stations changed scheduled programming to incorporate specials on the Pop legend. Family and friends are blowing up our e-mail inboxes and cell phones with up-to-date news. I have even read that Twitter crashed because of so many people microblogging. In every conceivable medium, people are talking about the king of the 20^th Century. Even if you could care less about the simultaneously famous/infamous star, you can’t help but think about him.

This morning, on my hour-plus commute to work, every single one of the six preprogrammed radio stations in my dashboard was talking about MJ’s death. The hosts who weren’t talking about it were having listeners call in about it. Every time I clicked from station 1 to 5 to 3 to 4 back to 5, I couldn’t tell if I had even changed the channel. The only thing that changed was voice of the person speaking. I chuckle to myself because at work, the two Cuban seamstresses, who listen to a mini radio straight from the early ‘90s, keep trying to change the channel to listen to their typical Spanish music, and even they can’t find a station (in English or in Spanish) not talking about or playing Michael Jackson.

Memories. That’s what we have. And “the way he made us feel. “

I heard over and over again (in my car and at work) about his contributions to society. His Thriller album going platinum 28 times. His Neverland Ranch and the joy it brought sick children. His ability to go from rags to riches. His influence on the music industry and the dance world. His role as an idol. No one dare mention his allegations or issues regarding child molestation, hanging babies over balconies or financial troubles. They only talk about the good, the great, the fabulous, the superstar. They harp.

As much as I tried to escape the chitchat for sheer and utter sickness of hearing about it, it kept on. What’s worse are the songs. The power hours of continuous Jackson hits that only linger with you long after you leave your car. Last night, on my late drive home, MJ wanted to “rock with me all night.” Then again this morning, he wanted me to “beat it,” but even as I tried my hardest, there was no escape.

Elvis Duran on the Y-100 Morning Show tried to make light of the situation and remind listeners that it’s Friday, and normally on Fridays we can all be happy because it’s the start of the weekend. But just because it’s the weekend doesn’t mean the hurt or the sorrow, no matter how great or small, goes away. In the real world, there is no such thing as “your week self” and “your weekend self”. And everyday problems or upsets will still affect you at night, in the morning, at coffee get-togethers, during dinner and when you try to sleep. You’ll push out all the bad and invigorate yourself with the good memories, while still really getting nowhere, but spinning your head in circles by thinking about the past.

Funny how life works. The underlying symbolism is undeniably uncanny. A brief look at this week’s weather forecast in South Florida promises scattered thunderstorms for at least the next ten days. And it’s as much the end of an era for Michael Jackson as it is for me right now.

Sometimes we just have to leave the pieces, walk away and bank on our instinct that the heart of life is good, even after devastation, shock and hurt.

Yes, rocky road can be an obstacle….but I’ll take it as an ice-cream flavor. With a crew of friends and a smile, I can make it disappear.

Kitchen Blitz

2009-06-23T11:15:00.019-04:00

Take back the dim lights, the coordinated table settings, the big and little forks. Skip the cloth napkins, the white tablecloths, the detailed plate placement, the perfectly selected wine lists. Forget about getting dolled up because the likelihood of you running into someone you haven’t seen in awhile and might want to look great for probably won’t show up. Heck, you can show up in your PJs if you really want.

As nice as dining out is, there’s nothing quite like a homemade meal. If your family is anything like mine, eating in is a treat in and of itself. The rich smells of a heavy red and mushrooms simmering and filling the kitchen, the clank of glasses taking ice from the freezer ice dispenser, the gentle (or not so gentle) bickering of loved ones scrambling to finish up. Sure, there are no waiters or extensive menus, but a dimmer solves mood lighting, background music is replaced by satellite radio from the TV and an every-so-often tablecloth will dress up the kitchen table. What’s best is, seconds are readily available and gratis.

While some families see holidays as the apropos time to seek a special meal out, mine takes it upon itself to cook in. Where better to celebrate family than the heart of it all – the home?

But good food is a sport. It requires patience, practice, the ability to read plays in the form of recipes and an inkling to know when to change up the action when runs aren’t going your way.

Just ask my not-so-little little brother, Mike, who tackles the kitchen in addition to his high school football field. Instead of watching tapes, Mike watches Alton Brown. Warm-ups include going to one or two or even three grocery stores. Two-a-days are the days of preparation it takes to craft the main dish. And practice comes in the form of making multiple side dishes.

For Father’s Day, Mike, who's just as big a fan of the Food Network as I am, decided he wanted to barbecue in honor of my pops (very manly!). Being a high school football player/soon-to-be U.S Coast Guard student and athlete, “too fattening” isn’t a concept brother bear needs to dote on. When he cooks, you know you are in for something delicious, but just as he does on the field, Mike likes hearty. He’s a real man’s man. A “gimme-steak, skip-the-veggies” kinda guy. So his menu for Father’s Day – a day to celebrate being a man – my brother decided to do a double play on an all-American favorite: the burger.

Gorgonzola and sun-dried tomato burgers (1/2 lb. each), served with a sautéed onion and mushroom topper on lightly grilled, pesto-painted French bread rolls

Honey Dijon broccoli slaw with chopped celery, crispy bacon bits, sweet raisins and almond slivers

Iced Tea

Mike's burgers, made from ground chuck, chopped onions, crumbled Gorgonzola and thinly sliced sun-dried tomatoes, are hand-packed and grilled to a medium-rare perfection on a charcoal grill. The cheese crumbles inside the burger make for a mouth-wateringly interesting take on the cheeseburger. It is so good, in fact, that it has to be served not on a regular hamburger roll, but on a spongy French roll.

In place of ketchup, Mike makes a homemade pesto, which he spreads on both sides of the bun, from fresh, blanched basil and toasted pine nuts. For the onion and mushroom toppings, he sautés the fresh veggies in red wine and the oil left over from the bacon that was used to make the broccoli slaw. Talk about one football-field-sized burger!

The caveat is you have to have it his way. No ifs, ands or buts…buns and pesto and all. Usually, I prefer my burgers without buns because I’d rather savor the meat, but with the fluffy French bread rolls and the garlicky pesto, there was no way I could resist. (Sir, yes, sir I will eat everything you prepare and take one for the team!).

The summery slaw, with its tangy, yet sweet Dijon dressing has just the right amount of crunch from the raw broccoli, the almond pieces and the fresh bacon bits. It compliments the heavy, barbecued burger, but stands on its own as a cold, refreshing side that need not remain in the sidelines.

I'd be hard-pressed to find a restaurant that could provide the food and fabulous company we had this Father’s Day. No upset here. Mike’s well-thought-out meal was a touchdown if I ever tasted one.

Alta Cocina lives up to its namesake

2009-06-14T16:21:00.012-04:00

Miami-style dining means skinny white jeans, flowy blouses and large hoop earrings are nightly staples, and eating dinner is more of an event rather than an existence ritual. South Florida, known for its beautiful people and beaches, is also home to world-renowned chefs and modish restaurants. Whether it’s delicious food, exquisite presentation or a trendy atmosphere, most Miami restaurants promise a unique dining experience, hyped by word-of-mouth buzz and buttressed by a hefty price tag. More often than not, however, most places succeed in only one of these characteristics – be it charming atmosphere, stellar food or great service – but rarely will I find a place that can thrive in every aspect.

Alta Cocina – meaning haute cooking in Spanish, or high-class cooking in layman’s terms – was a pleasant surprise. On Sunset Strip, the rather subdued entrance would make the restaurant easy to pass, but it would be a shame to skip a meal here. The owners, a husband-and-wife pair originally from Trinidad and Guatemala, serve “global fusion” cuisine with a Latin flair. The crisp, white tables under the low-key lighting contrast eloquently with the black pillars supporting the restaurant and the abstract, ruddy artwork on the walls. The silverware is heavy; the wine glasses vary in size based on which fine wine you select; and the tweed-like menu is adorned with simple, yet bold metalwork. The modernesque bottle display, featuring horizontal wine bottles behind the bar, serves as the restaurant’s focal point upon entrance. On a Saturday night, the low murmur of voices does not soil the intimate atmosphere, making Alta Cocina equally ideal for an evening with friends or family or a special someone.

The wait staff is well-versed in the extensive wine list and is eager to help make pairing suggestions based on meal selection. Because every option on the menu sounded tantalizing, Andrew and I asked our waiter, Noah, for some help. (Who else better to ask than someone who knows all the food from personal experience?)

To begin, we selected the pulled short-ribs served atop seared, melt-in-your-mouth scallops sitting on a dollop of leek confit. Andrew and I split the petit portion, knowing that we each had our own meals coming. Though a bit small, the taste was big, yet not overly creamy and wet our palates for the rest of the meal. I’d return to Alta Cocina for this dish only, but I’d be sure to order the full portion next time and eat it all myself.

For my main course, I chose the Thai sea bass served with flash fried bok choy in a zippy coconut broth with long-grain white rice on the side, but only under the premise that Andrew would give me a bite of his. He ordered the grilled rack of lamb with wild mushroom risotto and lamb jus for his entrée.

Unlike the appetizer, the meals were filling portions (Andrew even had to take some of his meal home!). My sea bass had a crispy top layer, yet was flaky on the inside and easy to eat. My only complaint was that is was practically drowning in the almost overly empowering spicy, soupy broth. Though the rice helped to cut the zing, I did not want to lose the tasty fish in a mouthful of plain white rice. The bok choy, however, was a light vegetable that complimented the fish without stealing its thunder.

Andrew’s lamb was tender and nearly slid off the bone. Likewise, his risotto was delicious and lived up to our waiter’s proclamation that this entrée is heavy and full, yet delicate. I would certainly order his instead of mine.

Though for dessert our waiter who had been dead-on with all of his suggestions told us to try the white chocolate raspberry bread pudding, Andrew and I selected the only true chocolate choice on the menu (he knows my chocolate sweet tooth!) – the bittersweet chocolate cake with el ray chocolate sauce and vanilla bean ice cream. Served warm in an upside-down soufflé mound, the moist, uber chocolatey, molten-chocolate-cake-like dessert with cold ice cream was just the sweet I needed to complete my relaxed, hour-and-a-half dining experience.

Alta Cocina, as its name suggests, proved to be high-class in every sense – from the décor and ambience to the food, the waiters and even the other guests.

"Summer, Ft. Lauderdale" – a twist on Billy Joel

2009-06-09T11:37:00.005-04:00

They say that these are not the best of times, but they’re the only times I’ve ever known.

With the economy getting worse, more and more houses foreclosing, gas prices increasing daily and people getting laid off, life’s tough. Let’s face it. From the millionaire on Wall Street down to the hourly worker at the local fast food joint, no one can seem to catch a break. People are looking for second and third and fourth jobs to afford hovering bills and responsibilities. Meanwhile, they are spreading themselves so thinly that they can’t seem to balance anything. Friends that once meant the world now mean dittily squat. Jobs are wearing us ugly.

And I believe there is a time for meditation in cathedrals of our own.

To cope with it all lately, I’ve been running. I joined a gym to lose some lingering, yet very much unwanted European weight, but mostly, to keep my sanity. Day in and day out, I observe heartbreaking court hearings – of parents rightly separated from their children, of children who are criminals, of people who can’t get their acts together to be responsible. On top of it all, I am attempting to balance a paying job, an internship, LSAT review, family time, friend time and general life (whatever that means).

By the time I pull into the gym parking lot, I am already thinking about my playlist for the day. Will it be hardcore rock for the treadmill, Top 40 for the elliptical or house for the StairMaster? No matter what it is, I can assure you it will be ear-shatteringly loud and it’s gonna push me to push myself until my bones are rattling under my skin, my face is as red as a cherry and my sweat is drenching my clothing. With the assistance of my iPod playlist, my thoughts from the day give me an extra “umph” to literally go that extra mile.

I run for every child whose parents can’t complete simple case plans. I run for those who are stuck in shelter because child advocates don’t follow through with court orders. I run for the kids whose parents are just unwilling to take care of them. I run for the frustration of mixed messages. I run for the traffic that holds me up on Broward. I run for myself. To ease the pain of those who have hurt me, who have forget to call or text when they say they will, who keep things secretive, who have forgotten about me, who have returned to ex-girlfriends, who have used me, even though they say they feel awful about it.

And now I have seen that sad surrender in my lover’s eyes, I can only stand apart and sympathize.

While I run and blow off steam, bouncing in my Nike Shocks to the beat of whatever’s beating in my ears, I come to terms with the fact that the world is simply too big for me to conquer completely. People will let you down, parents won’t complete their case plans, friends will be the ones to hurt you most and excuses saturate courtroom hearings, e-mail inboxes and text messages. Though I can’t justify it, I can recognize it.

Often, though unknowingly, we set ourselves up for failure. Our high expectations are not even on other’s to-do lists, and actions that seem too good to be true, typically are. We are told to expect the unexpected, but more common than not, it’s the usual expected that we get.

As I run, I can remove myself from me and fairly empathize with myself, accepting that occasionally people will shock you, but until then we have our iPods blasting music and our own two feet. It’s almost symbolic. On the elliptical, I run nowhere fast. The wheels are spinning – on the machine and in my head - many miles in 45 minutes. By the end, I have accepted that you can’t change anyone but yourself, yet I feel accomplished, even proud, of the strides I have made myself and in trying to.

For we are always what our situations hand us. It’s either sadness or euphoria.

The rainbow's end

2009-05-30T23:30:00.046-04:00

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?

2009-05-26T11:34:00.003-04:00

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)

2009-05-13T16:14:00.002-04:00

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...

2009-05-12T00:31:00.006-04:00

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

2009-05-11T16:07:00.007-04:00

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

2009-05-03T13:37:00.004-04:00

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.

Au revoir, ciao, arrivederci, good-bye, but above all, adios.

2009-04-27T15:28:00.002-04:00

I miss taking normal showers. I miss my bed. I miss making phone calls without thinking how much it will cost me. I miss clubs closing at 2 a.m., forcing me to go home before I make bad decisions. I miss driving and my car. I miss manicures and pedicures. I miss peanut butter. I miss elevators. I miss the gym. I miss giant to-go cups of iced coffee with Splenda and skim milk. I miss eating dinner at 7:30 p.m. I miss having WiFi whenever I want it. I miss supermarkets and normal-sized bottles of water. I miss electrical outlets in which I don’t need to use a converter. I miss my straightner, I miss humidity and afternoon rain showers. I miss doing my own laundry. I miss cheap shopping at Forever 21. I miss planning trips months before I take them so I can get really excited about them. I miss writing news articles. I miss the hassle of running my sorority. I miss my friends who have known me for years and years. I miss my doggies. I miss the other half of my wardrobe. I miss normal television. I miss reading a hardcopy of the New York Times. I miss my big-little brother. I miss leaving my bag unzipped as I walk around. I miss spending important holidays with my family. I miss going to the movies. I miss shopping dates with my Grammy. I miss massages, giggle fests, tea dates, dance parties and crazy stories.

I guess that means it’s time to go home.

Hasta luego, Barcelona. Grácias por las memorias. Yo echaré de menos a ti. Tu tienes un parte muy especial en mi corazon para siempre. Yo nunca seré la misma. Grácias por todo.

A eulogy for T-Jov

2009-04-16T14:22:00.004-04:00

Today was a very sad day. My T-Joven stopped working. Translation: my oh-so-precious Metro card expired.

While this might sound trivial or insignificant, this T-Joven – a credit-card-sized piece of paper – I have guarded and carried like a child for the past three months. 90 days and nights. Of bliss. Of bad decisions. Of the times of my life.

Though some lost, ripped, frayed, dropped, misplaced or, heaven-forbid, had theirs stolen, mine remained with me during every purse change, coat switch and baggage check. Yes, it’s worn. And yes, its plastic sleeve is scratched and cut. But this paper card was still my faithful ticket onto every Metro, bus and nit bus I took.

Today, the card-swipey-machine at the Metro station slurped it in and spit it right back out as if it were just one of those T-Mes (month) passes, or worse, one of those single-ride passes, without a history or a story. I wasn’t expecting this and I couldn’t help but get just a tad bit defensive.

My card, in its small entirety, I have come to understand, represents the culmination of my trip. And though a swipe machine wouldn’t know it, the very card it so simply just spewed back out stands for every good, bad and indifferent moment that I encountered while here in Barcelona. It followed me to and from class during my 45-minute journey. It got me home at 4 a.m. after dancing in clubs. It got me lost when I thought I knew where I was going. And it stayed with me while I traveled, improved my Spanish, gained friends, lost friends, tried new things and explored. Now, its days are up.

It’s not even that I care so much that it expired. It’s more that today, for the first time, I finally realize my time here in Barcelona is up. Having my card thrust back into my hand hit me like a bullet: my Metro days are numbered; my late-night bus rides will soon be a whisper in the wind.

I suppose I better soak it all in fast, but the T-10 (10-ride pass) that I had to purchase today to get me through the next two weeks just won’t be the same. I may as well be a tourist in my own city, counting down and perfectly calculating every trip so I don’t waste a ride. Que pena! Though my 3-month pass was just another expired card for the swipe machine at the Universitat Metro stop, it was so much more than that to me. I knew this day would come. I just didn’t expect it to be today.

So today was a very sad day.

May you rest in peace, T-Jov. Thanks for the rides.

Italy knows good eats

2009-04-13T15:31:00.012-04:00

Spring Break. The time in every girl’s life that she must starve herself for a week or two or even three before daring to strip down and frolic in the sun with friends. Though she knows it’s merely impossible to lose the unwanted flab in such a short amount of time, it’s inevitable that she will skip the chocolate croissant, the whole milk in her coffee and the other half of her Manchego-cheese bocadillo. Where the trouble comes, though, is when she knows she is going to Italia, where the word food is synonymous with carbs and chocolate, and the idea of steamed or grilled vegetables is as laughable as genuinely expecting to see the Pope while touring the Vatican.

While a crash diet the week before break seemed promising, in hindsight it seems foolish. The smooth gelato beckons, the steamy, frothy cappuccino calls, the Chianti and Prosecco promise to get you buzzed, and the pasta – oh the pasta, in all shapes and sizes, but always al dente – will get you every time. Period.

Since I had no idea what to expect from Italy, I dismounted the plane in hopes of finding some spaghetti with meatballs, chicken parm, garlic bread and fettuccini alfredo. Well, I’m “alfred-o” not.

Of course the long, round noodles that I know to be spaghetti exist. And yes, there are meatballs. But together? No way. As hard as I looked, for the life of me, I could not find the staple American-Italian dish. As for garlic bread, turns out Italians have simple breadbaskets with dry, stark-white bread and prepackaged breadsticks. Waiters will look at you strangely if you ask for a plate so you can dip your bread into olive oil with pepper or balsamic vinegar. They do, however, love to put oil and vinegar on their salads…which they eat after dinner. They say it helps with digestion. Why yes, of course this makes sense, I thought to myself. After an entire plate of alfredo (the thick, creamy, heavenly sauce that no one, no matter how skinny, should be allowed to eat), the Italians are going to need something to keep it from sticking to their insides. Oh wait. Italians don’t even know what alfredo is. So much for that idea. But, no worries, Italians get their fat from a whole plethora of other deliciousness that I didn’t even know existed.

Italians would rather sink their teeth into “spaghetti carbonara”, or cream, egg and cheese atop of a hefty plate of pasta. Though I never ordered it, I did snag a bite from one of my travel buddies. Other staples in the Italian diet included spaghetti with cheese and pepper and spaghetti with tomato sauce and bacon. Pesto was impossible to find in Rome, but delicious in Venice. Gnocchi and tortellini in Florence were heavenly. And the pizza, which doesn’t come in round pies, but rather in long, rectangular ones, was pure ooey-gooey sin.

On my day trip to Pisa, the boys who traveled with me and I stopped in a pizza joint, where the waitress chopped the pizza and then weighed it to give it a price. I chose the veggie pizza with fresh zucchini and tomatoes, and my slice (or better yet, my slab) was less than 2 Euros.

As I was walking away, a grungy man appeared from the back with a plate of deep-fried balls the size of baseballs. How could I resist? I ordered one to split with my travel guys (they are always hungry, even right after they eat!) as the man explained to me they are called “arancini,” or little orange, because of their shape like the fruit. It was filled with rice, peas, tomato sauce and meat. I was content with my decision to try one, and I am certain the boys loved me even more for overfilling their tummies.

Every morning (and sometimes in the afternoon) I would sip on cappuccino – another newfound love of mine. I thought I had tried the best coffee in the world in Spain; however, the Italian cappuccino really gave Barcelona a run for its money. When walking by the Pantheon in Rome, I spotted a yellow sign that read “La Casa del Caffee, Tazza d’Oro” (Via Degli Orfani 84). Craving something cold to wake me up, I stopped in and ordered an iced cappuccino, not quite sure if such a drink existed. The man at the register mentioned something even better, called a “granita di caffe,” and rung me up for 2.50 Euros (a pretty steep price for even a coffee addict like myself, but I needed coffee so I paid without contesting). I took my ticket over to the barista (if that’s what you call him) and he dug deep into a slushy cooler to fill my cup with literally iced espresso. He filled the rest of the cup with cream and whipped cream, and then sent me on my way with a straw as if this coffee were a mere espresso shot. It was, however, nothing short of tasty perfection. Sweet cream mixed with bitter coffee – any chocoholic/coffee lovers delight.

As you would expect, God’s gift to the world comes in dessert form and it consists of gelato, tiramisu, cannolis and Italian cookies. While you’d be hard pressed to find bad gelato, my favorite was from a neon-colored store in Florence, where the line went out the door. Every color and every flavor were piled high behind the glass encasing in metal containers, and when mixed together in a cone I thought I had gone straight to heaven.

In Rome, I was determined to find biscotti. Chocolate-chip, melt-in-your-mouth biscotti. I was told Trastevere has the best food in all of Rome, so when wandering with the boys, I found “Biscottificio Artigiano Innocenti,” (Via della Luce, 21, Trastevere, Roma) an Italian hole-in-the-wall, family-run bakery. The cookies galore were filled with jams and jellies and fruit and gummies and nuts, but my favorites were the horse-shoe-shaped, crumbly ones dipped in chocolate. My notion of chocolate-chip biscotti, the owner told me, should be dismissed just like my notion of spaghetti and meatballs.

The conception about Italy that did hold true was the loud, jovial, big family, wooden table mantra. In Venice, the boys and I ate at a local trattoria and happened to have walked in a man’s 83^rd birthday party. The red wine flowed freely, the speeches kept coming and after singing the Italian version of “Happy Birthday” to present the tiramisu cake, the 30 guests started signing what seemed like every Italian song under the sun. Like a Christmas sing-along. Italians really do know how to throw a party…or the alcohol is just that strong.

My favorite meal took place at “Il Gatto E La Volpe” (Via Ghibellina, 151) in Florence, where I managed to meet up with a childhood friend and some other friends I made in Barcelona who were also traveling in Italy. It felt like a very merry un-birthday party for me, since I was the only person bringing everyone together. With this motley crew, I learned to always choose wine over water (even if it makes me a tad tipsy) and I tried the sweetest, yet most tangy aged balsamic vinegar I have ever eaten. After salad and pasta and an irresistible bite of chocolate cake that one of the boys ordered, I went home with a food baby forming in my stomach and a smile on my face because Italy knows good food and good company.

Do you believe in magic?

2009-04-12T08:52:00.017-04:00

There’s a secret place in Roma. It’s no bigger than a ping-pong ball, but it’s completely worth the two hours it will take you to find. It is only known only to a select few, but three Italian guards monitor it while clutching their wartime ammunition. Don’t ask to take a picture with them (they will shoot youdown – figuratively). Instead, pretend they aren’t there and go up to take a peek.

After you’re worn ugly from hiking through the Coliseum, the Roman Forum, the Circus Maximus, the Vatican, the Sistine Chapel, the Pantheon and the Caracalla baths, make your way toward the Aventine keyhole.

Every local I asked raised an eyebrow at my mention of the magic hole, as if I, a lowly American, had been told some timeless secret I shouldn’t have known. After overcoming their initial shock, they then proceeded to direct me: passed the rose gardens, passed a park with orange trees abounding and passed charming Roman houses with lavender creeping up the facades. The further I trudged (stupidly in my flip-flops), the more I began to wonder where the hundreds of thousands of tourists that had been cramping my view of the ruins went. I assumed they were safe in the confines of the well-worn path of tourist nirvana - Hop-on, Hop-off busses – while I was walking nowhere fast but soaking in my scenery, nonetheless.

I caught a man exiting his fun-sized Smart car, and though he didn’t speak much English, I was able to cup my hand around my eye to signify that I was looking for the kaleidoscope-wonder through which I could see the dome of St. Peter’s basilica in the Vatican several miles away. It never ceases to amuse me how made-up sign language is the universal language. With a few finger points up and to the left from the local, my Spring break guys and I were on our way.

Just as the local had indicated, that’s where I found the chipped, wooden, green door framed by cold, white stone that I had read about online.I pushed my sunglasses to the top of my head and pressed my eye to the iron keyhole, no bigger than an inch tall, to view a lane of trees framing the dome. The dome, miles and miles away, was in plain view. No tourists taking goofy pictures in front of it. No long lines. It was just me and the dome - the dome that millions visit every year to feel inspired or to reconnect with religion.

Through my keyhole view, the dome appeared miniscule and unimportant, like yet another cone of gelato. Still, it appeared regal and majestic at the end of its tree corridor. For as massive as Rome is, looking through the tiny, magic keyhole for not even two minutes made me feel bigger than the world itself. No wonder the locals try to keep it a secret.

Four men and a little lady

2009-04-09T18:29:00.012-04:00

I have.

I have four amigos. I have a VTech (Erik), a Red (Chris), a Brown (another Chris) and an Ian. Even better, I have traveled to Italy – specifically Venice, Florence, Pisa and Rome - for Spring Break with them for the past 10 days.

I have seen the intricate paintings on St. Mark’s Basilica in St. Mark's Square. I have visited the secret torture chambers and prisons inside the Dutch’s Palace. I have bought the most scrumptious chocolate-chip biscotti from the Rialto market. I have floated on the pitch-black canals of Venice while drinking Prosecco and listening to the gondolier sing “Oh Solo Mio” upon my request. I have experienced public transportation in the form of water-taxi. I have been rocked to sleep on the TrenItalia while the country flies by. I have somehow met up with friends even when none of our cell phones work. I have learned that old friends are gracious hosts and fun to catch up with.

I have taken goofy pictures of myself trying to push over the leaning tower of Pisa. I have savored the ooey-gooey cheese of vegetable pizza by the slice – or rather, by the weight. I have peddled myself uphill during at 15-mile bike through Tuscany even when I thought I had no more to give. I have gazed into the abyss of green endlessness divided by wineries and stone cottages. I have tasted smoky Chianti Classico and extra virgin olive oil at a private wine vineyard where Wolfgang Puck himself buys his ingredients. I have devoured fresh tortellini with tomato sauce and crumbly Parmesan cheese and I have enjoyed chilled, alcohol-soaked tiramisu at a restaurant run by four generations. I have been overwhelmed by the hundreds of stands that make up the Florence leather market. I have watched the sun change from yellow to pink on the Vecchio bridge. I have watched couples kiss under umbrellas in the perfectly kempt Boboli gardens. I have dunk stark-white bread into thick, aged balsamic vinegar. I have shared red wine with 15 friends on the rooftop terrace of my bed and breakfast overlooking the Duomo. I have splurged on Nutella-, Rocher- and Bocio-flavored gelato. I have begged people to do photoshoots of me in the countryside of Florence. I have wasted 8 Euros on an Italian club filled with Americans. I have survived a mini flood in my hotel room. I have taken bites of everyone’s food so that I can have a bitty taste of all the food Italy has to offer. I have played charades to help to overcome language barriers.

I have learned that the world can amaze me in hundreds of ways every single day and I have learned just how beautiful life is. I have learned that whoever said there are only seven wonders in the world is completely mistaken. But above all, I have learned that nothing beats four of the greatest guys and a little lady on Spring Break in Italy.

Some days

2009-03-23T16:33:00.021-04:00

Some days you wake up and you know. You immediately start to worry. Nothing in particular is wrong. You just feel like the forces had been aligning when you were sleeping and there’s something brewing. Today was one of those days.

Though I had every good intention to go to class all day long, Monday is my longest day. Class straight from 11 a.m. to 7 p.m., sin pausa (without a break), and I awoke without my usual fervor. I showered to wake myself up and I listened to Spanish guitar on my iPod during my 45-minute hike to school from my apartment, in hopes that I would feel like my typical, eager self, ready to seize the day. No such luck.

By the end of my first class, Spanish, I was half falling asleep. My second was so painful that I began to bargain with myself in order to keep my eyes open. The idea of focusing was more of a joke than a reality. When my third class rolled around my heart was begging my body to bolt, and the thought of a fourth class made me nauseous. The snip bits of class I did catch in between my heavy-lidded blinks weren’t making it easy for me to sit still.

In Spanish, we reviewed grammar and prepositions. As always, my professor had us play games as memory aids and today, she had us create sentences about our dreams – the dreams of our childhood, our current dreams and the dreams we have for our futures. While students in the class elected to write about their desires for 10 cats, to become ballerinas or to have a small house with flower-filled terraces, I chose a slightly less superficial approach. The sentence I wrote to read aloud was: “Ahora que tengo 20 anos, sueno con disfrutar mi vida cada dia,” or “Now that I am 20 years old, I dream of enjoying my life each and everyday.” [Thought to self: Great KP, good thing you are stuck here in this classroom.]

My second class, Comparing Media in Latin and Anglo-Saxon countries, preached the growing role of the Internet for media sources. One of the pluses (or to some, the negatives) of the online world is the ability of the reader to customize the news he or she chooses to receive. We read a New York Times article called “The Daily Me” about how mass media is becoming individualized media because people’s intentions these days are more selfishly driven and they only want to read what they chose. [Thought to self: Go ahead, KP, be selfish. It’s the direction of the world.]

My third class, Advanced Spanish Oral Expression, consisted of my class playing a game about the history and “gems” of Barcelona. Because I have been just about everywhere in this city and have gone on at least ten tours (some guided by professionals, some guided by my guide books), I knew just about all of the answers. [Thought to self: Well KP, you wouldn’t have won the game if you didn’t explore and ask questions to waiters, policemen and locals on the streets.]

So for once, I decided to apply what I learned in school: Today was going to be all about me and me alone; I was going to enjoy the day to the fullest; I was going to discover some new gems. After this past weekend of exploring the little streets in Gracia, biking along the beach at Barceloneta and randomly hoping on a Renfe train simply to get off where my friend and I felt like it, I was itching to get out of the classroom. Fourth class, Society and Politics of Spain, simply didn’t stand a chance. So I walked out. Out of class. Out of the building. Out of campus. And I decided to explore Barcelona by my lonesome just for the fun of it.

I took the Metro to Jaume 1 and began to walk. I walked down every single street that I wanted, without having to ask anyone if they minded. I found a beautiful store called IVO & Co. that sells kitchen goods, a coffee shop called La Clandestina, whose boho feel inspired me, and then I found Caj Chai (pronounced Chai Chai) – a tearoom unlike any other I have ever been to, whose hip drum music in the background was matched only by its young, avant-garde clientele.

Caj Chai’s dim lighting was sexy, the stonewall along one side of the narrow café had character and the loud chatter produced by the guests told me immediately that this was nothing like the tearoom you find in England.

The mix-and-match rattan chairs coupled with high tables and low tables and bar stools provided a yard-sale-inspired atmosphere, and the twinkling Christmas lights hinted at a majestic air. The menu, enveloped by flimsy bamboo, offered a lengthy list of teas – from China, Japan, India, Korea, Nepal, Russia, Taiwan, Morocco and Turkey, with every flavor and color imaginable. With so many choices, I asked the waiter for some suggestions – something sweet with natural sugar, something with no milk added and something a little fruity. He and I selected a black tea from China with leeche nuts.

For the fun of it, I also questioned him about the interesting looking desserts. I told him I wanted to try something I had never tried before and so he brought me “daifuku con fresa y nata,” or “daifuku” with strawberries and cream. Turns out this delicacy is a Japanese dessert made from very sticky rice, called mochi, jacketing chunks of strawberries and sweet cream. And though the consistency was something like a really soft, incredibly sticky gummy bear, it was absolutely delicious and the perfect pairing for my tart tea.

After a few sips followed by a few bites, I decided it was time to reflect. I believe today marks a milestone in my life: KP’s first day of “playing hooky”….ever. And while I would love to say it was my first and last, I’d be lying.

Some days the forces are aligning. You’re inspired to do or become something. To get up and go. To explore for the sake of exploring. To get lost because you can. To eat for the sake of eating. To sit alone in a café. To escape from the world for a split second. To write.

Today was one of those days.

Sugar and spice and everything nice: La Nena

2009-03-22T20:53:00.012-04:00

There comes a time in every girl’s life that she gets sick of Catalan and Spanish food. Not because it’s not flavorful (in fact, it is) and not because there aren’t enough choices (between Iberian ham, Manchengo cheese, tortilla esapana, bocadillos galore, calcots, tapas and croquettes, I’ve got plenty), but simply because she can’t escape it. And as much as I tried to avoid it, it happened to me three months in.

To break the routine of Spanish food, I invited Irena to join me for crepes in my absolute favorite part of Barcelona, a little district called Gracia. Gracia boasts chic, one-of-a-kind clothing stores, precious apartment facades, plazas with playgrounds and the best part: unique restaurants owned by locals. Though I had only walked by the storefront of the creperie once, I made a mental note to myself that I would need to return. As Irena and I wandered off of the Metro, I had not the slightest idea of where the restaurant was located, just the faint memory of a worn-down sign. By some miracle, Irena and I walked directly up to it. Though the lights were on, a man was mopping and the door was locked. So much for crepes.

But then I remembered a seemingly adorable café off of a plaza that I had strolled by once. Destined to get away from Spanish food, I swindled Irena into walking around yet again without a definite location, just an inkling.

And then I saw it - La Nena, with its chalk-written signs outside and child-sized, brightly colored wooden chairs welcoming me to come in. If ever a name were to be a perfect fit, this would be it. “La Nena” literally translated means “the baby girl,” and this hidden café was everything that a baby girl should be: lovable, rosy and engaging and above all, her aura should make you smile. La Nena was like a sweet dream brought to life.

Its entire existence is based on an infantile spirit, as if Mother Goose herself were to have opened it. The old-fashioned wooden shelves lined with fresh, loose-leaf tealeaves in glass jars resembled a traditional apothecary. The artwork adorning the walls were hand-painted and hand-written. My favorite was the rather large sign that read (in Spanish, of course), “No alcohol served here.” The wooden piano in the main dining room had music books sprawled across it and the bookshelves in the candy-colored backroom were full of antique books about chocolate. I felt as though I had been invited into someone’s playroom for a cozy meal. And what better to serve at a snack bar called The Baby Girl than sugar and all things nice? Perfectly in tune with its character, La Nena serves chocolates, pastries, hot chocolate, teas, coffee, infusions and light meals. Better yet, it only uses organic ingredients.

To begin, I ordered my typical “cortado” – or an espresso cut with a dash of milk. I have found that fastest, most accurate way to decipher if a restaurant, café or bar is worthwhile is by trying the coffee (Spain really does have the best in the world, I am certain). My cortado not only came in a warm, white porcelain cup, but it was served with a homemade, crumbly galleta (or cookie), sort of like a rounded, ginerbready graham cracker. Dipped into my coffee, it tasted simply scrumptious.

Perusing the menu made my mouth water and eventually I was able to narrow down my choices to two: vegetable couscous or quiche. With the help of my waitress, I selected a wedge of zucchini quiche served with an organic salad. The quiche’s thick and buttery crust was rivaled by the egg, the chunks of fresh zucchini and the strong layer of cheese caked on top. The salad accompanying it was much lighter and consisted of tomato, cucumber, olives, carrots, lettuce, parsley and small squares of cheese. The dressing on the side – olive oil and honey vinegar – added a hint of sweetness. Because the food was rich and heavily saturated in and with flavor, I felt the need to take small bites to savor it. And so I did.

The café’s air of innocence and childhood happiness made Irena and I giddy, talking like little girls, planning our fairy tale weddings to boys we don’t even know exist. Pure delight. How apropos: I shoulda guessed that a chocolateria called “The Baby Girl” would be my most favorite hole-in-the-wall gem in the entire world.

The Real Sin City: Amsterdam.

2009-03-10T16:45:00.008-04:00

Contrary to popular belief among 20-something-year-olds, there is more to do in Amsterdam than have sex with prostitutes, smoke pot, eat space cake, get drunk under the age of 21 and watch sex shows. Amsterdam, with its cobblestone streets and canals dividing them, resembles something out of a childhood story. Houseboats were merely figments of my imagination before my visit and crooked, leaning apartments were only to be found in Dr. Seuss stories rather than on every single street with people living in them. And the street names are just cute. The letters fit together as though a Kindergartener attempted to sound out the spelling of the word. Sprusstraat – pronounced “spruce – strat”– meaning Spruce Street, seems to have one too many “As” and one too many “Ss.” But what are ya gonna do?

I went for the weekend. This concept of going to an entirely different country for the weekend really gets me. In the States, you plan a vacation months and months in advance. Here in Spain, I wake up and think to myself, “Gee I’d really like to go to Amsterdam this weekend.” Well, gee, who wouldn’t, right? But since other countries are only an hour or two by a plane away, it seems almost foolish to not go. So on a limb, Irena and our friends, Chris and Jason, and I booked a trip to Amsterdam for three days. Three days. Only three wild and crazy days (because let’s be honest, if I had been there any longer I may have started to make bad decisions).

I can honestly say now that I have been to the prettiest Hell I could ever imagine because everything in Amsterdam is wonderfully sinful. Sinful food (I swear, the town specializes the most delicious “munchie” food). Sinful sights (What? How could I not stare at the perfect girls in the windows or the old man lighting a joint on the street?) And sinful actions (When in Amsterdam, right?).

Since it was Chris’s 21^st birthday when we were in Amsterdam (What a way to spend your 21^st, eh? In Amsterdam. Yes, please!) and he had been craving pancakes since we got to Spain, we couldn’t pass up the opportunity to eat at The Pancake Bakery, right down the street from the Anne Frank House. Unlike the prostitutes who tease by dancing in sexy lingerie in their neon red windows, the pancakes left nothing to be desired (they hit the spot, if you will). The smooth, warm, sweet batter was complimented by thick slices of fresh banana baked directly in. Generous heaps of powdered sugar practically buried the single, plate-sized pancake. But even better than my pancake, were the “pofferjets,” that Chris, Jason and I split. Almost like a silver dollar, but thicker and fluffier, these little guys were piled high, smothered in chocolate sauce and heavily dusted in powdered sugar. Though the calorie count would probably be equal to the amount that 500 should consume in an entire week, I quickly learned that Amsterdam does food right.

As for the coffee, well that’s a different story. You can’t walk more than a block in any direction without seeing a coffee shop. But what’s that you say? I can’t actually get coffee in a coffee shop. That’s a new one. You want to sell me drugs instead of coffee? That's cute...not. But even more shocking than this concept were the girls – of every shape, size, color, race and type – parading themselves in crystal-clear windows. And this is how it goes everytime: A man goes in. The woman shuts the red curtain. The man exits 20, 30, 40, or however many minutes later after doing God-know-what (though I probably have a good idea). And then, to my utter astonishment, another man goes in. Repeat. Repeat again.

If I thought men were ruthless and idiotic to begin with, this concept would only reaffirm my notions 200 times over. Not one of them seemed to mind sharing the women (especially the really beautiful, really skinny, really forward ones). But who am I to judge? Whatever floats your boat, I always say.

Though seeing the prostitutes wasn’t as pleasurable for me as it was (I am sure) for many, I did enjoy taking advantage of another commodity in the city that gets used just as much as the prostitutes: bikes.

Mike’s Bike Tours. Genius. You pay about 20 Euros to rent a bike and be given a tour of all of Amsterdam and Holland’s countryside. A great concept at a great price. It’s just a shame I am not great at riding a bike. Well, it’s not that I am not good, it’s just that I haven’t ridden one in oh, I don’t know about 7 years. Nonetheless, I mounted in the freezing cold peddled my little heart with rigor. Over bridges and canals, past wobbly buildings, alongside houseboats, through crosswalks, passed countryside homes and windmills, and to a family-run cheese mill and wooden clog-making factory. My friends and I were shown how the clogs are made and how the cheese is formed before continuing to ride passed more homes, livestock (including reindeer!) and through a park. As all the rest of the people in the tour sped by everything, my little elephant-trucks posing as legs were feeling pretty weak, so I had to take the position as the caboose of the group. By the end of the tour, I was the last to pull in but the first to pick up on the guide’s proclamation that we had just biked 22 miles – the longest tour he has ever given. So, I can officially state that I, KP, was in Amsterdam and did more than commit every sin practically known to man, though my body would probably argue that it is also sinful to bike ride for more than 20 miles.

By the end of the weekend, I was able to reflect on the beauty of the city and its small size, the flower market, the countryside, the friendly people. And I tried to make sense of how it all fits so perfectly together with the Vie Boheme nightlife. But I still don’t get it. How is it that in some countries there are people who spend their entire lives getting people in trouble for selling and using drugs or for selling their bodies for sex, when in Amsterdam everyone is happy-go-lucky and practically nothing is illegal, yet people are still able to maintain jobs and keep the economy working? It’s eye opening to think that the police in the US would practically have no place in Amsterdam.

It was refreshing to be able to participate in a life so taboo, so wrong by American standards. So while the most devout Christians or Muslims might be opposed to going, which is simply a shame since they would miss out on the beauty, good food and historical sites, I found myself falling for sin.

The way back home

2009-03-08T18:31:00.003-04:00

Where the white, straight lines in the crosswalk meet the puny metal sign shivering in the cool March air, a red-and-while people-mover with windows like staring eyes rolls in. Doors open.

The doors flap like lips to take in the next group of people. The linoleum floor has been gently aged by people – old and young - scurrying around. It has seen hundreds of passengers today alone. I, of course, make myself at home in the middle and sprawl out across the back seat where I can people watch.

“Would you like to sit?” a 30-something-year-old man questions a woman well into her 70s whose skin hangs as low as the gold chair around her neck.

“Yes, thank you,” she huffs as her smoker’s voice scratches her words.

The man shrugs and takes a different seat, higher up and toward the back.

Doors close, and the bus glides to a start, leaving as inconspicuously as it arrived, like a butterfly fluttering from plant to plant.

“Ding.” It comes to a quiet halt. Doors open, and its passengers exchange “Adeus,” “Llamames,” and two-sided “besos.” Doors close.

A woman dressed in black fur carrying her baby papoosed around her body takes a seat next to her husband, chatting a mile-a-minute on his Blackberry and trying to hold on to the baby stroller. It looks more like a rolling bed with a miniature-sized comforter than it does a baby stroller. Two gossipy, high-school-aged-girls strike poses as they hold onto the pole near the door. An old man hacks loogies into his never-been-washed handkerchief, after fumbling for his T-Mes. And some young punk with a faux-halk and piercings in his face sits across from me.

“It’s Saturday. Where should we go out tonight?” one girl questions.

“I think Razzmatazz will be fun, but we’ll have to go to a bar first,” the other responds.

“Yes, that will be fun,” the first girl responds. “Tonight is the last night I can go out for the next week because I have exams and need to study.”

My deep concentration to understand their not-so-private conversation is broken. “Watch you’re purse,” the sickly old man tells me, and uses hand gestures to indicate I should move my purse to my lap. He must have seen metal-face too.

These people are really something else, I think. This bus represents a pretty solid spectrum of Spain.

Then, a soft buzz comes almost a moment too late and the driver screeches to a stop. Placa Catalunya. Everyone exits except for me.

And then silence. It’s me and me alone. My bottom buzzes on top of my worn plastic seat, and the monotonous chug-chug-chugging of the engine serves as my lullaby, promising to put me to sleep if the next stop in front of my front door weren’t mine.

Paris according to me. In 250 words or less.

2009-03-04T15:30:00.010-05:00

The Eiffel Tower is bigger and wirier in person, but when it’s lit up at night you can’t tear your eyes away. The Catacombs are disturbing and eerie, but totally awesome. Crepes with Nutella and bananas are pure bliss. The hot chocolate at Les Deux Magots, where Hemingway used to hang out, is like liquid heaven. There is such thing as fantastic red wine for less than a Euro. The Luxembourg Gardens are just as beautiful even if wet snow is falling and not sticking. The stained-glass windows at the Notre Dame Cathedral remind me of paint by numbers. The Louvre is too massive for anyone to really be able to appreciate it all. The Seine River at night is simply perfect. Orangina is deliciously tangy even though I hate soda. Champs-Elysées not only has the best shopping, but the best chocolate croissants too. It is possible to use every hand signal imaginable to get your point across. Rue Cler, a local, outdoor market, sells the best mini quiche, French baguettes and Brie for a “bicnic,” or picnic in bed. You don’t always need to buy a Metro pass. It takes some 500 shots to get one good picture of friends jumping in the air in front of the Eiffel Tower. You can buy black boots that you have been searching frantically for for 6 Euros. It’s completely possible to meet up with friends even when no one has a cell phone. And oh yea, let it be known that my sing-songy speaking voice would sound wonderful speaking French…if I do say so myself.

No pasa nada. Tranquila.

2009-02-15T18:36:00.002-05:00

If Americans say “Oh my God” too frequently, then Spaniards, particularly Catalonians, say “no pasa nada” like a broken record. And when they aren’t saying “no pasa nada,” they are telling each other to “tranquila.”

“No pasa nada.” Don’t worry about it. No big deal. “Tranquila.” Chill out.

It’s a great concept and fits the Spanish way of life perfectly. No worries. Slow and steady. Everything will work out as it should. But, if you know me at all, “chill out” and “don’t worry about it” do not exist in my vocabulary. My Type A personality and I do not have any inkling of either one of these concepts. Especially in tense situations.

Because I have been in Barcelona for more than a month, I decided it was time to being my travels. Irena, one of my best friends from home who is also studying here, is my tried-and-true travel buddy. And we recruited some new friends (Kyle, Willie and Miquel) to come with.

First stop: Paris. The city of amor. Where we hopeless romantic can regain some hope that there is such a thing as true love and fairy-tale endings. And the city of food. Not just food. The best food in the entire world. There was no doubt in any of our minds that we weren’t going to love life.

The morning of our hour-and-a-half plane ride out, I decide to wake up early and shower. I want to have enough time to do my hair and my makeup without feeling rushed and then head to the Metro so I can meet up with Irena and Miquel. The three girls are flying together and will take a taxi to the El Prat airport in Barcelona. One of Irena’s friends, who is also headed to the airport for another trip, suggests we skip the taxi and take the train to the airport so that we can save our money. The train is free. The taxi is about 20 Euros divided by four. We are broke students. Free can’t be beat. Plus, it’s early. Why not? I should learn to take the train to the airport.

So the four of us, bags in hand, head from one Metro to another until we get to Sans Estacion, where we can pick up the train to the airport. The ride on the train is about 25 minutes and we’ll have just enough time to get a bite to eat and relax before the flight. At Sans Estacion, we switch from the Metro tracks to the Renfe tracks, which are run by the Catalan government and serve as an alternate to the Metro. We ask the information desk which train we need to take to get to the airport and then wait by all the other people with luggage. When the train pulls up, the four of us rush on, eager to get a seat on our ride to the airport. We chit-chat about everything we are looking forward to doing, all the places we want to go, and all the food we plan to eat. We are in our own little fantasy world. Little children excited to be traveling and trying to come to terms with the fact that WE ARE GOING TO PARIS!! A few minutes later, the train doors close and we are off.

As we are chugging along, I look out the window to realize that airplanes are taking off in the direction our train is traveling. I glance at the digital watch on my cell phone and make a mental note that we have been on the train for about 23 minutes. We should be just about to pull into the station at the airport. So where is it?

At this point, my friends are starting to wonder why we don’t seem close either. But we were standing with all those other travelers who had large pieces of luggage, and they got on the train right? I look around. Nope. The four of us are the only fools with luggage on this train. Then again, perhaps the other travelers got on in different cars.

My heart starts pounding hard and the guy we are with decides to lean over to an older Spanish couple doing a crossword puzzle to ask when this train will get to the airport. The old man laughs and informs us that this train is not going to the airport, but if you know Spanish humor (which I am slowly starting to get the hang of), you know that half the time people are kidding. Phew. Es un chiste, no? It’s a joke, right? So Brett asks again and, once again, the gentleman tells us the train is headed to some small little village and the stop isnt for another 40 minutes.

No, no es un chiste. My eyes wander to the big train windows and I see that we are on a bridge over some body of water. Nowhere near the airport. In our haste to get on the train and get to the airport, we didn’t even notice that all the people standing around us with luggage at the train station didn’t get on behind us.

Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. My heart can’t handle this. Get a person who works on this train over here and fast!

A man in a white button-up with a train hat on comes over and reaffirms our biggest fear: the train will not make it’s first stop for another 35 minutes, putting us at a station in some far-off land at about 11:20 a.m. My flight leaves at 12:35 p.m. My head becomes a dizzy maze. I feel like I am spinning in circles. And because my flight was so cheap, there are no refunds. No refunds? I am about to miss out on my well-planned weekend and lose my money. I can’t handle this.

Think, KP, think. Think fast. OK, I’ve got it. I’ll just ask the train worker.

Mr. Train Conductor laughs when we tell him we are trying to catch a plane from the Barcelona airport. He tells us we can take a train back to Sans Estacion once we get to the first train stop, but it will take an hour for us to get back. [Aside: Oh great, then we miss the plane…what a stupid idea!] So Miquel asks him about a taxi from the train station to the airport. Again he laughs, and I really don’t see what’s so funny. He says he’s never done it because it’s too expensive and he has no idea how long it will take. And then, to add salt to an open wound, he tells us we have jumped the train and we need to pay for our tickets. You’re kidding me. You have got to be kidding me. But he is not. 5 Euros per person. So I open my already-empty wallet to pay the man for a trip I didn’t even want to take in the first place. After we all pay, he chuckles and says “Pero no pasa nada” as he walks away, leaving us to sulk.

No pasa nada? No pasa nada youself! I’m gonna miss my non-refundable flight and ruin my first away trip, and you are telling me to tranquila? You must be joking. The four of us living out the “stupid American” stereotype.

I look out the window and we are still over the ocean or river or whatever the hell it is. A taxi to get us back to the mainland (if there even is one) will probably cost a fortune. But desperate times call for desperate measures. We need to run off the train and get to a taxi as soon as the train stops to salvage any sense of hope we might have about still making our flight and living out our perfect weekend. Plus, the taxi will be divided by four to ease the cost.

At the train stop, we get into a taxi and tell the driver we need to get to the airport in the fastest way possible. Then I look up and realize we have a woman taxi driver. Not that I am sexist, but when I wanna get somewhere fast, I need a speed demon. A man with a heavy foot willing to step on it like never before. But she’ll have to do. We start driving and she tells us it will cost at least 100 Euros. Whatever. Just “andale!” or “venga!”. We need to get to the airport. The ride is spent in silence since the four of us are too tense to even speak. The driver’s old-school 1990’s American music playing in the background doesn’t help to soothe much either.

We pull in to the airport at about 12 p.m. and run to the check in counter. As if we haven’t had enough bad luck, I find out my bag is too heavy and I need to check it for an additional 20 Euros.

Oh no. No way. Enough. I open my bag, jerk my laptop out and switch it into Irena’s, which luckily, has room. Then the man at the ticket counter prints our boarding passes. We look to learn that we are sitting in the very last row of the plane. Though I am the most nervous flyer ever and the back of the plane is the bumpiest, at this point, I just don’t care.

When we get situated on the plane (miraculously, I may add after literally running though security!), the flight attendants inform the three of us girls that because we are in the last row, we cannot keep our jackets or our purses with us. They must be stored in the overhead compartment so we don’t start a fire. I have never in my life heard of such a thing, but as the plane starts backing out from the gate, we are heaving our items above our heads.

“Tranquila, girls, now just put on your seatbelts,” one attendant says.

Again with the tranquila? Really? I am gonna need a horse tranquilizer to tranquila, so unless you can provide me with one or two or forty, I suggest you stop telling me to tranquila!

Eventually, I sit and relax and listen to some music. Half way through the flight, when my heart starts to pitter-pat in a normal rhythm again, I tell myself that maybe, just maybe, the Spanish know something I don’t. No pasa nada because everything will work itself out. Now if only I had some tequila to tranquila.

The beauty of the world...or Spain, at least

2009-02-09T17:23:00.010-05:00

Barcelona is "una cuidad con mucho ritmo," or a city with a lot of rhythm. And while I love to write, sometimes the only way for me to capture the beauty of the world is through my third eye - my camera lens.

On La Rambla, street performers dress up in extravagant costumes in hopes that people will drop them a few pennies.

Park Guell has the most fantastic architecture. Gaudi makes everything look like a cartoon brought to life.

La Pedrera, another of Gaudi's works, is simply magnificent on Paseo de Gracia.

A fun sculpture by Barceloneta, or the port of Barcelona. The Ferris wheel on top of Tibidabo. Some of the detailed work at El Valle de Los Caidos, where Franco is buried.
A view of Toledo.

How much money do you require?

2009-02-08T19:30:00.002-05:00

My poor debit card has seen better days. The strip on the back looks like the bottom of my high-heels, which are so worn down the metal clanks when I walk, the numbers that should be raised like brail on the front are flattened and there is a shadow of black where my signature should be imprinted. Nonetheless, it works.

When I put my debit card into the “cajero,” or ATM, I am prompted to select a language. Because I am dealing with money and cannot afford – literally - to make any mistakes, I select English. And though the English is clearly a poor translation of either the Catalan or Spanish directions, I am able to follow them.

I enter my pin. I select my account. And then, como siempre (“as always”), it flashes me a message.

“How much money do you require?”

[Aside] How much money do I require? Well, geeze, that’s a deep question, Mr. Cajero. All I wanted to do was take out some money and now the quiet inside my mind has been rippled. An entire string of other questions that I always try to avoid becomes inevitable.

How much money do I require? I mean, I know how much money I want, but require? Heck, how much money do I require for what? For today? For tonight? For dinner? For a shopping spree? Or, heaven forbid, for my life? I am still enjoying my early-20s. How can I even begin to answer this? Today I may require 100 Euros, tomorrow I might need 5, and the next I might need 1,000. But needing and wanting are so different from “requiring.” Requiring sounds regal and proper and official. Worse, requiring sounds so grown-up.

Am I just a silly girl parading around Barcelona, spending frivolously on “discotecas” and “vino” and “cervesa”? Am I requiring it or childishly wanting it? Am I spending too much or too little? Will I be broke by the time I go home? Why haven’t I been saving up for years?

My internal monologue then tries to make a deal with me. It begs me to put aside a dollar a day so that some day, any day, in the future I’ll have a few extra pennies. But then again, when’s the “future”? When will I know to use my savings? And in that case, if I don’t spend it, why am I saving it?

Snap out of it. Get a grip. You’re at an ATM; just take out some money so you don’t hold up your friends.

So how much money do I require? Well, when I look at it like that, I guess I can’t feel bad about taking out a lot. I mean, I need it right. I want to have a fun night. In order to do that, I require my glass of Sangria and I require a wristband to get into the club. Easy enough. Thank you very much, Mr. Cajero, you are absolutely right: I require 100 Euros tonight….just don’t tell my mom.

Malentiendos

2009-02-08T19:14:00.001-05:00

Malentiendos. Misunderstandings. And oh baby are there tons. No. Not tons. Oodles. Oodles and oodles of misunderstandings.

Words. Phrases. Time. Bus stops. Showers. “Wife-ey.” Clothing. [Down beat] I had it coming.

(I feel like I am starting to sound like The Cell-Block Tango)

I have now been in Barcelona for three weeks. Three splendid weeks, and I am still encountering misunderstandings. I feel like Lizzy McGuire. So I have summed up the most prominent…the best of the best, if you will.

Mi casa: I am living with a host family, which, in and of itself, is a host of misunderstandings and getting-used-tos. The night I arrive in Barcelona by bus from Madrid (which is a 7-hour ride and needless to say, I am exhausted), I meet my host mom. Chic. Blonde. Tiny. European. She is my picture perfect “Senora.” My roommate, Emily, agrees. But then our Senora tells us we need to walk to her “piso,” or apartment. Well, no wonder she is so skinny.

Internal monologue – GO: “Walk?! It’s nearly 10 p.m. I’m tired, hungry and wanting to sleep. I have three, 50 lb. bags (which I am very embarrassed of) and you want me to walk?! Oh well, when in Barcelona…”

My entourage of bags and I go plopping down the streets, up the walk and finally, we arrive at the apartment building. I walk inside thinking I am almost there, almost ready to relax from a day of tons of traveling, and then Senora tells me she is on the fourth floor. And there is no elevator. (No, no, nooooooooooo!) Well I don’t know what kind of place Spain is, but the fourth floor is actually 12 America flights up and boy are they long. Because I have my three bags, and it would be physically impossible to lug up all at once, my senora stays downstairs as I begin the trudge one bag at a time. By the sixth flight of my first trip up, I am ready to die. Literally. To die. There is no way I can even make it up the rest of the stairs, much less make this trip two more times. I yank; I pull; I push; I heave; I pant; I sweat; and by some grace, I make it. Now I just want to shower. A hot and peaceful shower. Too bad wishful thinking gets you nowhere.

My Pepto-Bismol-colored bathroom that I share with Emily and Senora has two sinks, a heater, a toilet, a bade, and one rather large tub. Ok, so where’s the shower? Oh. There isn’t one? You don’t say.

There’s a contraption that resembles an old-fashioned telephone with some spokes. I wonder if I am some stupid American, too stuck up to know what to do. My senora says that I am supposed to stand in the pink tub, pick up the pink telephone and rinse my body and my hair. (“Yeah, like an elephant,” I think.) Then I notice a little hook where I can put my “telephone” so that maybe, just maybe, I can use both hands to wash my hair (What a concept!).

But I am a trooper…and desperately needing a shower. I turn on the water, which is ice cold because it’s January and the middle of winter, hook the telephone to the nail in the wall, step into the bathtub and push my body against the freezing cold titles on the wall so that the water can just barely dip down on me from my make-shift showerhead. There is no door or shower curtain. I am fully exposed to the entire bathroom. And the goose bumps on my entire body are more like goose pimples or goose warts. I have never in my life taken a faster shower. Never.

By the time I am clean, all I can think about is getting online. How nice it will be to inform everyone about my first night in Barcelona, I think. Wrong-oh. My senora informs me that there is no “Wife-ey.” No, no my dear Senora. I don’t want a wife. I want the Internet. But then I realize that “wife-ey” is wi-fi said with a Spanish pronunciation.

Alright. Enough. No Internet? Are you kidding me? But it’s true. There is no Internet en mi casa. Oh well. Good thing the café two blocks away has wife-ey for me. Too bad I have to pay 2 euros each time I go and I have to practically share my personal business with everyone in the café.

Bus stops: To make my no-shower-no-elevator-no-internet situation even worse, there is no Metro near my house. I repeat, there is no Metro near my house. Que mala suerte! What bad luck. So while all of my friends can hop on and hop off a block or a few feet in front of their apartments, I have to walk – strike that – I have to TREK some 10 blocks over and about 8 blocks up to end at my home stay. Consequently, I usually end up walking. I consider this to be a miracle because the streets twist and wind and it took me a week to realize the plaques on the side of the building are actually the European version of a street sign. I have learned, however, that all streets lead “home.” I somehow end up wherever I intend (whether it be home or school or Placa del Sol in the Gracia district) even when I never think I will. I always arrive huffing-and-puffing with my hair like a ragamuffin and my purse twisted into my coat, but I arrive.

“De puta madre” y los piropeos: Like every other large city in the world, “piropeos,” or catcalls, are awkward and downright uncomfortable. When you are not getting them, you think there is something wrong with you; when you are, you just wish they would stop or that you had a few more layers of clothes on. There is no happy medium and in Barcelona, you get them during the day, at night and in that weird period of time between night and morning when you are waiting for the Metro (typically between midnight and 5 a.m.). It’s not just the crazies on the streets who call out, though. The waiters, the bartenders and the security guards are guilty too. Take, for instance, my experience in “Los Bosques de las Fadas,” a bar that looks like the Rainforest Café turned nightspot.

Me: Hola. Como esta la sangria aqui? [Hi. How is the sangria here?]

Bartender: De puta madre como tu.

Me (in my head): What they hell did he just call me?!? “Puta” is a bad word for a woman. “Como tu” means like you. What does that have to do with my sangria?

Well, turns out that in Spain, “de puta madre,” means the best of the best. Totally fantastic. Really cool. Thanks for the backhanded compliment Sir Bartender.

Timing: Ah yes, my schedule. Life here in Europe is quite different from the states.

11 a.m. (or 12 p.m.) – this, of course, depends when I go to bed

2 p.m. – lunch – everyone here eats lunch late

3 p.m. to 7 p.m. – explore anything and everything in the city

7 p.m. to 8 p.m. – begin the hell of the trek home (because it ALWAYS takes an hour)

9 p.m. – eat dinner. An upside to my home stay is that my Senora is a great cook. Plus, I can save money by never having to eat out.

10 p.m. – shower and get ready to go out

11:30 p.m. – run to the Metro or the bus so I can meet up with my friends at a bar

2 a.m. – head to the “discotecas,” or clubs. Yes, it’s true. The people in Barcelona do not go out until absurd hours. The clubs are outrageous, with funky designs and bursting music. The only concept I find strange is the idea of a coat check. As a native Floridian, I have never had to check a coat in my life. Here in Barcelona I must check my heavy coat at ever club I go to.

5 a.m. – get on the Metro as soon as it opens for the day and go home. I have learned the only reason people stay out so late is because they wait for the Metro to open so they don’t need to spend money on taxis, which, let me tell you, gets to be a fortune.

Now, when I have class, my schedule changes a little. You see, from 11 a.m. to 7 p.m., I replace “explore” with “go to class,” and I wake up at 10 a.m. This slight change, however, does not mean that I don’t go out until 4 or 5 a.m. I, KP, have come to appreciate going out later than late, and I am beginning to master the art of surviving on very little sleep.

Despite the lack of sleep, I love life, knowing that I get to do it all over again the next day. Three weeks in, I have it all down to a science. I am just fine without the Internet. The shower is growing on me. My butt is looking pretty cute from all the stairs I climb daily. I have learned the city inside and out because of all the walking I need to do to get around. And my “cortado con desnatada and sacurina,” or my espresso with skim milk and fake sugar, keeps me awake during the day after a long night out. My malentiendos have become my way of life.

This brought to you from 33,002 feet up

2009-01-06T17:26:00.000-05:00

I am suspended somewhere between 10:56 p.m. and 4:56 a.m., (a God-awful time of night, let me tell you) going 560 miles per hour and wishing I could go 10 times faster. By the end of the first hour, I had lost my nerves; by the second I was in deep conversation with the Spanish man named Luis who goes by Louigie sitting next to me; by the third, I was attempting to eat soggy pasta drenched in oil (no such luck), and by the fourth, I was watching Vicky Christina Barcelona. Now, at hour five out of nine, I am ready to pull my hair out. I’d love to sleep, but I took a Mucinex to clear up my recently stuffy nose and my eyes burn from staying open so long. Perhaps it would be better if last night weren’t New Year’s, but it was. I am drunk on lack of sleep and no matter how hard or how long I try to close my eyes, my brain is still buzzing. Did I mention that my seat won’t go back because it’s broken? Woops, sorry, forgot that little detail. So even though the dimly lit plane is conducive to sleeping for everyone else, little old me is typing like a maniac, hoping someone will inject me with a tranquilizer so I can sleep.

My wit and personality have all but disappeared as I stare blankly at the neon white light exuding from my Word document. With more than four hours to go and more turbulence to endure, I figured it’s probably be a good time to flip open my computer and “escribir” (or write). While I should probably be practicing my Spanish, I am tightening my grasp on the English language (or so I tell myself so that I can justify procrastinating studying for my Spanish exam, which will determine my placement for my classes in Barcelona.)

Caught up in my lousy mood, I realize I have forgotten to even mention that I am embarking on another fabulous adventure. For four months (plus change), I will be “estudiando en Barcelona, Espana.” A girl should only be so lucky, eh? I will be living with a host family and a roommate from St. Louis as I take 12 credits and explore Europe.

With a renewed sense of excitement at the near mention of the word “Barcelona,” I suppose I can’t complain, not even for a minute, about my long flight. Soon I will be in the land of romance languages, beautiful scenery, top-notch nightlife and “vino.” Wish me “buena suerte,” or “good luck.” In the meantime, however, a mere glance at my watch reminds me that I still have three more hours to go. I have discovered a new form of torture. Plane rides. Long plane rides. Because being stuck in a seat for nine straight hours is hell….even if Barca is only an ocean-ride away and the tapas are calling my name.

Cages or wings - which do you prefer?

2008-10-12T23:58:00.008-04:00

Just when you think you have it all planned, life throws a fast one.

It’s not just Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae that hit a downward spiral and went plummeting. I, too, seem to be going bankrupt despite the warning signs that I had telling me not to take 15 credits, start working on my senior thesis a year early, plan for law school, score a summer internship eight months in advance and finish out my term as president of my sorority. Though I have known all along that life and my aspirations would catch up with one another, I have finally nose-dived, and am secretly hoping that some greater power will step in to help me take control of my life.

But since God works nothing like the federal government (to my knowledge, at least), I decided it would be a good time for me to take control of myself and recalculate my priorities. Essentially, I am my own bailout plan. Unlike its federal counterpart, though, my plan was approved by me, myself and I, and it passed without any earmarks or pork barreling.

Between classes, getting settled back in Gainesville and re-familiarizing myself with slow-paced life, I seem to have pushed everything I once adored to the back burner: my friends, my free time, my reading for fun and my blog. School and the presidency became my top priorities, and everything else became secondary. Three cups of coffee became staples of my day, and my alarm goes of religiously at 8 a.m., even on the weekends, so I can get it all done. No one said it was easy to be the queen bee, the star student and the best friend, especially all at once. Silly me.

But if you know me, you know I like a challenge. I’m not into being cooped up in my bedroom hour upon hour doing work. So now, more than a month into my classes, I seem to have gotten a grip and figured out how to balance my hundreds of pages of reading a night with my 10-page-long papers and my smaller homework assignments. I color code my planner and make meticulous lists. It never ceases to amaze me how much pleasure I get from digging my pen deep into my Post-Its, etching out whichever project, reading assignment, paper or e-mail response I have completed. The result: a little more time for friends, a little more for fun and even a little more for blogging.

So, yes, it’s been a while. An awfully long while. And too long if you ask me. But I’m back. It’s time for me to start doing things for me because every bailout plan has some cushion to give its writers some perks.

As for cages or wings….maybe I just shoulda asked the birds.

B is for Broke, with a capital B, and that rhymes with P, and that stand for Pudgy bellies.

2008-08-11T21:59:00.003-04:00

Hi. I am Katie. I am B. ro. ke.

Let’s be honest, though, it wouldn’t have been a summer-of-a-lifetime if I didn’t end up broke. The funny thing is - I barely bought anything. No presents – for others or myself (well, maybe a few tiny things here and there), but for the most part, no gifts. The majority of my money went toward food. Though I should probably be embarrassed by that, I’m not. I wined and dinned like a queen these past three months. So I would like to have something to show (other than my pudgy belly) for my money spent -

A Sweet Treat: The all-inclusive KP Restaurant Review, which took me 10 weeks, and hundreds of dollars, to thoroughly complete.

Marakeseum – Traditional Ethiopian food just south of Washington Park. You eat pureed veggies that sort of resemble baby food with your hands. It’s a riot and should be done family style, with everyone reaching their hands across everyone else to soak up the smashed goodness.

Buddakahn – The place to see and be seen. A true celeb hot spot. Though the food is pricey, the décor is something not to be missed and the food is flavorful. It’s known for its Asian-fusion food, but also turns into a lounge at night, so the drinks are tasty too.

Fig & Olive – In the heart of the Meatpacking District, I consumed some of the best scallops I have ever eaten. As its name suggests, the restaurant specializes in olive oils, so before the meal, you get to try oil from California, Italy and Spain. Italy tasted like the regular olive oil your parents use in everyday cooking. California actually tasted like how you would imagine the state should taste if you could eat it – summery and light with a slight fog. Spain was a tad salty, but for obvious reasons, I favored it. This dinner took Jessica, Dana and I two hours, but we had some good conversations.

Jing Fongs & Vanessa’s Dumplings – I dragged Irena and Jessica to Jing Fong’s with me because I was desperately seeking authentic Chinese dim sum. Sorry to report, but this place was a flop. They didn’t have the charts racing around with choices of steamed buns and such. The menu was totally in Japanese and the few dumplings we did order left something to be desired (probably because we were too worried we were eating dog or cat since the language barrier was just too hard to break). We left, leaving many of the dumplings behind. But I, determined to find some good dumplings, decided to try Vanessa’s, which came to me on recommendation from some random guy in a bar. For $2, I got a plate of 6 steamed dumplings filled with veggies and chicken. So yummy. Mission accomplished.

Di Fara’s – Killer pizza in Brooklyn. See previous post about this place.

Global Kitchen/Pax – depending on if I was working at Universal or Us, respectively. It was at these little cafés that I filled up on my eggs whites in a wheat wraps and my iced coffees just the way I like ‘em – light and sweet.

Elephant and Castle – A tasty brunch joint in the West Village. I thoroughly enjoyed my goat cheese and spinach egg white omelet. It’s a cute, quaint place that is reminiscent of someone’s home, which makes it the ideal locale for catching up with old friends.

Haru – Another trendy place, specializing in sushi. I would say you probably go for the atmosphere and the convenience (it was one block away from my apartment). The fish is fresh, but it’s so expensive for such small rolls that you almost feel guilty spending your mullah.

Bam – A true, honest-to-goodness automat. Like what you see on TV. Supposedly they’re all the rage in China and Japan and such. You put in your money, push a button and out comes a hot dog or a hamburger or chicken fingers. It really baffled my mind. But, hey, they say this is the food of the future and the place looked damn cool!

16 Handles – Great ice-cream by the ounce. A truly innovative concept place in which you mix whatever flavors of the soft serve you want and then top it with whatever toppings you want. Then, you pay by how much the whole thing weighs. It makes already fun ice-cream that much more fun.

Pinkberry – The city’s famous Fro-Yo place. It serves tart yogurt topped with fresh fruit or granola. My favorite was the coffee flavor with strawberries and bananas. My only complaint is that it seems a bit expensive for yogurt and fruit, ringing in at a little over $6 for a small.

Cafetasia – My absolute favorite cheap Thai restaurant in the city. If I wasn’t going there, I was ordering in. The tables in the restaurant are cafeteria-style, meaning you sit next to a total stranger. While the food is cheap (by New York City standards anyway) the atmosphere is not compromising. The lights hang low and the bathroom is co-ed. Plus, you essentially pee in the dark because if you turn the lights up (as I did), the waiter comes in to turn them off again. Strange...but fun. Only in NY, right? As for the delivery, one night I called in at 7:29 p.m. and the food was literally at my door at 7:38 p.m. Though it seemed almost impossible (and I am still confused by it), everything in the city is ridiculously fast, so I didn’t think twice about it. Don’t ask, don’t tell right?

Jamaican street vendor on the corner of 7^th and 51^st – Quick and affordable. Such scrumptious curried chicken. I always skipped the rice and got extra salad. The whole lunch cost me $4. And I had my food in less than a minute. Talk about a new spin on fast food.

S’Mac – A small hole-in-the-wall specializing in only macaroni and cheese. Because of the high calorie content, it was pretty hard to find someone to go with me, so I waited until everyone left and treated myself. Though they have every choice of mac and cheese you could ever imagine (including mac with hamburger, sausage, goat cheese, veggies and bread crumbs), I stuck with the all-American cheddar kind in the smallest size possible. It came out in a sizzling metal skillet with a crispy, baked top. Mmm, mmm good.

Levain’s Bakery – This place was featured on Food Network. Apparently, the owners began this cookie shop because they wanted to carb-load before running marathons. Each cookie they sell weighs ½ a pound (and probably makes you gain 10), but it totally worth it. Jess, Rachel and I essentially did their whole concept….but backward. After we ran/walked the 5-mile race in Central Park, we then chowed down on our cookies (so much for carb-loading BEFORE the race). We split all four types of cookies they sell, digging into each with our fingers and not caring that chocolate and oatmeal and peanut butter were smearing all over our faces.

Gobo: Food for the Five Senses – A vegetarian restaurant. But what they lack in meat, they make up for in flavor and color. A true foodie’s heaven. I enjoyed the veggie cobb salad with brown rice, lentils, beans, fruit, nuts and other deliciousness. Jess and I would dine here just to make ourselves feel good that we were providing our bodies with filling, yet organic meals, while getting our daily in-take of fruits and veggies. And we’d talk about how healthy we were being the entire meal.

And scene. Enough of the food review before I get hungry.

The food itself is only half of it, though. It is my philosophy that a delicious meal must be shared with great company in a pleasurable atmosphere in order to be an all-around remarkable dining experience. Sitting in the airport and going through some of my fondest memories of dinners and lunches and brunches and midnight snacks, I can’t help but relive all the memories. A girl should only be as lucky as I am to have had hundreds of splendid meals with even better friends and conversations...even if she only has a pudgy belly and empty pockets to show for it.

You can’t know where you are going, unless you know where you’ve been

2008-08-08T22:10:00.003-04:00

Indulge.

My word of the summer.

And I owned it like I’ve never owned anything before. Indulge in food. Indulge in work. Indulge in alone time. Indulge in sight-seeing. Indulge in night life. Indulge in friends – lost and found.

I didn’t just eat Ethiopian food. I let my nostrils fill with the spicy smells and let the residue from the spongy bread soak into my fingers. I made it a feast. My friends joined me and we laughed as heartily as the food we devoured. At my internships, I listened. Even when I wasn’t being spoken to, I let my ears ring with the sound of the executives’ voices as they speculated about the direction the company going in. At the Broadway shows, I clapped hard to show my appreciation. I didn’t stop until my hands were throbbing and red with excitement. On the Brooklyn Bridge, I observed the city for what it is. I took note of every minute detail, every building, every speck of light. At dance class, I really felt the hardwood floor smacking under me. I danced with vigor and didn’t care that I could barely keep up with steps.

Throughout every one of my indulgences (some call it narcissistic, I call it a savory use of time), I was tirelessly passionate about nothing in particular but finding myself and what I want out of life.

Where does all this come from, you ask? Well, I was riding the subway and saw this staring directly at me, like an omen from God, helping me realize where I have been and what my role was:

"There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born there, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size, its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter - the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in search of something . . . Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness, natives give it solidity and continuity, but the settlers give it passion." -E. B. White, Here is New York

I, of course, am number 3.

I am relishing in every last second, hopelessly clinging on to the pulsating vibe exuding from the city like it’s life support, in hopes that I won’t wake up tomorrow and have to catch a plane back to reality. Maybe I don’t know where I am going and maybe that’s because I don’t know exactly where I’ve been. But I do know that I’ve done everything whole-heartedly and with passion. So if that’s any indication of anything, well then, I can’t wait to enjoy the ride.

En route-ine

2008-08-06T21:10:00.003-04:00

Do you know what I love about this city?

I love that no matter how long the line is at Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts, it only takes 5 minutes for me to order my drink and get it because the employees know New Yorkers are always on a time crunch. I love the fresh display of flowers keeping the bodegas smelling pretty. I love the taxi cab drivers who think I am a tourist and try to take me the long-winded way home. I love the bouncers who care more about a pretty face than an accurate ID. I love the tourists who clog up Times Square trying to figure out which restaurants are the cheapest, when all along all they need to do is head to the East Village. I love that every morning I can go to my favorite café on 52nd and 6th to get my egg whites on a wheat wrap with 4 packets of Heinz ketchup and a medium iced coffee with skim milk and two Splenda for $4.55 after tax. I love that it never takes me more than 20 minutes to get to work on the subway, even if trains are held up. I love that my doorman pretends to not know who I am because it is his job to see everyone’s ID card whenever they enter the building. And I even love the man who sits on the corner across from The Blue Water Grille and monotonously says “One penny a day” every single day in a voice that resembles the sound a calloused heel makes when it’s being scraped by a cheese grater.

What can I say though? I’m just a small-town girl - now city-slicker - that loves her routine.

I wake up to the sunrise outside of my window and the sound of my Gossip Girl ringtone/alarm clock that I promptly set the night before. I stumble my way to the bathroom, turn on the water in the shower as hot as it will go and proceed to brush my teeth in the sink, which is practically invading on shower’s space. It’s not until my teeth are minty fresh and my body is tingly clean that I can even fathom what my day will look like. I give my closet a quick minute run-down in my head and plan my look-of-the-day as I wrap my bath sheet around me. By the time I am done getting ready, I have worked up an appetite for my eggs and coffee. I play a game with myself to see how many blocks I can walk without being stopped by traffic and lights, and sometimes, I even ignore the blinking hand telling me to halt if I know I can make it across. I always know it’s going to be a good day if I can walk the “L” at the crosswalk of a four-way stop without stopping because I caught the traffic light at the perfect moment.

Oh those crosswalks. If you’re not running into someone you know, you’re bumping into someone you don’t (literally). And so it goes, and I love it - everyday like clockwork. So if anyone could tell me what I am supposed to do about heading back to Gainesville, where egg whites on whole wheat wraps and crosswalks don’t exist, be my guest.

For the benefit of Mr. Kite, there will be a show tonight

2008-08-04T23:31:00.025-04:00

Hem, hem…ladies and gentlemen and children of all ages….Something peculiar. Something stupendous. Something for everyone …..My Life: a three-ring circus.

To your left: My Work (OoOOoooo)
God I love my job. Let me just say it once more. I love my job. Really, I do. Despite the sometimes stressful nature of making sure all the mailings are sent out on time and properly, my internship comes with the greatest perks. Not only do I get to meet weekly with the different departments within my record label to pick the executives’ brains, but I also get to go to concerts. And it’s not that I just get to go to concerts. Oh no. I get to sit in the 10th row for free and then go backstage to meet the bands and performers.

About two weeks ago, my internship sent me and some of the other interns to the Hinder and 3 Doors Down concert in New Jersey. The group of us hoped into an expense-paid car to make the hour journey into the neighboring city. We made our way to our prime seats and jammed to musicians that we normally listen to at 100 percent volume in the office. Going backstage to meet the bands was just an added bonus and the whole car ride back we giggled about how amazing our lives are.
Fast forward to the following week (which was actually a week ago) and my work did it again. They sent me to the “Ten out of Tenn” tour to see one of our new artists, Erin McCarley. Oh. My. God. As if looks aren’t doing it for her, her voice is simply sexy. And she plays the guitar. She kinda has this new-age, country, alternative thing about her music and well, I am a huge fan. She played in an intimate lounge and I am still secretly wishing I could be her. But this isn’t a magic show and I can’t become someone I am not, so on with the show.

A few days ago, none other than Kevin Costner made his way into our office to talk about his band, which is signed to our record label. Though admittedly at first I had no idea who he was, once he came in I recognized him…Swing Vote, The Guardian…you know. It was amazing to hear him speak about his passion for his music, and even more amazing to take a picture with him.

To your right: My Playtime - Featuring a water show and Japenese karaoke at an Irish bar with a Canadian and a Bulgarian. (AHhhhh)

A little while ago my friend, Irena, came to visit. She has been dying for a guest appearance in this blog so here it is:
Presenting, in person, that 5-foot-6 bundle of dynamite, Irena, the Bulgarian.

Since she hadn’t been to New York in years, she was determined to partake in adventures that Jess and I had not yet embarked upon. So the three of us took on a water show.

Perhaps it’s one of NYC best kept secrets, but kayaking on the Hudson River off of Pier 96 is free. Yes, that’s right folks. For no money at all, you can get a locker to store your purse, a life jacket, a kayak and a paddle. All you have to do is bring yourself. Irena and I double kayaked with me in back and her in front. Jess managed her own. It had been so long since my Girl Scout days and kayaking that I nearly forgot just how much fun it is to get your ass wet from the sunken seats and fight about which way to paddle if you want to turn left. To make the time even more enjoyable, we sang Pocahontas songs as we mushed through the water, and I realized that sometimes the best things in life are reminiscent of your childhood.
Now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time of the show where I wow you with my singing ability.

It was my goal this summer to sing at a karaoke bar. It only seemed appropriate, being in a city of performers and all, that I would perform. So I dragged Jess, some of our friends from work (including a Canadian intern) and some of our friends from home (including Irena) to a sing with me at bar called Stout.

I know, I know, it sounds like the start of a bad joke, doesn’t it? So a Jew, a Bulgarian and a Canadian walk into an Irish bar…little did they know they would make fools of themselves singing everything from Jessie’s Girl to All I Want for Christmas is You to Tenacious D covers and then leave at 3 in the morning. Aw heck, who am I kidding? These are the nights I live for.

Intermission: “Get your peanuts, get your popcorn”
The cotton candy man is played by young designers at the Young Designers Market. The popcorn sellers are the ever-so-influential SoHo boutiques. And lavish nightlife will be filling in for the peanut guy.

Sometimes, I feel like a little kid at the circus ready to throw a temper tantrum when my parents say that I can’t purchase the over-priced goods. It seems that in NYC everyone is selling something I simply can’t resist. Whether it’s a great dress, my ideal pair of boots or expensive food and drinks at the hottest restaurants in town, I can’t help but become the wide-eyed girl wanting a little bit of everything. But I’m not a little kid any more, and temper tantrums don’t get me anywhere when there is no money in my bank account. So I admiringly look at all the things I want and then leave...or order an appetizer.

Honestly though, how can you go to the circus and not even bring home one souvenir just to show your friends that you were actually there? No parent in their right-mind could argue that. So I had to give in a little at the Young Designers Market.

Every weekend in the part of town somewhere between Chinatown and Little Italy, the Young Designers Market opens its doors to reveal some of the city’s up-and-coming designers, including clothing creators and jewelers, so my friend Emily and I were dying to go. Each article of clothing and accessory is more artistic or more funky or more fabulous than the next, and I chose to treat myself to a simple, embroidered dress that will go great with my dream boots, once I find (and can afford) them. I bartered with the young woman and left feeling proud that I not only got a great deal, but also that I had landed a one-of-a-kind dress by a potentially huge designer.

Scuttle in now folks. The lights are dimming. The show’s a go. Come one, come all. You don’t wanna miss this one: a disappearing act. (Awww)

A week ago my partner in crime left. (Notice our good-bye dinner picture)Jess only booked housing for eight weeks, so she packed her bags and head home leaving me high and dry. Life in this city for me just isn’t the same. To top it off, my other two roommates have left for good too. So now I am attempting to enjoy some peace and quiet in my apartment. The problem is I can’t seem to find the quiet in my own mind.

Do you know that the other evening I almost (I repeat, almost) went to a movie by myself? Then, of course, I came to and realized there’s no need to pity myself for not having someone to do everything with during every second of my day. But just as this summer has, this past week has taught me a lot. Being alone is something I desperately need practice on. Thank God I made tons of other friends this summer who have been keeping my busy gallivanting around town for meals and window shopping.

Now if you will, silence please. In the center ring of my three-ring spectacle, of course, is me.

With nearly too much alone time on my hands, I spent hours thinking about myself, where I came from and my passions. My aunt came to visit and took me to see “In The Heights,” the Broadway show that recently won multiple Tony awards. Watching the performers sing and dance with exorbitant amounts of energy on stage didn’t leave me feeling happy. It left me feeling like a part of me was missing. The whole reason I fell in lust with New York back in the day was because it served as home to my beloved musical theatre. It was the heart, the passion, to my very existence. And every part of me yearned to be back in the city before this summer so that I could revel in arts.

The show inspired me. Thanks to the handy-dandy internet, I googled my favorite dance studio in the city, Broadway Dance Center, and showed up to take a 2 hour jazz class. Like a dehydrated man finally taking a sip of water, I rekindled a fervor within me, and felt happy again to be alone in my own skin. Sometime between college and internships, I forgot about my old friend and outlet, dancing, and I have since vowed to myself that every once in a while I’ll go back to it.

Because this is The KP Spectacular, the greatest show on earth, I have some special guest appearances for the grand finale. Sandra Oh, Heather Graham, and the bachelor from the first season of The Bachelor will now briefly enter my circus.

When walking around Union Square and the Meatpacking district, I spotted all these characters. Let’s face it: it wouldn’t be a true New York experience if I didn’t have some random celeb run-ins. You didn’t honestly think that in my two-and-a-half months here I wouldn’t happen to bump into some stars, did you? These serendipitous meetings were kinda like what the elephant act is to the circus – they gave that little extra oomph to my summer that I just can’t seem to forget.

While my past 10 weeks were jam-packed with more fun than I could have ever even hoped for, I am finally preparing for my departure this Saturday. I’m slowly packing up the ol’ circus tent after going out with a bang because all good things must come to an end. But what can I say? I guess I can’t run away to the circus forever.

An ode to monuments at night, taking the train alone and being legally brunette

2008-07-18T18:43:00.018-04:00

Elle Woods never saw it coming. The poor thing.
And to be honest, I don’t think D.C. did either.

But ready or not, within the past week or so, I not only stole Ms. Woods’ thunder as sorority girl gone legal expert, but I like to think that maybe, just maybe, I stole a little bit of THE capital’s limelight, even if it was only short lived.

Ladies and gentlemen and children of all ages – a reenactment.

Straight from New York City for five days only to the lovely, historical, spotless town of D.C., the one, the only (drum roll please)……… KP (or Katie Packer – because the least I can do in a town which requires all of its workers to wear suits daily is use my formal name).

From my humble abode I made my way to Penn Station – all by myself, I may add. My 40lb. suitcase and I hobbled up and down staircases and across crosswalks until I reached the Acela Express waiting area. Sitting and slurping on an iced coffee with a book in hand, it hit me that for the first time in my life I was a “big girl” – traveling for business all by my lonesome to a city I knew very little about. I somehow managed to not only get my ticket, but make my way down to the train tracks, get on the train, snag a seat (though I rode backwards the entire time), and get safely to D.C. Once at Union Station in the capital, I reaffirmed my “big girl” status by hailing my very own taxi cab and getting to my hotel in Arlington, VA safely.

The purpose of my trip, which I believe I failed to mention, was to represent my sorority, the Delta Kappa chapter of Delta Phi Epsilon, at our biennial convention. Essentially, it was the convergence of 70-some-odd chapters and our national staff. As the president of my chapter, I attended meetings, participated in rituals and even got to carry my chapter’s flag during what I have dubbed “The March of the Girly Girls.”

While I learned a lot about my sorority and the other chapters at this highly anticipated convention, my favorite part – by far – was Grand Chapter. Though I can’t divulge too much (sisterly secrets, ya know?), I am proud to say I chapter of y secrets, you know?), her chapters at this highly aniticpated convention made a difference. With my business-attire clothing and my glasses placed firmly on my face, I stood before the entire grand chapter and contested a proposed amendment to our national constitution – using Robert’s Rules of Order, of course. When it came time to vote, nearly every delegate chose to strike down the proposal. Mission accomplished.

To add a cherry on top of my deliciously sweet triumph, when I went to the bathroom during a break, one of the alumnae delegates spoke with me even though I never met her before.

“Hey, Delta Kappa,” she said. “Thanks for that.”

Move over Elle. Legally blonde just became officially legally brunette. Well folks…that’s it. I’m sold. Law school, here I come.

When I wasn’t tied up being a mover-and-shaker, I ventured to Georgetown to meet up with a best friend from college, Chantalle, whose classy nature and love of good food lent themselves nicely to a wonderful night. We went to Mei nYu for Asian-fusion food and some time to catch up. We blabbed on and on about our internships, our lives and, of course, boys. We vowed to meet up again in Georgetown before I left to go back to the city, so that’s exactly what I did.

I took the other delegate representing my chapter, Danielle, with me to brunch at Leopold’s, where we met up with Chantalle again. Though this visit was much shorter, Danielle and I made some time to stroll through all the shops on M Street, which seemed to be an exclave of Soho, before heading back to more meetings.

After our long day, Danielle and I, along with some new friends from the convention, were itching to tour the famous monuments at night. We climbed the steps to the Lincoln Memorial, gazed into the Reflecting Pool, stared up at the Washington Monument, walked around the World War 2 Memorial and posed by the gates of the White House. So much history in so little time.

Though I do admit I enjoyed my five-day stay in the foreign city where the Metro stops at midnight and the street are freakishly clean, my heart couldn’t help but beg, “Take me back to Manhattan,” so I took the Acela Express back to my fantasy island. Home, sweet home, at last.

Jess missed me probably as much as I missed her, so to celebrate my homecoming (and her sister’s stay at our apartment), we went into Brooklyn for “NYC’s best pizza” – as rated by Zagat’s and New York Time Out.

The place: Di Fara’s.
The locale: A small, smoky pizza parlor with only two people working – the cook and the person taking orders.
The cost: Between $20 and $30 a pie….and they take cash only. Quite an operation, if you ask me.
The patrons: At least 20 people gathering around to order pies.
The history: Apparently, the owner (aka the sole cook at the place), who is easily more than 60 years old, has been operating his business since the 1960’s and refuses to let any one else make pizzas because he has to touch every single one to make sure it has his stamp of approval.
The result: Amazingly delectable, thin crust pizza made with only fresh ingredients (fresh basil, fresh olive oil, fresh mozzarella and fresh veggies). But because the owner/chef is older, to put it nicely, you end up waiting an hour and a half for your food.

Was it worth it, you ask? Well despite having to wear our sunglasses at night and in the restaurant because the smoke from the older-than-old pizza oven was burning our eyes (Purple Haze should be rewritten as Pizza Haze) and despite the long wait, the pizza was better than we imagined. After one slice each, we were stuffed to capacity and got a box so we could take the rest of our pie to go.

One pizza box and twenty minutes later, the three of us girls decided to get in our exercise and walk from Brooklyn back to Manhattan – Brooklyn Bridge style. We crossed the mile-long bridge and ogled at the NYC skyline that resembled Lite-Brite. We snacked on our cold pizza. And we even got a glimpse at the “hidden” waterfalls coming from the bridges.

So while you may say that age-old monuments and clean streets are so much better and more historical than a bridge with water falling from it and pizza that takes nearly two hours to get, I would respectfully beg to differ. D.C. has nothing on my NYC – my dear, old, dirty town. The country's capital won't become my capital any time soon.

upDate

2008-07-07T22:44:00.045-04:00

You see, I’d rather be having fun than writing about it.

At least that’s my sorry attempt at an excuse as to why I haven’t written in a long time.

But while that’s dandy for me, I realize it’s simply not fair to not clue you in on my existence that has become New York. Perhaps we should make this a bit exciting. Heck, let me take you on an upDate.

The Pick Up - making things less awkward
So it’s been a while. Over a week, to be more accurate. And though you would think I would have oodles of adventures to report on…I simply don’t. Life for me has gone from lightning speed to a thunderous halt. Fine. I am exaggerating a little. OK, maybe a lot. Not a halt. Not even really a lull. Just more of a relaxation-chill-start-savoring-everything period because this summer is flying by in a New York minute.

Well dear friends, where did I leave you last? Get on you’re A-game and get dolled-up. I’m back, live and in-color, so let’s hop in the cab, shall we? And we’ll begin our date.

Small Talk - a quick fill-in
My days lately are filled with shopping around and eating. Jess and I have been meandering from 5th Ave. to SoHo to Chinatown to Brooklyn and back again, looking for nothing in particular, but nonetheless looking. We pick out all the things we wish we could buy (ie: the Cartier LOVE bracelet and Harry Winston engagement rings) until we are exhausted and feeling depressed by our lack of money.

Other days we sit out in Central Park or upstairs at Barnes and Nobel to read (I am ecstatic to inform you that I just finished my new favorite book of all time, “Water for Elephants” – read it!). And yet other days (and nights) we chat-and-chew with friends, whether we are just hanging out in our apartment and meeting our neighbors or meeting up with friends for brunch.

And how could I forget? Last weekend, Jess and I caught part of the Gay Pride Parade – where the males-turned-females had WAY better bodies than we’ll ever have. Yes, we were genuinely jealous.

The Dinner – the real meat and potatoes – hardy enough to satiate any appetite that has been starved by my lack of writing recently
Jess and I didn’t realize we were popular. As ridiculous as that may sound, I got used to getting at least 3 phone calls a day from the different groups of friends I have acquired during my new life-within-my-life. I always had offers to hang out, or go out, or veg out every day and every night. Until I was just out.

As the 4th of July approached, he was going here, she was going there, so-and-so was traveling, etc. And so while Jess and I have had great plans all along, the Fourth, which probably should have been the epitome of our summer, the accumulation of all things great, the best-of-the-best of all Katie and Jessica Adventures thus far, was flat-lining…and fast.

Funny thing Jess and I have learned is that you don’t realize you were popular until after you’ve already begun your downfall. It happens in a flash. One day you get calls. The next, you don’t. Everyone has plans. Your not included. The good news, we have also learned, is it’s easy to recuperate.

We ended up getting together with some friends at a rooftop gathering with a make-shift BBQ involving none other than Mr. George Foreman. A cheeseburger and a handful of chips later, we all made our way to the side of the top of the 28-story building in the drizzling rain to catch a glimpse of the glitter lighting up the cloudy sky.

I had a view of not one, not two, but three different sets of fireworks, each more beautiful and bigger than the next.

Coffee Talk - about work
My internships have been going well, relatively. I say this tentatively, not wanting to sound ungrateful, as people would probably kill me to be me. But honestly, who actually wants to spend their days working? At Universal, I have gotten to be a part of focus groups, listening to albums that won’t be released until September, and I have also gotten to see some more live performances in our office’s music lounge. Of course, I still work on mass-mailings to radio stations and personal errands, but I love, love, love the other interns. So much in fact, that Jess and I (but mostly Jess) planned an intern happy hour for after work at a dive-bar called Whistlin’ Dixies. Being “sorority girls” and all, naturally, we would be the social planners. Though we hate to be cliché, we enjoyed planning and bringing our office of interns together. Duh!

Us Weekly is well….Us Weekly. All the writers, editors, photo gang and the rest of the crew have to bust their chops in order to pump out the next week’s issue. It still amazes me that they are capable of birthing a publication each week like clockwork. I transcribe, write blog updates and observe quietly…’nough said.

The Ride Home - my thoughts
You know, the more I think of it, I do more in one week than most people do in a month, so I am actually realizing my lull lately comes from the fact that I am turning into a New Yorker….I just expect to be running to do things. Jess and I really need to get back into exploring museums, going to the hottest clubs (though we did go to Coyote Ugly the other night!), seeing Broadway shows and spotting celebrities. But I guess at this point, now more than a month in, I don’t crave the touristy stuff like I used to. I am actually enjoying being a typical city-dweller. Oh - do you know that the other day someone stopped to ask me for directions? KP: 1. NYC: 0.

The Good-Bye - a sweet story to razzle-dazzle ya and make sure you're hooked

My obsession with the Olsens led me to a particular interest in a Sun Dance Film Festival film called "The Wackness" guest staring the one, the only Mary-Kate. After lots (and by lots, I do mean a good two hours) of research on the ever-so-handy Internet, I learned that there would be a free screening of the film at a movie theatre not even five-minutes from my apartment. Fate - I'd say so. So I shot an e-mail to the production company and scored two passes - one for me and one for Jess, of course - to the showing (KP: 2). Though the passes suggested we arrive at the theatre early, I had no idea that that translated to "get there at the crack of dawn in order to see if you can snag a seat."

As you can imagine, Jess and I didn't even make it half way through the line before we were told to leave because the threatre was full. KP: -1. NYC: 1.

Now hold your horses because if you know me, you know that I am not going to settle for this. This city can't knock me off my high-horse without putting up a fight....so that's exactly what I did.

Once the crowd of 100 cleared and the amateurs stopped their bickering with the man at the door ("Please, I am dying to see this movie. I'll sit on the floor!"), little old me stepped up to the plate to take a swing. Barce yourselves....

"Hi. My name is Katie and I am interning at Us Weekly (flash my badge). I really need to get in to see this movie, if you know what I mean. Are you sure me and my friend can't just sit on the floor of the movie theatre. It's pretty vital that I see this movie tonight (bat my eyelashes while Jess's draw drops open)."

Crack! This one's out of the park.

"I mean if you really want to I am not going to stop you...and I am by no means telling you you can...but do what you need to do."

Home run. KP: 5. NYC: -3. So Jess and I popped a squat on the nasty theatre floor and enjoyed our flick thoroughly.

As if that's not good enough, somewhere in the midst of this upDate, I began to date.

Simply dinner (sushi) and a movie (Wall-E) and, above all, good conversation -something that is surprisingly difficult to come by these days.

So with that, I’ll leave you, just as a good date should end…wanting more....

(Watching fireworks from the rooftop... notice the Empire State Building right behind us, which was lit up with red, white and blue lights)

Unique New York (the tongue-twister says it all)

2008-06-27T00:53:00.041-04:00

This is a very peculiar town.

Never in my life have I seen men dress better than women, a glass of wine for $2 on one street and $20 on the next and people dress up as mermaids to frolic in the streets.

Nonetheless, I fell in love. At the boat basin, overlooking the Hudson at sunset, staring across to the Jersey skyline, I fell in love with this atypical city. Then again when gazing up at the Empire State building lit by green lights. And then again standing in the middle of Time Square. I guess you can’t help when it hits you….but I am just crazy in love with this city.

So who better to share my new love with than Rachel – my best friend from home, who came to visit this past weekend.

And so begin The Escapades of Katie and Rachel: The Not-So-Abridged Version – because you know between the two of us there’s gonna be a whole lot of laughing, eating and singing…loudly – especially when the subway pulls into Harold Square (“Send my regard to Broadway…”), which makes Jess laugh every time.

Quick detour.

So it’s official. I am becoming a professional extra. I thought after TRL that my TV days were over, but I was wrong. Saturday morning, before the roosters even rose (or at least at the same time the rats were scuttling in the subway stations), I made my way to 59th Street to be in a short segment about camping on the CBS Early Show. My Us Weekly editor sent me, and I must say, it was a great experience. Plus, I got to add some two minutes to my previous five minutes of fame.

OK, now back to the escapades.

After returning home from the taping to take a quick nap (from 8 a.m. to 9 a.m.), Rach, Jess and I met up with the Friedman clan for breakfast. But not just any breakfast. Norma’s breakfast – which specializes in packing at least 10 pounds to your thighs, hips and ass before 11 a.m. Now normally I would complain about these unwanted calories, but Norma’s had a “sweet” way of enticing us. It’s one of those, you know, dessert-for breakfast, you’re-never-gonna-eat-anything-this-good-ever-again kinda places. Yeah. That was this. But this was WAY better. So I splurged on the PB&C Waffle. That’s peanut butter and chocolate in and on a waffle for those of you not in-the-know. And it was sinful. The best sin I have ever tasted. The only thing that I am disappointed about, now that I have come to the realization, is that I will never eat anything as good ever again. What a shame. Not even through a quarter of my life and I have already had my best meal.

From there, we took an hour subway ride to Coney Island. The land where freaks and folks seem to coexist peacefully – to put it gently. Because Saturday was summer solstice (supposedly the longest day of the year, sunlight-wise), the town held its annual Mermaid Parade, where anyone and everyone gets dressed up like underwater creatures and parades through the streets. From looking at one homemade costume to the next, you get the same sensation that you do from walking around Loehmann’s (or Wal-Mart during Christmas time) – there’s just so much to see that you end up nauseous and with a headache. And some people didn’t even wear costumes. No, no. They painted or tattooed their naked bodies and cartwheeled in the streets. Fantasy Fest meet Mermaid Mayhem. In any other city, I would hope (and pray!) that these people were either completely intoxicated or on some intense drugs, but here, I am all for free spirits, so I enjoyed watching the crazies dance to beat of their own drums. (Exhibit A below).

After pushing our way through the crowds of spectators, we rode The Cyclone – the famous wooden rollercoaster that began operating in 1926. And I must say, don’t let its age fool you. After the first plunge of something like 85 feet, you don’t even have time to catch your stomach before plummeting again. The whole ride just keeps dropping and dropping and dropping until you feel like you are going to drop dead. But don't get me wrong, it was great fun!
What was even more fun was the fact that Jess didn’t want to ride. I don’t mean that in a mean way; rather, I should say it was funny. She isn’t a rollercoaster fan so she waited for us on the rollercoaster entrance platform. By the time Rach and I were getting off of our 50-some-odd seconds of plunging, some guy was haggling Jess to ride/flirting with her in some creepy way. I got frustrated and blurted out, “She can’t. She’s pregnant” (because everyone knows you can’t go on a rollercoaster if you are pregnant) and then grabbed Jess and bailed. He was totally caught off guard and we laughed and laughed while exiting the ride.

We wandered along the boardwalk and went to the original Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs. But since we were so full from our breakfast, we didn’t get anything.

Sunday morning I was up at the crack of dawn again. Rach, Jess and I went to participate in a 5-mile marathon around Central Park in an Achilles Track Club community service project hosted by the Central Park Jogger, who was raped in the park years ago. Though we were exhausted from staying out until 3:30 a.m. the night before, it felt great to get some exercise (so long PB&C!) and to walk for a good cause. And did I mention that we got medals. Gold medals. And we wore them proudly for the rest of the day.

We window-shopped in the Upper West Side and made our way to Levain Bakery - isn’t it awful that more often than not the highlight of my day includes fattening food? But this wasn’t your average bakery. This little joint was featured on the Food Network – specifically on “Throwdown with Bobby Flay”. Each cookie was half a pound. And it gave Norma’s a run for its money, which is an awfully difficult task. The three of us shared the signature four cookies – chocolate chip walnut, dark chocolate chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin and dark chocolate peanut butter chip. So while the bakers were rolling out the dough, we practically rolled ourselves out the door.

Skip to Tuesday evening…Monday was just details anyway.

Jess and I went to Central Park at dusk to see the New York Philharmonic play for free. We brought towels and laid in the grass, listening to them play Purple Haze and Stars And Stripes Forever. The only thing missing was a picnic basket. But all the people around us had that covered. Jess and I “ooooed” and “ahhhhed” at all the happy couples kissing and cuddling on their blankets in the grass, eating their homemade sandwiches. So we learned that there are some hopeless romantic guys out there. Only problem is they are like 30 or 40 or 50 years old…and already taken.

Which reminds me actually of Matt (sushi bar Matt). When I asked him what one place in the city I shouldn’t miss eating at, he told me about a place in Brooklyn called “Sea.” And that is where Jess and I went Thursday night. Though Brooklyn isn’t our favorite place to be, the restaurant was on a great street and had the most amazing atmosphere – low tables, wooden benches hanging from medal chains attached to the ceiling and Plexiglas bubble chairs also hanging from the ceiling (just like the one I wanted in my bedroom that my mom said “No way” to). The Thai food was cheap and delicious – just the way I like.
And best of all, the people there were just cool. Artsy and cool. So cool, in fact, that you would think they were un-cool, but they were not. They, in their high-waisted pants, vests, scarves, vintage and the like, were ahead of the trend. So ahead that they all looked almost out of place and quirky.

But this is what I decided.... I think it’s the quirkiness of everyone here that gives this city its distinct character. And I’d have it no other way.

And there go my five minutes of fame...

2008-06-19T20:51:00.012-04:00

Drum roll please. Lay out the red carpet. Start the overture. I just made my big debut on the small screen….as an audience member.

Though I had to be my own stylist, I, KP, got to be front row, center at a live taping of TRL (that’s Total Request Live, for those of you totally out of the MTV loop).

Let me give you the cue-to-cue.

Guest host of the show (literally): Taylor Swift. Stage Right: Mike Myers. Stage Left: Megan Good. Followed-by: Mini Me. Upstage: Perez Hilton. Downstage: Sway. Center-center: Rihanna. And, oh yeah, get Anne Hathaway into makeup (also literally).

Wham bam thank you ma’am. Whew. I could barely come up for air with all the celebrities surrounding me, each one better or more famous than the next. Talk about a paparazzo’s dream. But I was not complaining. No sir. Not even a little. It was sheer bliss. And I soaked it all in because I hit the jackpot, compliments of my boss - the Senior Vice President of Promotions for Universal Republic – who sent me and Jess to the MTV Studios as VIPs (apparently, our hard work as interns paid off).

Before hosting the show, Taylor Swift came into our office (she’s on our label) and, of course, I had to meet her and take a picture. I am relieved to report that she was genuine, modest, and above all, sweet. The 18-year-old country-esque singer seemed to not even realize that she is a star, so it was amazing to be able to follow her to the MTV building for the climax of my day. Let’s see – Mike Myers proved to be way shorter than expected; so did Mini Me (but that was expected); Megan Good was prettier in person than she is in her films; Rihanna has insanely fabulous style (or just a great stylist); Perez Hilton seems to have lost a lot of weight; and Anne Hathaway is really pale without makeup (it made me feel a little better about my ghostly hue).

Not only did we get to see all the celebs at MTV, but I got to be one too…as an audience member at the live taping of TRL. Unreal anyway, right?

Sitting in the audience, though, Jess and I felt totally out of the loop. I never realized that somewhere between sorority life and classes, I escaped MTV’s target demographic. But despite the fact that I was surrounded by 15- and 16-year-olds, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I revisited my teeny-bopper roots and screeched like a mad-woman with Jess every time a new guest star made an appearance (list above).

I would say I probably got a good hot minute of air time on TV – sometimes clapping, sometimes smiling, sometimes cheering. Yep, just as I suspected….there go my five minutes of fame. But if that was the highlight of my summer, I would say those were the most satisfying five minutes of my life.

(Jess and I backstage at MTV carrying a Taylor guitar, which she signed for our boss...then the production staff made us lock up our camera until we left because apparently you can't take pictures of the studio...lame!)

Love is in the air

2008-06-14T19:38:00.024-04:00

Forget about air pollution…I am now fairly certain that love is the only thing “polluting” the air in this city.

Everywhere I go, it seems, someone is reaching in or across the table to steal a kiss from his or her loved one. Smack in the middle of a crosswalk, a long, passionate “hello.” A quick peck good-bye at a metro stop. Or a snuggle on the spongy grass in the park while staring aimlessly into the sky. I have single-handedly decided that the people in this little-big city just can’t get enough of each other.

And it’s not only the people. Love is oozing out of the street vendors’ artwork, the gardens, the food and the museums. Even the sculptures are in love.

See what I mean...even he has his stony arm on her stony shoulder?

Soft focus on The Met – the King Kong of all museums, where Jess and I spent the greater portion of today.

I decided that I am going to meet my future husband in a museum. In the Temple of Dendur surrounded by water, to be more specific. Then we will be married there. And then we will move into our condo made of marble on 5th and 87th – the Upper East Side.
(Tell me this isn't the most beautiful room you have ever seen!)

Earth to KP. Snap back to reality.

Sorry, I don’t know what it is about museums, but they inspire me. You can’t help but feel romantic as you make your way through the surreal galleries

Jess and I were amongst the great. Van Gogh, Monet, Picasso and my personal favorites, Degas and Renoir. In another lifetime, I am going to be Degas’ 14-year-old ballerina clad only in crinoline and spandex. “Do me,” I’ll say to him. “Do me in bronze and gold.”

We ogled visiting exhibits, including Jeff’s Koons’ life-sized, balloon-like art on the roof, modern photography collections and a Pop Art display featuring Andy Warhol’s work, while venturing through renowned museum, which is a piece of art in-and-of itself.

My favorite corridor, though, was the Superheroes: Fashion and Fantasy. Who would have ever thought that comic book characters’ superficiality and nubility are the very things that make them American icons? According to the exhibit, the larger-than-life characters embody perfection. I find it funny how Greeks view the woman body as delicate and covered in flowy materials, yet Americas feel the need to morph it with animal-like characteristics and dress it in dominatrix, form-fitting bodysuits.

Despite all the different types of talent showcased at the museum, it was intriguing to learn how different mediums can be used in art, whether it’s paint or stone or metal or feathers or fabric.

Right about now, I’d say my medium is a cross between magazines and music. But no matter what I seem to do with it, work is still work. At Universal, I am still running lots of errands and doing many mailings. At Us, I am transcribing interviews and photocopying. Luckily, I have met lots of great new people and am learning even more than I expected about both industries. This upcoming week, though, things at the office should be spicing up a bit because on Tuesday, Jess and I are VIP on MTV’s TRL with Taylor Swift, and one of my bosses at Us said I could cover an event…stay posted. Now if only our love lives would spice up too….

Funny thing is, in this city, which is all about love and couples, people seem perfectly content being alone.

Follow spot on my petite French Bistro, Le Pain Quotidien – which serves the most outstanding organic wheat bread at communal tables.

Jess and I opted to sit side-by-side at a long, wooden communal table in the center of the restaurant. After walking for 3 hours through the museum, tartines, or open-faced sandwiches, were just what we were looking for. When we looked around, we realized that most people were eating alone – an undertaking (more like a chore) that Jess and I would never regularly fathom.

Across from us: A European man who cut his sandwich with a knife and fork and then proceeded to eat it with a fork; a totally distraught woman blabbing to the waitress a-mile-a-minute about her life; a beautiful, blonde hopeful (talk about a Rembrandt) eating a muffin and tartine while finishing today’s crossword. And then there’s Matt (no last name) - the first truly decent guy I think I have met out here.

Well, I told a little white lie. Matt wasn’t at the French place. But he was eating alone at the dirt-cheap sushi bar in the East Village that Jess and I ate at last night. His pick up line: “Do you ladies want this magazine ‘cause if not, I am going to throw it away.” Except... it turned out to not be a pick-up line.

We got to talking with him about life and his job and our internships for a good hour. He told us some local joints not to miss in the city. And then when it came time to leave, he didn’t even ask for our numbers or ask to hang out with us for the rest of the night. It was a genuine conversation with a person whom I will probably never meet again in my life, without the hassle of being hit on - like all the guys do here, as if it’s their right, contaminating the city with their “Hey babys” and “Can I get your numbers?”

Maybe that’s the air pollution that people talk about. Though love is in the air here, sleazy men and boys pollute it daily with their unnecessary commentary and sound-effects. But if all the guys were more like Matt, well then let me tell you, I wouldn’t mind the contamination at all.

There's something about the subways

2008-06-09T14:25:00.002-04:00

What is it about the metro?

Day in and day out thousands of people hop on these people-mover, half-bus, half-train rocket things to get them from point A to point B. I love them. Jess hates them. Cristina gets a pit in her stomach when she waits for them. And the rest of the world seems impartial.

The subways seem like the world’s greatest secret of all time. They are home to an entire underground world that no one above ground seems to know anything about. All the above-grounders know that it’s there of course, but they never seem to wonder what exactly is going on directly under them at any given time. It’s quite a concept.

And I am convinced the subways and their stations have this black magic, voodoo thing going for them. Sunday, on our way back from dinner, Cris, Jess and I entered the station heading uptown from Prince Street, and by the time we emerged two stops away, we were practically in a new climate zone. It was pouring. From a warm twilight to rainy sort of chilly. It’s not just the weather either. Every time you surface from the underworld, you are in a totally new town with new people. One stop really does make a world of difference.

Weirder still, time completely stops when you are in the underground world. Unless you check your watch (or now-a-days your cell phone), you would have no idea if it were 5 a.m. or 10 p.m. Or hot or cold. Or rainy or sunny. It is easy to understand how a person could be going nowhere fast on the stoic, silver metal bullets that enter into a station for no more than two minutes to discard passengers and pick other ones up. The doors open and shut without hesitating to see whom they are shutting out to leave behind, and sometimes, more importantly, whom they are imprisoning momentarily.

Never in my life have I seen people so willing to give up their free will. Once you are behind the sliding doors, you are sort of trapped. You have no control over where you are going or how fast you will get there. If you miss your stop, you are out of luck. If the train is held back because of problems ahead, you will be late. And you certainly can’t stop the musicians from bursting through the “Emergency Exit” doors to serenade your train car.

So Jess hates it. She can’t stand being forced to listen to the singers or violin players who sing out of nowhere and shove paper bags in her face begging her for spare change. I can tell her heart skips a beat every time they enter the car. As for me….I love it. There’s something about a male quintet that brings a small smile to my face. Nothing wrong with a bit of free, live music to make my travel time seem shorter. I must admit though, I tap my toes only slightly so that the performers don’t haggle me for money. If I were to stop and give money to every single beggar on the subways and the streets, I would be right there with them, not even a week later. But one of these days, I really do think I am going to join in singing.

What boggles my mind the most is all the people who take the metro. Blacks, Whites, Asians, Indians, Hispanics, Gays, religious fanatics, poor people, rich people, ladies, gents, oldies, youngins’…you name it. For the sole purpose of transport, they all kinda converge. But that seems to be a common thread here in this city.

First stop: Melting Pot Avenue – and remember, avenues run north-to-south and are far to walk, so put on your sneakers for this detour.

Who needs to travel the world when you can just go to New York City? If America is the melting pot of the world, the city is center of the pot closest to the burner – and I mean that in the nicest sense of the term, honestly. Because the various people here are so proud of their heritage, they all seem to have the same idea - create a restaurant to make their home away from home a bit homier.

Saturday night I somehow managed to drag Cris and Jess to an Ethiopian restaurant in The Village. In traditional Ethiopian style, we dipped the spongy, sourdough-like crepes into pureed veggies and meat on a platter that the three of us shared. No personal plates and no utensils. We went back to our basic instincts of eating with our hands and reaching over one another to gobble up the lentils, chic peas and cabbage that all looked like different types of hummus. The three of us agreed it was delicious, and the vegetables had enough flavor to make us contemplate becoming vegetarian. That inkling quickly faded Sunday night when we headed into Little Italy for some authentic Italian.

It smelled like home cooking. Like the familiar smell of walking into a friend or relative’s house for a dinner they have been preparing for hours. With more than 20 different homemade pasta dishes on the menu (al dante style, I may add) and enough sauce choices to make you gain 15lbs. just from reading them, the trattoria was any pasta lover’s dream. And I couldn’t help but make a fuss over the best sweet, aged balsamic vinegar I’ve ever had.

I guess you could say two days ago, I was in Ethiopia, and yesterday, I was in Italy…without a visa and without the immunization. I am pretty much eating my way through the Big Apple…and the rest of the world. Not too shabby.

So when Jess and I were window-shopping in SoHo on Saturday and we found a truffle bar and tea salon, we couldn’t help but stop in. What is a truffle bar? Better yet, what the hell is a tea salon? Only in New York City, I tell ya. And the chocolate truffles were just as diverse as the people in the city.

Our particular truffle bar specialized in infusing its chocolate with exotic spices from around the world. Confused? We were too…so let me give you a taste. The first chocolate truffle is blended with curry powder and Indian spices. The second one is mixed with macadamia nuts to remind its consumers of Australia. The third, with a hint of green absinthe, is reminiscent of China. The fourth mixes Taleggio cheese and walnuts into the chocolate to suggest Italy. The fifth is infused with purple orchids (my favorite flower) and caramelized bananas to round out the bunch (and my tummy).

So I have decided that NYC is perhaps the only place in the world where people make chocolate not taste like chocolate. I’ve heard it said that people in the city are all artists in some form or venue, whether they are performing or writing or painting on the street. I just never expected to see someone use chocolate as a medium to tell stories of worldly travels.

The tea salon provided cold treats. Mid-afternoon, I savored a light, guava iced tea, and Jess drank iced chocolate. No, I didn’t mean hot chocolate. I really did mean iced chocolate. Sheer bliss.

Next stop: Celebrity Street – no worries, these east-to-west streets are quickies.

Well, it happened. Finally. I saw a celeb at work. None other than Ashanti. And mid-photo shoot, at that. I was delivering some expense reports to the guys down in budget and walked passed an open door where I saw lots of lights and cameramen. After literally doing a double-take, I saw Ashanti and couldn’t help but girlishly run back upstairs to the intern office area to gossip with my co-workers.

Oh, and I am happy to announce that Mary-Kate Olsen has finally decided to grace the world with her presence on the cover of this month’s Elle. After months and months of no magazine covers, she has made a comeback at the most appropriate time…when I am in New York City – the magazine capital of the world – where I can walk out of my apartment and see her face in a magazine stand staring right at me on nearly every single street corner.

Final destination: Too Hot Too Handle Street – because who knew that in NY it can be 95 degrees?

Sunday, as I was lying out in Bryant Park, I found myself thinking about the thousands and thousands people out and about in the city, moving around so rapidly as I lay perfectly still in the grass, and I couldn’t help but wonder where they all go at the end of the day. How can a city so small house so many people?

And then it hit me. The subways. Just like people disappear into them, the New Yorkers disappear into their high-rises. No wonder they are so high, they have so many people to accommodate. They are almost like an allusion holding billions of people at once, a magic trick – those high-rises and those darn subways confuse the heck out me. You never see the same person twice. Doors open: Now you see them. Doors close: Now you don’t. It must be their wonderful black magic.

Go-go girl

2008-06-04T23:25:00.011-04:00

I’m a go-go girl. I go. All that’s missing is the patent-leather boots…but that’s only ‘cause I left ‘em at home.

Every second of every day I feel like I am going. Well, I don’t really feel like I am going….I am going. Non-stop. Like the energizer bunny. Only not fuzzy. And without a drum, though some may argue my phone is my drum because it’s always going and it’s always with me.

In the city, my life is always on green and it’s not just my life, everyone around me is always going too, so between them going and me going, I feel like I am double going, Go-Go-ing. Woah. Breathe. Use a period.

OK. I’m good again.

But can’t somebody just throw me a red? Heck, I’d even be satisfied as a yellow. I suppose this is life in the fast lane.

What? What’s that? You don’t understand why? Let me try to explain

Go to work –
Every day I wake up to go to work. I set my alarm for about 7 a.m. (8 a.m. if it’s a “go-in-at-10 day") and throw myself out of bed and into the shower. By the time I am out, I am refreshed and totally awake. I make a quick breakfast, pack my bag for work and go.

Go-for -
Whether I am at Us Weekly or Universal Republic Records, it seems as though I am always “going for” somebody else. As a lowly intern, my job is to be a gofer. I must keep my batteries fully charged so that I can go to the store, or go to pick up my boss’s coffee and food, or go to the mailroom, or go to make copies. Only thing I don’t have to do is build a wooden dam…though I wouldn’t be surprised if someone asked me to because it doesn’t even matter to them that beavers are supposed to make dams - not gophers. And let me tell you, I would build one gladly with a smile on my face because that is what an intern who wants to be noticed does.

It’s not all bad though. Don’t get me wrong. Take, for instance, last Friday.

Fly in backdrop of Time Square - where the flashes from tourists’ cameras and the lights on the billboards are always going too.

Sarah, my supervisor at Us Weekly, sends me out with a cameraman and tells me to interview “men on the street” coming out of the movie theatre in Times Square. My task: ask questions about the Sex and the City movie to get an average Joe’s feedback on the film on opening day. The mag wants to post a minute-long segment on our Web site. We are looking to see if anyone has traveled far to see the Sex and the City in the city. We are additionally looking to see if people have dressed up, if they’ve been dragged by loved ones to see the film and if they bought their tickets in advance in anticipation of the movie.

All I can say is it’s a good thing I have no shame. I run back and forth between each entrance, dragging the poor cameraman behind me, screaming, “Excuse me! Are you coming out of Sex and the City? Do you mind if I ask for your feedback? I work for Us Weekly!!!” After about eight interviews, a policeman comes up to me and the cameraman and tells us we need to leave because we are trespassing and we aren’t allowed to be filming. Though the experienced cameraman explains to him that we are allowed to be there, he tells us we can’t, so we go really fast back to the office. I must admit, though, it was an awesome assignment, especially for my second day on the job. Nothing beats a little bit of adventure (running from the police) with a little bit of fame (having people wonder which celeb you are because a camera guy is following you).

Then I go back to my humdrum life doing my usual tasks of transcribing celebrity interviews, writing summaries of entertainment blogs, going for copies, going to the mailroom and going to get coffee for the bigwigs.

Go home -
By the time I am done going for everyone else, I go for myself. I go home.

One yellow subway and 15 minutes later, I am home. I kick off my shoes faster than the brownies that Cristina (one of my roommates) made disappeared. Then, I change into sweatpants.

Go to eat -
Maybe I should rephrase. I have been cooking, so I haven’t been going out to eat. I cook with Jess. Last night we made cranberry- and apple-stuffed chicken breasts with some pine nut couscous and a salad; tonight, we prepared chicken stuffed with feta, mozzarella and olives and a side of brown rice with cranberries. It was filling, inexpensive and absolutely fabulous - wonderfully flavored with only the freshest ingredients and herbs. Even better than eating out, if you care to hear my and Jess’s opinion.

By the way, did I mention that we bought the stuffed chickens at Trader Joe’s?

Go out –
By the time the day is done, I am usually sleepy until I remind myself that I’m in New York and I can’t miss out. Come on KP, don’t be lame.

Well it’s about time I really introduce you to my marvelous roommates. Because we are all so busy during the day, the only real time we get to play is in the evenings. Cristina, Jessica, Jess and I enjoy hitting up some of the nightlife, but because the clubs stay open until ridiculously late hours here (unlike in Gainesville where “last call” is at 2 a.m.), we are learning that sometimes it’s best to save the wild nights for the weekends….when we don’t have to go anywhere super early the next morning.

That’s why last night, Jess, Cristina and I went out for a little late night sweet.

Zoom in on The Bald Man.

Max Brenner Chocolate by the Bald Man. A chic chocolate bar inspired by the one and only Willy Wonka (you know this place is right up my alley!). Its menu features chocolate martinis, chocolate pizza, chocolate truffles, chocolate ice cream, hot chocolate, s’mores and its famous chocolate fondue. Can you say paradise or what? My mouth salivated the moment I walked in the door.

We three musketeer-ettes shared the fondue and gossiped like Carrie, Samantha and Charlotte until the bistro turned up the dimmed lights and started locking the doors. It was a fun – and fattening – way for us to get up and go out of the apartment.

Go to the gy…well, go to bed –
Don’t even ask about going to the gym. I would probably end up going to hospital if I attempted to add that to my go-go list because by the end of it all (usually around midnight or 1 a.m.), I am exhausted, and I pass out. Until the next day, when I have to get up and go….

My life is one giant cliche

2008-06-03T03:21:00.013-04:00

It’s a small world after all.

New York City. Population: about 1.2 million. Essentially, that makes me 1 in a million. And I’m running around this madhouse of a town like a chicken without a head. So how is it possible that I keep running into people I know? It’s become the norm that I bump into someone I know at least once a day. I actually find myself thinking that it is strange if I don’t. In the subway, right as the doors open to the yellow R line headed downtown- a friend from college. On the street during my dinner break - a friend from high school. And in the park – a woman Jess and I became friendly with when we were shopping on Saturday.

Apparently one in a million isn’t such a big deal. What a let down. Good thing I am still a firm believer in clichés. Take for instance: don’t judge a book by its cover.

Quick scene change from the city to the small suburb within the city – Central Park.

It’s unbelievable how one minute you can be in the slums, the next, walking past high-end brownstones and the next, in a garden you’d swear is prettier than Eve’s. I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that 30- and 40-story high-rises attempted to preclude me from the sequestered gem that is Central Park. As if the bars and clubs don’t have it covered, the city is now trying to make the park exclusive by hiding it. It’s almost reminds me of Aladdin. The cityscape emits the hustle and bustle of Manhattan while the little piece of paradise, the diamond in the rough, remains smack in the center. Nonetheless, the skyscrapers do their job. City craziness out. Tranquility and nirvana in.

I find it baffling how the same people who make such a commotion in the city, whether hailing taxis or cat-calling pedestrians, can lie down in the grass and stare at the sky for hours. Sometimes, I guess, you just gotta stop and smell the roses.

Or enjoy the Strawberry Fields forever. Well, for the day at least.

Oh my. I forgot to inform you about my new significant other. Jess and I have accepted the fact that we are essentially dating each other this summer. We go grocery shopping together. We eat our meals together. We fill each other in on every last detail of our day. We even went on my dream date – a picnic in Central Park on a sunny Sunday, equipped with towels, background music and a little light reading. Lord knows all we needed to do was hold hands, frolic over the bridges, paddle in a gondola for two, sing “How do you know that you love her…” and have the birds join in song.

We plopped down in an area of Central Park called Strawberry Fields, where the grass is truly greener, to sunbathe, read and catch up on phone calls with friends and family. We made our rounds visiting Belvedere Castle (which looks like it belongs in Scotland, not NYC, if you ask me) and the Delacorte Theatre before eventually making our way to Zabar’s for some iced coffee that was as good as gold to our parched bodies.

Bang the gong. And get the translator into wardrobe….fast.

Jess and I are looking for a simple dinner. All we want to do is avoid Asian food because it seems that’s all we’ve eat in this town. Not too much to ask for right? Wrong.

“Too expensive,” “I’m not in the mood,” “It looks bad,” “Eh, look who’s eating inside,” and “It’s closed,” all keep us from chowing down. We’re looking for champagne taste at a beer’s budget. Between all of our squabbling back and forth, somehow we end up blocks away from our flat and hungry. Jess, being a good sport, agrees to check out some hole-in-the-wall eatery that, of course, I believe sounds wonderful – “a real cultural experience.” Turns out that all our negative Nancy-isms, except for “it’s closed,” accumulate in this restaurant… after we are seated.

The food isn’t cheap. And what do you know - it’s Asian; actually, it’s Japanese. But not just Japanese (oh no do not say that or else the waiter will laugh in your face) it’s a noodle bar. The menu is totally in Japanese and, when we look around us, we realize we are the only Americans in the entire restaurant. If I didn’t know any better, I would have bet that Jess and I had hopped on a flight to Japan and were preparing to eat our first meal there. Feeling ignorant, we asked the waiter to order for us. He brought out bowls as big as our heads filled with soup, noodles, veggies and some sort of meat (probably chicken gizzard, I kid you not). Well, I am happy to report that the food was actually pretty tasty, lasted me two meals and didn’t make me sick. But I still don’t really know what I ate.

So let me clear this up: Danipete (one of my best friends from college) is adventurous by getting a piercing; I am adventurous by steering Jess and myself to a random, local place that serves fish eyeballs as a delicacy. Nice one KP.

All I do know is that I am still going to have to try ridiculously hard to not eat Asian in this city. Oh, excuse me, Japanese, which is what I attempted to avoid in the first place. Back to square one.

On our way back home, we stop in a tiny ice-cream shop because we both agree we deserve a treat for putting up with dinner. Because some higher being is truly having fun with us, it turns out the sundae shop we enter is a Japanese ice-cream shop (what can I say - when it rains, it pours!) that sells sesame, red bean, ginger and wasabi ice-cream. We are done being adventurous. We settle for reasonably normal flavors (I get the Mocha Chip, and Jess gets the Maple Walnut) in the smallest size they sell. We are nearly sick after the gargantuan bowls of Ramen and a little sweet treat is enough to curb the craving just in the nick of time.

I should always just follow my gut and my clichés. Clichés are cliché for a reason. After all, between looking at myself, the world and the Big Apple, it doesn’t take much to learn that good things come in small packages.

Not all who wander are lost

2008-05-31T19:52:00.015-04:00

I am living vicariously through my nail polish.

Now I know that sounds crazy, but just hear me out.

Tableau on Big Apple Red.

I go to get my mani and pedi before leaving home for the city and spot a festive red that I know will make my toes pop in my 3-inch peep-toe heels. I grab the small OPI bottle, shake it to really see the color and turn it over to complete one of my new, favorite past-times…reading the clever names of polish colors. And then I see it. I have chosen Big Apple Red.

You know how you think that you pick your polish? Well I think that the polish picks you. Why else would the red I chose first be called Big Apple Red? I could have just as easily went for the Got The Blues for Red or the I’m Not Really a Waitress. No, no. I’m in a New York state of mind, so it only makes sense that, instinctually, I would spot a color with such a perfect name.

And it’s only apropos that Big Apple Red is on my toes. My toe nail polish lasts a long time, so Big Apple Red – completely bright and lively – will be with me as a common thread throughout my summer, just like NYC itself will be. What will be changing are my experiences…and my nail color…weekly.

Tableau on Italian Love Affair.

For my hands, I choose a mauvy-pink, light enough to look clean even if it chips, but still screaming “I am totally ready for summer.” So me and my Big Apple Red and my Italian Love Affair head to the city that never sleeps.

While it was fun for a few days, I had to nix my Italian stallion - he started to chip. So Jess replaced it with Calypso- my Barbie-pink bosom buddy bright enough to start a fire. The name and the summery color reminded me of Costa Rica, which reminded me of wild nights, which is probably why I had such a fabulous time last night going out on the town. Good ol’ Calypso didn’t let me down. How am I ever supposed to top it with next week’s color?

As for my toe nail polish, now that’s a different story. Big Apple Red…I am starting to think you got it all wrong. Seems more to me that this Big Apple is green.

Spotlight on Bleaker Street – where money is passed off as haphazardly as it is in Monopoly.

Jess and I perused Intermix and Juicy Couture and we met with some new friends – Marc Jacobs, James Perse and Olive and Betty’s.

But how did we get to this shopper’s paradise? We wandered. When we woke up this morning, we were aching for brunch, so I found a quaint restaurant with a name as unique as its food selection – Elephant & Castle. I sipped on iced coffee while savoring my egg white omelet with goat cheese, fresh tomato and basil (it’s OK…you should be jealous). Then, we wandered.

But not all who wander are lost. You see, that’s the great thing about life. You don’t have to know where you are going to get there. And Jess and I had no idea where we were going today. No particular destination. No plans. No time constraint. So we wandered.

We wandered past Jefferson Market Garden and Jackson Square, along streets that house million-dollar town homes with colorful doors and fresh flowers, and into vintage stores, including my newfound favorite, Zachary’s Smile…and let me tell you, his smile would make you smile. The vintage store sells clothing from the early 1900’s and each article of clothing is more exquisite than the next.

It was then that our travels brought us to Tea and Symphony. Feeling classy, we tantalized our taste buds with high tea at 3 in this charming tea room that only has room for 20 people at a time. With a beautiful porcelain tea pot of green tea all to myself, I couldn’t help but indulge in a warm scone with homemade strawberry jam.

So our “what do we do today” quickly turned into a “do anything and everything day.” I’ll no longer worry about what polish color will be next week’s fling. It seems that having no particular direction can be just the direction you need.