Back in Baltimore

A wise person said to me the other day, “Have you thought about blogging again?” And, admittedly, I explained that blogging these days is more like another task on my list of things to do – Hopkins work, portfolio work, lesson planning, graduation planning (one for myself and one for my students), trip planning, moving planning, and oh yea, blogging. Forget laundry, cleaning or eating. My days these days leave me in a daze. Somewhere, sometime, somehow along the way I have forgotten to (and perhaps forgotten how to) write – the sole activity that derives me pleasure.

Like the pit in your stomach you get when you realize you have a long, overdue catch-up phone call with a friend, the daunting task to reenter the “blog-o-sphere” left me uneasy and uncertain. Too busy, too preoccupied, too nervous and far too far removed - the excuses I once found solace in about my infrequent writing began to seem like lame responses, even to me. And so I found myself, on the ere of returning to school for the final eight-week push after a well-deserved spring break, in that age-old, comfortable position in front of my neon-pink laptop. The keys feel like a carnival, the oil from my skin seeps deeper into my white casing, and I feel like I am home.

Rather selfishly, I miss telling my story and documenting my life. Instead of playing catch-up, I’d rather play catch-on, where from here on out I fill you in on what you deserve to know. My adventures through my 20-somethings, like wine, are only getting better with age. Enjoy the ride… I can already tell I am.

Key Kids

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.

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.

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

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!”

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It reported:

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

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

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

Sheesh! The nerve of this article.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fairy tales can and do exist. 

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

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

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

Why We Travel: Fashion statements in Venice and Paris

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Journey: Bimini and its backyard baker

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tattoo

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.