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

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. 

Sugar and spice and everything nice: La Nena

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.

Go-go girl

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….