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.