Costa Rica or Bust

I have to say, this whole "get ready for vacation" thing sure is fun. It beats a regular week of chores with a stick, I tell you.

For example, my to-do list this week consisted of things like:

• buy sunscreen


• locate passport


• dig out straw hat


• bronze with self-tanner


• find rain jacket (for hike in national park)


• get foreign money


• set out-of-office notices to say na-na-na-na-boo-boo to colleagues

All of which are pretty darn fun. At least, they will be on the flip side. Which, incidentally, is less than 36 hours from now. When we started planning this trip, we were counting in months. Then it was days (and the number was huge). Now, we're doing to a measly hourly ticker.

I wish I could say that I was organized and prepared enough to have a post pre-written and post-dated for publishing for each day that I'll be gone (from Saturday through Friday) but I'm just not that girl.

So, you'll just have to imagine the trip. I'll give you a few suggested starting points on which you can ruminate, marinate and salivate:

• 5 girls that have known each other since at least 1991, most earlier, all in one house for a week


• 4 husbands of The Posse whom have grown to love us, or at least put up with us


• 1 couple that is newer to The Posse but will get along just fine


• aforementioned house is a 8,000 sq. ft. mansion complete with 7 bedrooms, 10.5 bathrooms and about 12 plasma screen TVs


• a private chef to make us breakfasts, appetizers, dinners and stock the bar with our requested alcohol


• 2 golf carts for us to use as we peruse the rest of the resort, hopefully NOT to tip over the way we did in 1989 in Florida


• our own pool and hot tub, complete with a swim-up bar and yet another plasma screen TV


• one guitar for late night sing-a-longs with a crowd that really likes late night sing-a-longs


• a sunset booze cruise in the Pacific, Ziplining through the canopy of rainforest jungles, surfing lessons and sea kayaking, deep sea fishing, a round of golf along the resort's cliffs, couples massages at our house, a trek to the nacional park where we're bound to see monkeys, macaws and lizards, oh my!, and many more adventures


• and enough time to really, really get to know one another, as adults, as part of couples, as halves of a whole, as friends for life

I have no doubt that this trip will be a once-in-a-lifetime adventure, and I can hardly wait. I am pretty sure the countdown is down to 35 hours by now. But who's counting?

I'm off to the country that is nestled between Nicaragua and Panama. I'm off to Central America! I'm off to Costa Rica!

Stay tuned for many great blog stories and photos. I'm pretty sure at least ONE post will entail some humiliating, ridiculous, hilarious story about me that I'll be too embarrassed to write, but will have to by force of The Posse, my loyalty to you readers and my sheer will and determination to tell great stories.

Don't hold your breath until then, because that would just be awkward.

¡Adiós y tiene una gran semana sin mí!
[Goodbye, and have a great week without me!]

Step One, Go to Trader Joe's

I keep getting praised for my newfound "cooking skills" now that I'm all homey and domestic and stuff.

Do I have to tell him that it doesn't really count as cooking if it was frozen ingredients opened, heated and served on a plate?

My argument against this revelation is multi-dimensional: the fruit salad was all raw (it was never in a frozen state) and I picked each ingredient out myself and put them together for just the right amount of zing and zip. I really did pay attention to having a nice well-balanced dish with plenty of color, just to distract from the aforementioned frozen ingredients. Each part of the meal involved opening a separate bag and using lots of different pots and pans and bowls. It took several different rounds of the kitchen timer to get it all done at the same time so we wouldn't go hungry while waiting for the rice to be ready. I bought and carried home the pieces and parts from the grocery store, including two bottles of red wine. Finally, and for the grand finale, I served the entire concoction on matching dishes with linen napkins and wine.

So, do I have to tell this sweet partner in my eating adventures that the above doesn't really qualify as cooking?

Yeah, I didn't think so either.

At the Speed of Life

Michigan is the kind of place that causes you to slow down, think big, dream out loud and make plans.

The state is lush, musical, vivid, theatrical, simple and serene. The towns that line the lake feel a bit like a scene from a movie.

A pleasant PG-rated romantic comedy set in a place where they serve coffee in big bowl-sized mugs, everyone slows to wave as they pass you by, the local brewery's selections are on special every night, dogs run along the beach milking the last moments of sun-warmed sand, all sweatshirts have big soft hoods and hand-warmer pockets, the road-side fruit stands are always in season, the waves crash against the sandy shores in time to the clink of happy hour cocktail ice, and the bullfrogs sing you to sleep while the rain trickles down the window panes.

Driving through downtown St. Joe, along the river that nudges politely out into the lake, we bumped gently along cobblestone streets beneath vintage wrought iron lamp-posts, ducked under oversized hanging planters with fresh blooms, and crested the hill at the top of the rocky bluff. The lighthouse came into full view, with the setting sun high above it, casting a golden hue on every flower blossom in our midst. The new houses going up along the lake pay homage in style, shape, color and form to the houses of an era bygone, and the views from their porches will nod to the future the residents will create as they enjoy life along the shores of Lake Michigan.

I began to daydream, choosing my favorite house, mixing in someone else's third story porch, the landscaping of this one, with the color of this one's shutters, and that one's beveled stained glass front door. I called dibs, in my own mind, on that one's view of the beach, with the backyard of that one, littered with flower petals from the dogs brushing against it as they played in the late day sun. I made plans to sit on that person's front rocker, with that lady's ice tea, and hear that one's music drifting over that guy's picket fence crawling with hydrangeas.

The weekend was about finding some respite, some corner of serenity, and gaining a little stash of perspective. Leaving the bustle, stress, sights and sounds of Chicago behind, we danced in the setting sun on the sandy beach, skipped some rocks and tossed the frisbee, warmed our toes by the bonfire as dusk turned into night. Visions of a summer cottage along the bluff filled my mind, reflecting and bouncing off of the graceful images that would accompany that type of home.

Arriving back in the city late into the night after such a wonderous weekend, I was glad to be back, but know that I've been wooed. Wooed by the state of Michigan, by the tempo of the life along the other side of the lake, and will be tempted not so far off into the distance to find a way, any way, to make a little part of that my own.

I better ditch the piggy bank for a bigger savings jar. I'm gonna need all the pennies I can scrounge.

For now, however, the photos are valuable and the memories are, to be trite, priceless (and free).


For those return readers, the full "social circle induction, part one" went perfectly. Couldn't have asked for a better guy, with great friends, amazing family and a lovely hometown. His dog was darling, too.

Roll Call (a.k.a. Commentapalooza)

Hey everyone,

I know this sounds very self-serving, and it just might be. Lately, I've noticed my sitemeter count is up to more than 8,000 hits. And those can't all be my Mom.

And, at a recent networking event and a social event and a company meeting, people have mentioned reading the blog. So, what I'm putting out there is this.

A favor. I know, I know. On a Friday, even.

If you visit, stop by, or linger and stay awhile, do you mind leaving me a comment, just to let me know you're here? It isn't a way of me pulling a Big Brother, but on the contrary. More of a "who's who" of the visitors. If you want to remain anonymous, by all means.

It's like the guest book at a wedding. The bride and groom know who they invited. They may have even stopped by your table to greet you. They saw the photos of the reception. And laughed at the drunk uncle or the scantily clad cousin. But it can never hurt to see the names of those who attended in writing, documented forever in the cheesy white padded puffy guest book now, can it?

But, please don't stress yourself out by thinking "I can only comment if I have something witty to say." Not at all. Here, I'll do YOU a favor and provide you with some standard auto-fill comments you can cut and paste into yours next time you drop by.

Sample "generic" comments

• Hey Colleen! Signed, X


• Boo! It's X.


• Gotcha! Tag, you're it. From, X.


• Your blog is fun. Best, X.


• This blog sucks. No love from, X.


• Who cares about that topic? Sincerely, X.


• Go back to your real job. Seriously, X.


• Can we get a new header? Bored, X.


• Why the funky thumbnail profile headshot? Over it, X.


• I'm your secret admirer. Openly, X.


• I know you. I'm X.


• I've never met you. Hello, my name is X.

Ok. See? Not so hard.

This presumes I have a lot of fans, friends or foes named X, but go with it. Heck, you can even tell me where you are visiting from. Or how you found me (I don't read those sitemeter reports all that closely). Or, that you think I should stay off the Internet to spare you any more pain. I'm fine with that.

You're on. Comment away!

Geniunely,

Colleen

They Could Be Fockers

Laura, Jenny, Colleen, Liz, Lauren, Mandi, Heather; June, 2007

The whole "introduce your significant other to the parents" scenario is one thing, but in my book, equally as important (and possibly as scary) is the induction into the full social circle.

As you've likely read, I have a great and very hilarious group of friends that I've been close to since the early days. As in, elementary school. Like, pre-puberty, pre-drivers' licenses, pre-dating, pre-marriage, pre-jobs friends.

[Insert birthday shout-out to two of them, Elizabeth and Jenny, who happen to share today as their day, and happen to be celebrating together tomorrow night. I'm green with envy. HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my two favorite Geminis!]

Back on track.

Anyway, these friends, or "The Posse" as we've affectionately referred to ourselves since about 1992, are my rock. Despite the distance, these are the girls that know everything about me, good and bad, and love me anyway. Tease me incessantly about some of them, but let them go. These are the girls that were there when I made bad choices, have funny character flaws or embarrassing moments.

To save them the effort, I'll recap a few that are public-safe:

1. Alcohol lessons.
Vodka and Hawaiian punch = throwing up on condo carpet on Spring Break = nicknaming me "Resolve" after the carpet cleaner.

2. Character traits.
I tell stories. Long ones. And, if I get distracted, I often lose my point and digress and regress and eventually make my way back to the point. And, since I don't want to leave out a single detail, I often have to go back and retell a specific point. But, this style has deemed me worthy of only two backtracks per story, to keep things moving. Whatever works.

3. Communication skills.
Despite the fact that I am in client service and communicate for a living, I am pretty bad at communicating with my personal contacts. Meaning, I don't call. I'm terrible at this, and often am even bad at returning voice messages. Or emails. For weeks. If ever. I think that the girls have finally stopped taking it personally, and even forgave me for it long ago. Let's hope?

Ok. Moving on, lest I dare to backtrack yet again.

The point is, these are the people that matter. Yes, meeting the family is huge, and when you bring a new significant other into that mix, anything can happen. I have parents and a sister who know and love me, and want what's best for me, but they also know that I have to figure things out on my own. Especially the affairs of the heart. They're unconditional. That's part of the deal.

Girlfriends, however, are not that way. They are going to tell it like it is. They're not going to let you forget the silliness or the bad choices or the embarrassing moments, or the terrible outfit or the time you made this exact same mistake before and didn't learn from it the first (four) times you did so. These are the blunt speakers of truth. The honest reflection of what's what.

And don't we love them for that?

This fact just means that when it comes to bringing your new (and lovely, charming, smart, handsome, kind, generous and thoughtful) boyfriend into the mix, it can be interesting.

I'm not going to go as far as to say that I'm nervous, but with the Costa Rica trip coming up in just eight days, I've got to say that I'm saying secret little prayers to God that it all goes well. I want them to like him, to see what I see in him, to appreciate his humor, to find him attractive (but not TOO MUCH), to laugh when he laughs and to let him be himself.

And, on the flip side, I want him to offer up those things for them, too.

I want him to fully GET IT.

I want him to respect our history, allow us to wander down memory lane, welcoming us back with open arms when we return to the present. I want him to get to know each of them, to respect their differences yet appreciate how we all fit together. I want him to develop opinions on each of them, to be able to comment later to me that he "really likes how Mandi is always the one listening to my stories" or that "Lauren has the best laugh and I can't help but get caught up in it" or "that Jenny, she sure talks fast, but her comments are so funny that I stay with her" or "Liz sure does remember everything, but it just shows how much she cares about you" or "Heather surely is well-read and well-traveled, my she's interesting!" or things like that.

Ok, not in those EXACT words, but you get my drift.

To dress myself in these same clothes, to really feel the pressure I've put upon him, I'm allowing myself to be put in the parallel situation with his guys. I am going with him to his parents' house in Michigan tomorrow, for the long weekend, and I already know I adore them, and his sister, too.

The biggest "test" will be the huge group of high school and college friends that he has invited to Saturday's beach party and bonfire. I already know their names (or their last names, or nicknames, or whatever they answer to when called) but I have yet to go any deeper. I look forward to getting into it, hearing their stories, watching them interact, and participating in the teasing that I'm sure will ensue for him bringing, gulp, a girl home.

It will be interesting, but the saving grace is that it is for only a night, rather than the seven days in Costa Rica captive in a house with my girls and their "men." It doesn't hurt that I have a pretty good memory for names and faces. I'll be able to relay several items back to him, keeping up the facade that I "remember EVERYTHING" like he already assumes. (Not true, incidentally).

And, there will be a keg of beer on which to blame any mishaps, or Focker-like behavior. There's always that.

Famine, Poverty, Death & Whole Milk

I am saddened by a story I saw today on the news.

No, it wasn't anything to do with animal cruelty, natural disasters, gang violence, diseases or orphaned children in Africa. (Though, those things DO make me sad, of course.)

Nope. The news item that caught my eye, and then turned my stomach, is reproduced below from MSNBC.com. Instead of linking you, and taking the risk that you'd not read the article, I've reprinted it here. It's short. Then we'll discuss.

Olsen twins’ Starbucks scandal
By Courtney Hazlett, The Scoop

De facto Starbucks spokes-twins Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen might have a scandal on their hands. A former barista from the Olsen’s oft-frequented Starbucks in New York’s West Village allegedly used to swap out skim milk for the full-fat variety when the girls came by for their caffeine fix, reports OK! magazine.

The twins regularly ordered Grande nonfat lattes, but according to the Starbucks snitch, “the barista thought the Olsens were too thin, so whenever they ordered their usual drink, he would replace the skim milk with full-fat,” the source told the magazine.

The Olsen’s rep responded to the latte lunacy saying, “This is ridiculous.” Yes, it is, but one fellow latte-lover close to the Olsens (who requested anonymity) said that she sympathizes with the twins—to an extent. “It’s also my worst nightmare—that and getting a huge diet fountain soda that is mistakenly regular Coke—but I can def(initely) taste the difference, so it’s their own fault if they fell victim.”
__

Ok. Let's dissect. Several key words stand out to me, making this "scoop" item utterly and completely ridiculous:

-Scandal. Uhm, really?
-Snitch. Are we in high school?
-Allegedly. What? Is this going to trial?
-Victim. Of what, being fed?

But, my absolutely favorite part is the quote, from an anonymous "friend" of the Olsens, who claims that her "worst nightmare" is getting a diet drink from a soda fountain, only to realize, the shock, the horror, that it is regular Coke.

I'm sorry. If THAT is her WORST NIGHTMARE, I want to live her life.

At the very least, I'd put Mary-Kate and Ashley's fashion choices up there in the list of nightmares, but that's just me.

It Still Makes Me Blush

I've been asked to further explain the story about Jimmy Connors that I mentioned in yesterday's post.

As a proud storyteller, I'll expound. And, I'll ridiculously embarrass myself in the process. Be patient, I have to start at the beginning. Heck, grab a soda.

It was the summer before my senior year in college. I was doing the "right thing" and getting a summer internship at an ad agency. During the interview for a boring account service position, the guy looked at my resume and said, "You have an awful lot of sports on your resume. Would you rather be doing that?" I looked around, and half-nodded, insecurely, and asked what he meant. He explained that they had a sports marketing division that needed some help.

Sign. Me. Up.

So, I go to work for this guy John. As his right hand gal. He's the VP of Sports Marketing, and I even got my own little office. Which was big, considering I was 21-years old and an intern. Two weeks into the job, he pulls me into his office and admits that he's leaving the agency.

Uhm, what? Couldn't have told me that three weeks ago before I sacked any chance I had at working in the agency's account service department?

He offers for me to come with him. In the ten-second pause, he then spits out, "I'll pay you three times whatever they're paying you."

Okaaaay.

Sign. Me. Up.

Off we go, into the Jerry McGuire-like situation that entailed a fancy schmancy office space in the King Plow Arts Center in Atlanta. We frantically furnish the place and get started.

We were scheduled to bring the Nuveen Tour of Champions to Atlanta. The tournament, held nationally now under another name, featured senior men's tennis stars like Jimmy Connors, John McEnroe, Bjorn Borg, and others, was coming to Atlanta and we were in charge of promoting, selling, and running the event. It was nothing short of a HUGE FREAKING DEAL and it was just me and John. I even flew to Pennsylvania to train on the Ticketmaster program. It was my first business trip, and John made me GO ALONE.

I survived, and the event week arrived.

The hardest part, physically, of the job included what I affectionately called "schlepping ice." This was code for all of the event operations that had to be done that week—driving a golf cart, wearing a walkie-talkie, holding a clipboard, and moving heavy stuff from one location to the other, telling people where to put things and where to hang signs and where to park your huge food van and where to NOT park your gigantic beverage truck. Oh, and moving ice from one tent to another in the blistering Georgia heat.

The event was fun, though not sold out, and Jimmy Connors won as he was expected to do. The Atlanta Athletic Club was a beautiful host site, and the weather cooperated. My favorite player was Mansour Bahrami, the Iranian entertainer on the court. His mustache alone was worth taking a photo with him. I did. I'd show it here, but my bad haircut makes it look like I have a mullet, and I can't bear that on top of what is to happen next.

Jimmy wins, and heads to the clubhouse to sit and relax. As the crowds leave, my operations cohort and I (there was another company on hand to help facilitate the event, aka "schlep ice" with me) go into the clubhouse to check on the players and see if there was anything they needed. Mostly, we wanted to mingle with them. On the job, of course.

I'm in front of my operations cohort (we'll call him Brad), and Brad holds the door open for me and I enter first. Masking my shyness (that I've since overcome), the 21-year old Colleen says, with a smile, "Can I get you guys some beer to celebrate?" before I notice that Jimmy is sitting with John McEnroe and Bjorn Borg, two of the other three most famous men's tennis players. Ever.

They all accept my beer offer, of course, and ask for me to bring it to them as they had their aching knees elevated. Brad and I exit the clubhouse, make our way in the pitch-black dark (now that the tennis stadium lights were off) in the parking lot to the beer truck. Brad hoists me up inside, and then climbs up after me. We don't have flashlights, and walkie-talkies don't do much in the way of illuminating the truck's inside. I fumble around for beer, find a case that still feels cold, and push it towards the truck door. Brad does the same with his case. We jump down, and schlep the cases towards the clubhouse.

Brace yourself. You're going to be embarrassed FOR ME.

I jimmy the door open with my foot, hold the door with my butt, swing the case around into the door frame, and walk in, leaving Brad to fend for himself. He makes it inside just in time to hear Jimmy Connors and John McEnroe bellow, "YOU BROUGHT US NON-ALCOHOLIC BEER?!?!"

I look down, and lo and behold, I'm holding a case of Sharp's beer. At that age, I didn't know MGD from PBR from Natty Light (I was a pretty lame drinker) and wasn't aware that the brand I found in the darkened truck was sold to pregnant ladies, old men who just "liked the taste" and others who didn't imbibe in the real thing anymore.

I blushed purple. Stammered a dorky explanation. Set the case on a nearby bar. Turned around, mumbling that I'd go find something else.

And, proceed to trip down the stairs leaving the clubhouse.

Yep. Insult—meet Injury.

I must admit, when I returned from the beer truck with a replacement ALCOHOL-FILLED case of beer, the guys were really nice, and made me feel marginally less stupid for the double whammy of embarrassing moments. And, signed a bunch of cool stuff for me.

And, asked me for my phone number at college because "we really would like to come to a UGA football game this fall." And, Jimmy Connors did actually call me and ask for tickets to the Georgia v. Tennessee game that fall. I hooked him up, and he didn't show. Sent me a basket of food and alcohol-filled wine to apologize for the no-show.

I saved his number on caller id the entire year.

Sore, Exhausted, Ready & Proud

Since my brain is a tad bit mushy today, I figured I'd take the lead of Sass Attack and just post about Four Things.

The four things in the title of this post are how I'm feeling today. Sore is from yesterday's charity walk, exhausted is from the entire weekend of festivities, ready is for my trip to Costa Rica, and proud is for the new account we just won at work. Mush brain is partly attributed to the celebratory champagne.

Now, on to the subject at hand:

Four Things I did ten years ago (1998):

1. Pulled a "Jerry McGuire" when my boss at the summer advertising internship up and quit 2 weeks into my gig, and took me with him. We started a tiny sports marketing agency where I proceeded to help him plan, market, promote, host and manage the Atlanta stop on the Nuveen Tour, a tennis tournament for the senior men's circuit. I met Jimmy Connors, Bjorn Borg and John McEnroe, and in a moment of total weakness and embarrassment that will live on forever, almost gave Connors a case of non-alcoholic beer to celebrate his tournament victory. Needless to say, at 21 years old, I wasn't that savvy with the drinking just yet. McEnroe had a field day with that one.

2. Attended my final season of University of Georgia football games as a student in Sanford Stadium. Looking back, we didn't even know how good we had it when the student tickets were $5.

3. Planned a European backpacking trip for the month after graduation.

4. Got my first real job at The Atlanta Hawks where I would begin work the day after I graduated. It was the inaugural year at Philips Arena, and I got to wear a hard hat a lot as I toured the season ticket holders through the construction site. It SOUNDS much more glamorous than it was, I assure you.


Four Things I did 5 years ago (2003):

1. Worked my first full year in healthcare at a firm dedicated to the subject, and learned all sorts of things about renal care, hospitals and how difficult it is to work a photo shoot inside a hospital and make a MRI machine look "cool."

2. Enjoyed living in my first brownstone apartment here in Chicago with my lovely roommate Jill. Great memories, fabulous backyard (thanks to Jill!), fun parties and a terrible landlord.

3. Realized I could pull off an impromptu speaking engagement to a large group of professionals who were much older, wiser and more confident than I. Thrown into the mix, I survived, and loved the rush. Shook the whole drive back to Chicago from Milwaukee, but was proud of myself.

4. Had a poem published in a creative journal. It was about being stuck in a quarter-life state of confusion, and the entire collection had to answer the question, "What's for dinner?" How 'bout that for a thought starter? Mine was called "The Reality Buffet." I am pretty sure the journal only sold 34 copies, and that includes the 3 I bought. But it felt good.


Four Things I did yesterday:

1. Walked 5 miles in the American Cancer Society's Walk & Roll; took amazing photos of the skyline, lake and the spring flowers in Grant Park as we went. Yeah, we were not really in the speed walker division.

2. Experienced bathroom envy as I showered at a friend's house—she has a really amazing wide tub and I was jealous.

3. Destroyed a plateful of chips and garlic dip at Katie and Jess' BBQ. Oh, and a few beers, too. Which may explain why I tackled my friend Laura in the long spring grass.

4. Competed, but did not win, in the "nut toss" game, which sounds far dirtier than it actually is. A version of the "corn-hole game" that is popular in the Midwest, this one involved a wooden box, round metal discs, and a hole in the center. One point for in the box, two for in the hole. It was a riot, and I wasn't too terrible.


Four TV shows I love to watch:

1. The Office. I love Jim Halpert, and his "at camera" faces are classic. My favorite episode has to be "Conflict Resolution" in season 2 (I think?) where he tortures Dwight and gets in trouble with HR for his antics.

2. Brothers & Sisters. I'm a sap, and it is a great cast with a complicated, interesting storyline. However, if I spent that much time at my mother's house, at that age, I'd be worried.

3. American Idol. Don't judge. It's addictive.

4. Divine Design. See #3. Also addictive. Candice Olsen is a genius. They also don't discuss budget, which makes me think that her design budgets are through the roof.


Four Things I love to do:

1. Write. Obviously.

2. Travel. 12 days until Costa Rica!

3. Plan things. I like to get people together. I enjoy hosting, but almost enjoy the process of bringing groups together even more than the whole "cut up food and serve drinks" thing.

4. Take photos, and share them. It goes with the above, but I do enjoy a great photograph, capturing a moment in time. I still print the best ones and file them in chronological photo albums. Hide your surprise.

That's it FOUR now.

(Jenny: I'm sorry for the not-so-funny-punny ending).

Real Estate Battles

Outside at lunch today, I overheard several groups of The Bucket Boys arguing vehemently as they walked south. Heads were hanging low, empty buckets hanging lower, jeans barely hanging on.

Apparently, they had been "relocated" by the Chicago Police, and were disagreeing about which group "owned" which corner. I heard one guy shout, peppered with some expletives that I'm too polite to reprint here, "The Erie corner is ours, buddy! You get the Loop, south of the River! We get the Michigan Avenue parts!"

It seemed like an urban parody of gang warfare and territory battles, which isn't a laughing matter here in Chicago. Or, a Bucket Boys satire of "West Side Story."

Sounds like they need a real estate agent, or a negotiator at least.

And, a handful of belts.

Vibrant Reality, Short-lived

As is traditional for the month of May in Chicago, the tulips are in full bloom up and down Michigan Avenue. They are a gorgeous metaphor for summer in this city, in my mind.

You anticipate their arrival for months, waiting as the snow melts, the landscapers prepare the beds, the sun warms the frigid pavement and the bulbs are planted.

When the do arrive, they burst onto the scene with a delightful vengence, causing tourists and Chicagoans alike to proclaim their beauty, wear silly shorts and Cubs hats, capture their wide range of colors on film, soak in as much time outdoors as they can and revel in their brilliance.

They don't stick around for long, however, so you best enjoy them while they last. Milk their presence here as much as you can. Treasure the days that are full of vibrant color, long hours of sunlight and the abundance of leisurely outdoor activities.

Toward the end of their time, the tulips begin to wilt, sway in the wind and sag towards the ground, bowing down to the inevitable reality that is their demise. The calendar doesn't lie, despite our every effort to delay the reality of the seasonal change. The expense of having planted them is questioned, as the time they were here was so brief. But deep in your heart, you know it was worth it.

And, then they're gone.

Sadly, and yet patiently, you must wait a full year to experience their glory yet again. But the anticipation is sweet, the countdown is boisterous and the sheer fact of their existence in the city makes it all worthwhile.

If only summer arrived in May along with the gorgeous flowers. Can a landscape crew get on that, please?

I Guess Mowing the Lawn is a Given?

I just saw this article in Esquire and it is truly great. Entitled "The 75 Skills Every Man Should Master," it not only lists them, there is some sideline commentary that cracks me up.

The author, Tom Chiarella, asserts that no man can be an expert in everything, but racking up these skills as he moves through life is one way to guarantee manly success.

I'd have to agree.

Specifically, I'm a fan of the following, complete with my own sideline chatter:

• #3 Take a photo. Everyone should know this, and men aren't the only ones who suck. I abhor handing my camera to someone who offers to take the group photo, only to get it back and see 40% of the photo is allocated to the roof, or the table covered in beer bottles. Thank God for the cropping tool.


• #5 Name a book that matters. And no, Stephen King doesn't count.


• #24 Know his poison, without standing there like a dope. Amen. Isn't that a huge turn-off for women? A man that flounders at the bar, only to quietly, timidly order something girly and pink? Honestly, I was out with a friend and her (now ex) boyfriend, and he ordered a Stoli Orange with a splash of grapefruit and a dash of Diet Seven-up. I almost croaked on my Miller Lite. Not only was his drink something only to be sipped while in Mexico on the beach, his order included the words 'dash' and 'diet.' Not manly, my friend.


• #31 Make a bed. Admittedly, this one parlays into my OCD/neatness tendencies. But seriously, how hard is it to pull the comforter up? Place a pillow or two at the top? PRETEND you have nice bedding and a headboard that matches the footboard? (Sorry, Brett.) I am guessing that when men get married, they also get furniture and a made bed.


• #35 Jump-start a car, change a flat tire and change the oil. Frankly, this one is good for a man who is with me, because short of checking the oil or adding wiper fluid, I'm toast. Side-of-the-road-and-stranded toast. Thank God the one time I had a flat was within about 7 miles of my parents' house and my Dad rescued me.


• #41 Speak to a waiter so he will hear. My feeling on this is not so much about the volume with which you address the waiter, but the manner and temperament with which you address the waiter. If a man is rude to a server, he's also likely to be mean to his mother, and may kick puppies on the side. Having waited tables many times in my life, it is not that hard to be kind, direct, respectful and polite. On either side of the table.


• #51 Build a campfire. I like this one strictly because for me, the image of a man building a campfire, bonfire or fire in the wood-burning fireplace in the basement, is just hot. No pun intended.


• #54 Break up a fight. Yes, please. I hate violence, and fighting is something I just don't get. I know, I know, #13 says you should know how to throw a punch, but I'm more a fan of the guy who is breaking up the fight, urging the guys to speak rationally about the issue. Maybe I'm dreaming, but after witnessing a few drunken brawls in college, and even ducking once or twice when a bottle sailed our way, I'm out.


• #59 Write a thank you note. I threw this one in here for all my girls who have gotten married, or had kids (or both!) and had to spend hours writing the notes alone. My cousin asked her husband to write the notes to his family and friends, and she wrote her half, and it seemed like a great idea. His note was cute, charming and a tad bit hilarious, but at least it was heartfelt and genuine. Don't worry, men, the article breaks down the note's structure for you. Maybe a thank you note to the author is in order?


• #62 Hold a baby. Why, I suspect this skill will come in handy at least one day. And, the Heisman Trophy pose will only work on the kid when he is REALLY small. And it scares the mother anyway.


• #71 Iron a shirt. I can't help but recall a time when my friend Brad was staying with my family for a summer in college due to an internship a few days a week, and the "ironing board dance" is still a family memory that is guaranteed to stir up some laughs. The author doesn't tell you this, but the secret is two-fold. Starch makes everything easier, and always do the front last. That's the part that matters most anyway.


• #73 Caress a woman's neck. Quite obviously. Brett, your technique makes up for the unmade bed. Almost.

There you have it. A concise list of 75 easy ways to become a well-rounded, skilled manly man.

I must admit, I'm happy to say that most of the men in my life (read: my boyfriend, few close guy friends and my father) are all quite skilled. I wonder who has the most? I'm pretty sure men like a good competition...

Maybe we should develop a bracket and keep score?

Chicken for Breakfast: I'm Lovin' It

While at painting class last night, with the class full and busily man-handling their color still lifes (oh wait, that was just me), the radio was on and playing all sorts of fun 1970s classic rock.

And then a commercial promoting McDonald's new breakfast treat—chicken biscuits—came on and interrupted the quiet. The class all simultaneously reacted negatively, with the teacher even saying aloud, "who eats chicken for breakfast?"

Uh...have you EVER been to Chick-fil-A? The fast food chain that is healthier than the rest, tastes better, smells delicious and is torturously NOT in the Midwest yet? Ok, so apparently there are a few franchise spots up in Wisconsin, but even I haven't had that much of an urge. Yet.

At Atlanta-based Chick-fil-A, you eat chicken for breakfast, and you wash it down with a giant lemonade. That's just what you do. Then you go back at lunch and get the nuggets and waffle fries, and wash that down with a sweet tea. HEAVEN.

So now when I'm seeing the article in the Chicago Tribune today asking, "Will the chicken for breakfast work in the North?" it just upsets me. At least one observer, quoted in the article, was smart enough to give credit where credit was due saying, "They may not admit this, but it looks like they copied this a little from Chick-fil-A."

Give it a chance. I'm not sure that Midwest-based McDonald's will do it the way that Chick-fil-A does, or half as well, but let's not knock it before you've tasted the delicious salty chicken resting on a buttery, flaky biscuit.

McDonald's is giving them out free tomorrow, and Costa-Rica-trip-diet be damned, I'll be in line.

Wishing it were the real thing, but willing to take one for the team, and sacrifice a little something for a taste. I'll let you know.

Act Up Already, Chicago!

I've been asked recently why my blog hasn't been much about commuting lately, and there is just one answer to that.

People have been behaving! I can't take it anymore.

Where are the rude passengers, the terrible drivers, the butt pivoters, the horrendous smells, or the really fat people?

All this well-behavin' gives me no material for dissection, no topics for fodder. Did everyone get a copy of Emily Post's book while I wasn't looking? Is the threat of summer infecting everyone with such good vibes that we're actually being POLITE to one another? Are we just so glad that we're able to ride public transit while the gas prices are nearing $6 a gallon?

Can't someone just throw a fit on the 145 bus? Could I get a traffic incident that incites the mob mentality? May I please have a cranky old person to yell at a young, fit passenger rudely sitting in the disabled/priority seating?

Great, thanks.

*Side note: Due to the unfortunate lack of commuting material, I've been pondering changing the name of the blog to something more universal. Thoughts?

Wouldn't Fit on the Card

Mom teaching me things even then. Christmas morning circa 1978.
In honor of Mother's Day, I'd like to honor mine. I'm one of those women you envy. One who has a fantastically fun mother with whom she can share stories, clothes, laughs and a bottle of wine. Or two.

As I age, I catch myself more and more saying things that we used to tease her for, or waving my hands the way she does, or crinkling my nose to stop the impending tears during a sappy movie, or raising my voice into a ridiculously high pitch to squeal excitedly about something fabulous.

I'm becoming her.

And I couldn't be more thrilled.

For her pleasure, on her day, here are a few highlights from my life with my Mom. Heads up, Mom—go grab a Kleenex. I'm just saying. I know you.

• The woman is THE PERSON you want while renovating or doing any number of house projects. There is just nothing she can't figure out, dream up, paint over or make happen. My condo is proof of her magic ability to take an ugly, empty, pink stove and fake-wood-metal-cabinets kitchen look amazing. And, the woman looks hot wearing an apron from Home Depot covered in paint. I promise.


• My Mom took great pleasure in making childhood memories and holidays special for me and my sister. Every year for St. Patrick's Day she would dig deep into her Irish-ness and dye all of our dinner foods bright green, distribute green paper leprechaun ears and toast her heritage with green glasses of milk. Our personal favorite was macaroni, and we were convinced it tasted different when it was green.


• As a woman who grew up in a household of 10 kids, my Mom is resourceful and industrious. She used to not only wow us with her pumpkin carving skills, but she handmade every Halloween costume we wanted, and they were WAY BETTER than the ones at the store. Lauren somehow got the shaft one year when she had to go as a book character, as Laura Ingles Wilder isn't all that cool, especially when your sister gets to be a punk rocker with pink hair. Sorry, Laur.


• In keeping with the above holiday theme, every Easter, while we girls were at church, she ensured that my Dad would be placing the plastic eggs all over our yard. We loved getting our new dresses, and giggled with Mom when Dad inevitably chopped up one lone purple egg with his riding lawn mower the following weekend.


• Ever the crafty one, my Mom is the queen of homemade birthday cards, and I gotta tell you, most of the time the message inside is funnier and more meaningful that the ones from Hallmark. When you care enough to send the very best, you go to Eileen's house and use her printer.


• I'll never forget the look on her face when she handed me the bouquet of bright red roses on the day of my college graduation. It was a combination of pride in what had been gained, sadness for what was lost, anticipation for what was to come, and reflection on where we'd been. I was proud to be the cause for that look, and will be continuing to make her proud as long as I can.


• My Dad gets credit for this one, too, but I have to apologize now for the "bleacher butt" they both suffered for years. Those gyms all look the same, smell the same, and have the same ridiculously hard wooden bleachers, and they sat there, yelling out my name, for years and years, during every season there was. The Norcross High School Blue Devils sweatshirt, however, has seen better days, and we're glad that it is now relegated to the back of the closet.


• It is only now, as an adult with a car and a huge city in which to run errands, that I fully appreciate the efforts of the driver. Captaining a mini-van full of kids, driving us all over the state, could NOT have been how she wanted to spend her weekends, but she did. With no complaints, and great oldies tunes. To which she always said, "I was in 7th grade when this came out!" or "I danced with Charlie Jacoby to this one in 1970!" We loved thinking of our Mom that young and free.


• Able to control her own work schedule, my Mom was great about dragging us girls on cool spring break vacations to Destin, Florida, where we were allowed to bring a friend. Now THAT made us feel grown up. As a family, we have fond memories, and silly photos from, Disney World, Grant's Farm, Busch Gardens, Six Flags, Hilton Head and Gulf Shores. The bathing suits were terribly cool at the time, but looking back, man were the styles funny. Mom, you were one hot mama!


• With a birthday that is just 3 days after Christmas, my Mom always made sure that I still felt special. She always used purple birthday wrapping paper (or some other non-holiday shade) and kept them a secret until the big day. We got to use the big, red, round plate that said, "You are special today" while we ate whatever meal we'd requested. I felt special then, and still do, thanks to her thoughtfulness.


• I think she was crazy to do it, but she let me have a HUGE birthday sleepover in 5th grade, and invited 12 or so girls to the house. Pretty sure they didn't sleep that night, but that kind of sacrifice for our happiness was never forgotten. She even painted EVERY girl's fingernails. Crazy woman.


• As an adult, I have even better memories, ones that go deeper than sporting events, holidays or family vacations. Now, my Mom is my best friend, the woman I long to become and a huge supporter of my dreams. Even when I can't afford them, and she has to sneak me a loan.


• Driving up in a U-Haul to move me to Chicago, it was almost as if my Mom didn't have a totally ruined hand, and a full set of prescription painkillers, from an unfortunate run-in with a Hunter Douglas blind. Despite the wrecked hand, huge cast and undoubtedly, the pain, she put on a smile and rode in the center all the way from Atlanta to Chicago, laughing the loudest when the U-Haul broke down halfway across Indiana. She's strong and resilient like that.


• When my vacation plans fell apart a few years ago, she immediately volunteered to get away with me. We boarded flights for Miami, and jetted off on to our cruise ship to the Caribbean. Just us girls. We dressed up, ate too much, drank buckets of beer by the pool, played games of Scrabble where I trounced her repeatedly, and we laughed and laughed and laughed. Only part of that laughter was AT her for trying to beat me at a word game.

As mothers do, mine has always been supportive of my dreams, even when I've lost hope. She has been there for me as I battled through a difficult job situation, and cheered the loudest when I moved on to better things. She's consistent with her encouragement during the MANY heartaches I've experienced, and is the best friend I could ask for. She asks the tough questions, the ones that I'm avoiding with full force, and when the answer comes out, and she softens the blow, I often have to just concede that she's right. She knew when I moved to Chicago that it wasn't likely that it would be "just for two years," and yet she is still convinced it was the right thing to do.

Distance is only on the roads, love reaches across the miles, and Mom, your opinion is still the most important to me. I hope I'm making you proud.

Before we got sauced at a Wine Fest in St. Louis in '05.
I love and miss you every day. I hope to become half the woman you are, and every bit the mother.

Happy YOU Day!

Beer, Beer and More Beer (European Vacation, part two)

Welcome back, and all aboard for part two of my European vacation. If you're lost on when, where and why I am traveling, read this first.

I hope you brought your Passport and it is tucked away in that dorky little flat fanny pack someone talked you into buying, snuggling in there with your Eurorail pass and student travel ID that makes you look OH SO AMERICAN and really, quite young and naive.

After Prague, the journey continued...

Vienna
Taking a much needed break from alcohol, we decided to veer off course and go to Vienna without our new friends. We rented yet another amazing apartment from Frau Gajdo, who cooked us breakfast the next morning and threw in a side of grandma talk in broken English. It felt good to be in a home. Needing some nightlife that we could enjoy without the bubbly, we visited Prater, a huge amusement park. Thrill rides are different there, and we seated ourselves in the "Slingshot" ready for an adventure. The ride operator was giving everyone instructions, but we clearly didn't speak the language, so it was clear when everyone was raising their arms and obeying his rules that we were the American Idiots. He laughed, pointed, and made us the butt of the jokes. We didn't mind, but buddy, can you still come over here and buckle us in before you shoot us 200 feet into the sky? Great, thanks.


The vending machines in Austria were amazing, enormous refrigerated mini-stores operated by the long arm of a fancy robot. Really fun—we ate stuff we couldn't identify JUST to see the thing in action. Touring the Schonbrunn palace (home of the Hapsburgs during their rule), we worked off the vending machine delights wandering the mansion and the gardens. I recall getting lost several times in Vienna, and even have photos of Anna and Mandi carefully studying a map (with clenched brows and no clue). Time to head on. So long, farewell, Vienna. The 9-hour overnight train with the sleeping cars was fun and interesting, but being awoken in the middle of the night by a train guard demanding your Passport and shining a flashlight in your face wasn't so nice. Those Germans can be a bit brash, you see.

Munich
Our arrival in Munich meant a return to the beer. And lots of it. Those Germans really do knock them back. We started our time there with a visit to the Hofbrauhas, the world's largest beer garden. Alas, who is there tipping back the 1-litre beer steins but The Michigan Boys! We dragged them with us the next day on the traditional Munchen Bike Tour, which included a ride through the English Gardens where adults like to sunbathe naked. Trust me, German men should NOT do that. I am pretty sure it frightens children. Bavarian lions were everywhere, and I'm pretty sure this induced some "Wizard of Oz" singing.


We took a bus ride out to Dachau, one of the biggest concentration camps during the Nazi regime, and were moved to tears, and definitely were the quietest we'd been since landing in Europe. To uplift, we watched the Glockenspiel in the Marienplatz do its little dance, and made it back to the beer garden. I am pretty sure I barfed up my sausage dinner on the way back to our hostel, but can you blame a girl? The beer steins took two hands to hold, and the alcohol levels are not even close to Bud Light.

Interlaken
Switzerland looks like a postcard, the entire time. It was colder here than we expected, and our traveler's outfits got more and more ridiculous. Shorts with a sweatshirt? Sure! I recall buying some warmer items, and a Swiss Army watch that is still on my wrist today. The architecture of the houses tucked into the mountains, complete with the window boxes, flags and pitched roofs, made me feel like Maria Von Trapp yet again. Or Heidi. I think we yodeled. Our first bar experience included a man stamping a huge black circle on your cheek (before you even realized what's happening) and him promising if "you come back tomorrow with that on your face you get a free beer!" Uh, thanks buddy.


Mandi convinced us to go Canyoning. I had no idea what this meant, but the brochure made me nervous. I'm much more content in a museum or picnicking in the park, but this involved rock climbing, rock sliding, cliff jumping and rappelling. For three and a half hours. In the Swiss Alps. Yeah, and I paid for it. Our group consisted of 9 guys and us. Putting on the cold, damp, skintight wet-suits was interesting, and Mandi's zipper was a stubborn little sucker, to say the least. POP! As we neared the top of the Gorge, the guys were just as scared, and I begged them to fake it, to put on a brave face for us. Crossing myself with the Sign of the Cross, we went. I hated it the whole time, but was pretty proud of myself afterwards. The scariest part was the jump off a cliff, between two rocks, out above a whirlpool, and into water that was fast-moving and only about 5 feet deep. SOMEHOW we didn't drown. Sadly, when I arrived back in the US, my mom found an article in the USA Today that revealed that 19 travelers in the EXACT SAME GORGE with the EXACT SAME CREW as us had perished due to flash floods. We are lucky. And, drank beer to celebrate.


Hiking up to Lauterbrunnen with a riverside picnic was more my style, and riding the cable car up to Gimmewald was nothing short of spectacular. No cars, no noise, just you and the Alps. And a handful of goats. We said goodbye to the Michigan Boys, whom we'd re-encountered here, and were on our way. This overnight train experience was so much better than the first, and included a handsome Italian man waking us up with tea, fruit and hot cloths. I love Italy already.

Florence
This city is incredible, and it was just such a dream to finally be in Italy. ITALY! So romantic. Hey girlfriends, come on, there's sightseeing to do. Michelangelo was one talented man, and we sure did soak up his greatness. Mandi, while standing in front of the David, said loudly, "He's so huge!" The already quiet room went totally silent. I don't think THAT is what you say when standing in front of a naked male form. Or maybe you do? The pink, green and white tiles of the Duomo are so ornate and it makes this whole post-modern architecture seem sort-of, well, lazy. These guys tiled and tiled and tiled and painted and painted and sculpted. The buildings may have taken 100 years to build, but man, are they worth it. Firenze brought us gelato, and for that I will forever be thankful. We had it three times a day, and that was just for snacks. Touring the piazzas was never quite as good without a cup of gelato in your hand.


While in the train station in Interlaken we read that the Festival of San Giovanni was being held while we were in town, and we wanted to be a part of it. Whatever IT was. Turns out the festival means closing off a huge piazza, filling it with sand and bleachers and gates and nets and crowds, and hosting a village vs. village grudge match that was a cross between rugby and wrestling, with the crowds shouting Green Team or Red Team the whole time. I am pretty sure it was an Italian version of Medieval Times. We didn't have tickets, and I only knew the word for ticket in Spanish, so I wandered around saying it with an Italian lilt at the end to see what happened. I was handed 2 tickets by some guy. We had run into 2 American guys so we needed 5 total tickets. So, we scalped our freebies, and drank the profits, which totaled about the equivalent of $350 in lire. Who knew? After drinking all day at the bar nearby, our liquid courage pushed us through the gates, over a fence and into the crowd, sans ticket. I'm so lucky I didn't end up in Italian prison, as that would have been one phone call my parents wouldn't have liked receiving. Fireworks over the Arno River that night capped off a fabulous day. Bella!

Rome
Riding through Tuscany on the train, we planned the rest of our Italian adventures. Arriving in Roma, we hit all the usual spots. The Spanish Steps (don't try to negotiate with an artist about price, it offends their delicate personalities), the Colosseum (so gross when you think about how many people perished there, for sport) and the Roman Forum. We conquered it all again on a night walking tour, and tossed in our coins to the Trevi Fountain, wishing to return to Rome again someday, in love. The sheer antiquity of the city and the life that bustles above ground, nestled ever so gently among the ruins of a lost era, is extremely cinematic. "Roman Holiday" is a favorite, and I loved seeing the spots Audrey toured on her motorbike. Which, incidentally, are EVERYWHERE. Somehow, we managed not to get run over. Piedro sure wasn't slowing down for us, bella or no.


We happened upon the Vatican on the day when the Pope was giving his blessings to the people, so after touring the Vatican Museum (AMAZING), and experiencing spiritual centered-ness (for me) and the incredible St. Peter's Basilica, we stood among thousands to hear the Pope speak from his quarters. Mandi was starting to feel ill, but the good sport that she was suffered through the 99 degree temps, the black dresses and cardigans (had to cover the knees and the shoulders) and trudged along. The photos capture her uneasiness, though, and the LONG train ride to Vernazza, in the Cinque Terra, was nothing short of miserable for her. Anna and I, however, didn't get a seat, so we had to STAND in the aisles near the W.C. smelling like sweat and urine for something like 7 hours. It was awful, but the result was worth it.

Vernazza
We didn't have reservations for a hostel, plans of what to see or do, when we arrived in this cliffside Mediterranean town. The laundry hanging from the windows fluttered, and the sun bounced off the brightly colored stucco houses, all set into the face of the hill. The water glistened at the bottom of the steep cobblestone street, and the sailboats masts rocked gently in the wind. THIS was a vacation from our vacation, and we milked it. Because you may have not had the luxury or privilege to go, here's a scene from our window:


Eating fresh pasta and drinking red wine down on the rocks by the water at sunset, listening to local musicians play quietly as you walk past their cafe, enjoying the lilting sound of the locals talking to one another in the early hours of the morning, all of it was postcard worthy.


We rented a small hostel with a lone traveler from Ireland, met a ton of people from all over the world, and together had a wonderful 4 days of nothing. No churches, no museums, no clubs, no palaces, no trains, no crowds. Anna and her friend who was visiting hiked to some of the other cliff towns, but Mandi and were content to don bathing suits, sun on the rocks, and dive into the salty Med when we needed to cool off. The entire experience felt something like being in a movie, where you just don't ever want the credits to roll, you're enjoying it so much. We made friends there, from all over, and everyone felt the same thing: the Cinque Terra is a little slice of heaven.

Nice
Regrettably, we had to depart Italy, but our reward for doing so was a venture along the Mediterranean to Nice. The French Riviera is everything you imagine: spectacular, wealthy, warm, beach-ish, ritzy, electric, tasty, shiny and fun. The beaches aren't made of sand, but small rocks, and when you stand up (without the recommended beach mat) you have little red circles all over your back and legs, but it is worth it. The topless and nude bathers aren't as obvious as you may think, but the sight of a middle-aged mom frolicking topless in the waves with her young son is a little disconcerting at first, but then you shed your American judgments and enjoy the day.


We met some handsome guys in town and dined well with them at Chez Wayne's. Not your classiest name, but we were 22, what'd you expect? Dressing up and experiencing these things made us feel quite classy, and then I scooted back too fast from the table, tipped backwards and my legs went up over my head as I tumbled into the cobblestone street. Oops. Chez Classy.

Monaco
A day trip from Nice, we explored this wealthy little principality, and took photos of and near the casino in Monte Carlo, the flowers, the mansions and the villas. I could live there, just call me Grace Kelly.


Frankly, I don't recall much from this day, but the sun was out, the riches were glittery and the people were friendly. Good enough for me. Next time I go, I'm bringing more diamonds, sequins and a fancy sportscar, because the baseball hat and ponytail didn't quite cut it.

Barcelona
Spain was to be our last country on the trip, and by this time we were ALMOST ready to go back to our regular life and not be an American in Europe any longer. Oh how I wish that I was in that situation now. Barcelona is an exciting city, a blend of the really old with the really new and shiny and we walked and walked and walked. At the base of the Gotic Catedral, in the shadow of the steeple, the flamenco dancers put on quite a show. The Arena de Barcelona, home of many Olympic events, was something to see, and the view from the steps of the Museum laid the city out beneath us. Gaudi's Temple de la Sagrada Familia looks JUST like a drippy castle of sand, and the mosaic tiled park benches proved not only beautiful, but a great spot to rest your legs. Mandi was succumbing to her ever-worsening condition, and we took it easy that night. By easy, I mean we dined on paella and sangria along Las Ramblas and then headed to Maremagnum, the hot spot at night, for some dancing. What a trooper. I recall this being the 4th of July, which clearly had no significance in Spain, but we partied and celebrated on our own. Fiesta!


The next morning, Mandi finally conceded that she needed to see a doctor, so we trudged across town to a hospital. Scary enough at home, this experience was NOT what we'd envisioned for our trip. Using high school Spanish, I communicated Mandi's woes to the doctor, who proceeded to bang on her back, declare her sick with a kidney infection (too much beer, not enough water) and admit her to the hospital for the day. The doctor must have seen the fear on our faces and tried his best to calm us. The second physician looked EXACTLY like John, the man that Mandi was engaged to be married to the following May, and we were comforted by that odd coincidence. Anna and I toured the city some more, after calling Mandi's family in Georgia with the news, and enjoyed what we saw. We brought back postcards, candy and treats for our little invalid, who was laid up with an IV all day. Alas, she was fine, but Anna and I witnessed some gruesome fights and bloody men in the waiting room, who apparently were NOT getting along on the streets so well. I never told Mandi's family about that part.

Departure
Cutting short our trip to spare Mandi any more traveling, we decided not to go on to Madrid. Another time, for certain. Delta changed our flights with no penalty (after a 2 hour conversation where I pretty much begged, cried and pleaded, and threatened to get my Million-Miler Frequent Flier Dad involved) and we boarded a plane the following day.


Heading home to Atlanta, we were all tanner, 10 pounds lighter, exhausted, and happy. Our backpacks were filled with dirty clothes, souvenirs, ticket stubs, napkins and random coins. Our passports were filled with stamps and memories.

I found a cartoon in the paper the next day, while I was sitting at my parents' kitchen table, that says, "Traveling to places like this definitely changes you...always for the better."

I couldn't agree more.

Look Kids, Big Ben! Parliament! (European Vacation part 1)

Brett's parents are in Europe on a fabulous two-week vacation, and just hearing about the cities they are visiting reminded me of my European vacation back in the summer of 1999.

Mandi, Anna and I boarded a plane from Atlanta bound for Europe. Our backpacks weighed 34 pounds each, we had our walking shoes on and we were ready.

We had nearly six weeks of travel in front of us, and we sure did make the most of it. Since it has been 9 years next month, I figured a few stories were in order. I've even pulled pages from my scrapbook and scanned in key photos to prove our existence in each city.

You'll want to grab coffee and a comfy seat. I've never been known to be brief.

Arrival
The long flight was a first for me, and we certainly didn't ride first class. Ten hours from Atlanta, lined up across a row with the bathrooms nearby, was a bit of a challenge. We pocketed the Delta blankets, however, only to re-use them again and again as everything from a pillow, to a shawl to a picnic blanket. We knew we weren't supposed to go to sleep when we landed, so we used the facilties in Heathrow to freshen up for our big adventures. We wouldn't have been able to sleep anyway.

London
From the moment we stepped aboard the touristy red double-decker bus, I knew that I could live there and be very happy. Poor, and underfed, but happy. Do NOT stay in a hostel near the Victoria Station—ours was scary and ugly and our bedroom was half-underground. Pretty sure 2 of us shared a single bed that night. It's not worth it to skimp and save quite that much. These few days in London was the first experience with Red Bull as it hadn't gotten approved in the U.S. yet, and I recall drinking it out of pitchers, mixed with ice and vodka, and it glowing in the dark while we danced and shimmied our way through the Zoo Bar. We saw "Les Miserables" at the Globe Theater, and the accents threw me a bit from the Broadway production.


Singing as we walked drew attention to us, but come on...it was impossible NOT to sing "London Bridge" a few times. Even though the one that everyone THINKS is the London Bridge actually goes by Tower Bridge. Who knew? Guess the other one fell down. One thing we noticed at this early point in our trip was our ability to completely MISS the biggest monuments/buildings while desperately looking for it. Case in point, we were wandering the streets, looking for Parliament, and then, behold, we were standing in front of it and didn't quite see it. Big Ben, where are you?

Paris
Since we had the Eurorail passes, we took the train everywhere, and it sure was an interesting way to travel. The bullet train across the Chunnel was our introduction to the train life, and we shouldn't have set our expectations there—that train was far nicer than anything else we'd encounter. We stayed at an amazing hostel in Montmartre, and experienced the "Hostel Nazi" who liked to shout and control our curfews, but the place was really fancy. Walking up the hill to Le Sacre Couer, we heard singing, and entered the church at twilight to hear nuns singing hymns in French, and it was hard not to be moved by the glorious music and sights.


Parisians eat dinner at about midnight, so we just added extra meals in there to make sure we didn't go hungry, God forbid. One memorable meal involved eating fondue out of a ceramic bowl and drinking wine out of baby bottles. Our time in Paris also introduced us to the smart cars, which I'm still convinced wouldn't fit my head and long legs simultaneously, and the "on the street toilettes, where you pay a coin and then the door slides open and you take care of business right there on the sidewalk. It rained and rained and rained in Paris, though not a drop in London, ironically. The tourism union was on strike, so most of the monuments and museums were on strike, but luckily we were still able to ascend the Eiffel Tower and ride the Metro; the Louvre and the Musee de Orsay were clearly not happening. Guess I will have to go back...

Brugge
Next stop, a small town about 10 miles off the coast of the North Sea. Cobblestone streets and red roofs make this town aesthetically pleasing, and the canal rides prove the age of the place. We ate french fries with mayonnaise and bought chocolate and lace, because that's what ladies in Belgium do. Climbing the 396 steps of the Belfort tower, we were still young enough not to be totally out of breath, and met a silly little music man with a rolling cart at the base.


Renting bikes for the day, the three of us (sporting our inadvertently matching blue wind-breakers) took to the streets and rode out of town a bit to ogle the windmills and sing even more loudly. I remember standing on a sidewalk at 4 am trying to figure out the phone card and the international phone booth. My parents were convinced I was drunk. I might have been.

Amsterdam
Arriving in Amsterdam on the weekend, we thought we were in for a huge party; however, the Heineken brewery was closed, and the town was pretty quiet. Until we found the one bar run by Australians: Mister Coco's. It became our home for the next few days, and we even donned black afros to pour beers for the guests. We made our mark there, I am afraid. Lunch by the canals featured amazing cheeses, fruits and breads, and flowers filled the window boxes hanging above our heads. Quick studies that we were, we realized that we'd just sit anywhere to eat. Give me a square on a train station floor and I'm happy. Sleeping quickly became that way, too. While in Amsterdam, we explored the high-tech internet cafes to connect with our families, and loved having great beer with us while we did.


The crowds rolled into the city to celebrate, ironically, the Tibetan Freedom Concert, and we found ourselves in the middle of the mayhem, feeding pigeons (and being scared by them when they took flight) in Dam Square. The Anne Frank House was a must-see, and we made a visit to a contemporary museum, a coffee shop and a night out for dancing, which ended up being at the African Roots Festival at Melkweg. Walking into the warehouse-sized bar, we realized quickly we stood out and ignored the looks we received, and made our way to the front row to dance all night with the tribal robe-wearing, face-painted locals. Killing time before our train, we went to the movies (we couldn't bring ourselves to drink any more) and saw "Cruel Intentions" subtitled in Dutch.

Berlin
We hadn't heard great things about Berlin, so we only planned to be there for a day, and then move on. We did a Walking Tour with a tour guide that reminded us of Gilligan, and saw the Brandenburg Gates, Checkpoint Charlie, Humboldt University and the New Museum (where I tried to climb into the sculptural bowl outside and it wasn't a smart idea). We read about how book burning happened here, led by the Nazis, and ended our tour with the Berlin Wall. Complete with stories and movie clips, the Wall's meaning and historical impact was loud and clear.


While standing at the Wall, we met three backpacking guys from Michigan, and proceeded to sit at the pizza place so long we almost missed our train to Prague. All six of us were running through the train station only to realize we had misjudged the schedule and had time to waste. The 3 of them, the Michigan Boys, ended up being our travel buddies throughout the rest of Europe, and one of them, Sam, is still one of my best friends today, and lives here in Chicago.

Prague
We took the 8-hour train from Berlin and filled the time playing Euker with the Michigan Boys, enjoying the party car along the way. This was my favorite city in all of Europe. A guy in Amsterdam, a traveler from St. Louis, passed us a business card of a great guy in Prague who, with his wife, rents apartments to traveling students. We called him, arranged it, and he picked us up at the train station with pastries, sandwiches, water (with gas and without) and drove us in his tiny car to the apartment, which was fabulous. Enormous, high ceilings, incredible architecture, and it was $33 a night. TOTAL.

The key-ring he gave us had about 9 color-coded keys on it, with each one corresponding to a different door as you entered from the street (red key) to the interior lobby (orange key) to the top of the stairs (yellow key) to the interior hallway (green key) to the front of the apartment (blue key) to the back door of the apartment (purple key). Since we'd had a few Staropramen beers that first night (they were only $.60 each, and the Michigan Boys were buying), when we got back "home," the key challenge began. I recall Mandi accidentally dropping the keys from halfway up the curvy staircase, down all they way to the bottom, which was past one of the three original gates, so she had to shimmy down the stairs, we had to hold the spring-loaded gate open, and she had to climb back up and save the day. She lived to tell about it, thank God, and forgave us for laughing so hard we couldn't talk.


For four days we wandered the St. Charles Bridge over the Vlatva River (singing the theme from "Mission Impossible"), purchased paintings from local artisans and danced all night long at Lavka, an enormous multi-level riverside club. The Praha Castle was an incredibly authentic version of the Magic Kingdom castle and the St. Vitus Cathedral blew us away. If you've never been to Prague, I have two words. GO NOW.

Part two of this blog to come later today. I'm doing you the favor and letting you stand up, step away from the computer and stretch your legs.

Go get more coffee...there's nine more cities to tour!