The Hits Keep Coming

While I was out celebrating summer in the city, something incredible happened.

My blog site counter passed 10,000 hits.

Yay me! And, more appropriately, yay you.

Thanks to all of my family, friends and all of you fabulous strangers for continuing to indulge me, create with me, support me, learn about me, encourage me, read me, laugh with me, and most accurately, laugh AT me.

This wacky Internet thing really may catch on, huh?

Judgment Day

Human behavior is just amazing, isn't it?

This weekend, continuing right on through today at lunch, proved to me what I've always known...people are strange. Weird. Curious. Interesting. Annoying. Fascinating. So Very Different.

With a summer weekend fully in swing, we had a large group go down to Taste of Chicago, the annual event that brings people of all shapes and sizes into the city. They literally SWARM in from the 'burbs. Which makes it interesting, and all of those other adjectives. Plus a few I can't type here.

Walking through the throngs along Jackson, in the shadow of the Sears Tower and with the lake breeze cooling you off, you saw small people, tall people, fat people, skinny people, people of all races, people of all ages, people who haven't showered since before Bush was in office, people who will dance to anything, people who clearly don't own a mirror, people who's self-confidence far outweighs their ability to judge fashion choices, people who will pick fights for no reason, people who can't handle the heat, people who can't handle their alcohol and people who just plain can't dance.




And, people who should have just stayed home. (Not the above pair, mind you). Of course, with Stevie Wonder playing, who's judging?

Then, yesterday was the annual Pride Parade in Chicago. I heard on the news that there were approximately 300 floats/groups in the parade, and more than 450,000 spectators lining the streets. There were similar observations about people than the day before, but this time the extremes were out.

Watching the masses from a third floor balcony, you saw straight people, gay people, he/she transvestite people, she/he transvestite people, naked people, small people, tall people, skinny people, fat people, trans-gendered people, drag queen people, pasties-on-boobs people, thongs-on-men people, leather fanatic people, cowboy people, cheerleader people, S+M people, motorcycle people, questionable gendered people and people who clearly started boozing far earlier in the day than we had.




And, most of the people who were naked, well, just shouldn't have been. Of course, it is the Pride Parade, so who's judging?

Today, however, was back to the grind. Back to the office, despite the glorious weather and the insatiable urge to be outside reading a book in the grassy park.

I treated myself to a salad from the cafe across the street, and while I did, I had the chance to observe even more of Chicago's people.

One couple in particular.

She was leading him (a leash may have been present, though subtle) through the salad bar line as she narrated every last move she made, and dictated every last item he should/could/would and shouldn't/couldn't/wouldn't eat. Seriously.

EVERY ITEM she put on her plate she discussed. You know, "I love green peppers. You don't love green peppers?" and "Don't you dare eat the tomatoes. They still haven't figured them out yet." and "Don't even think about getting blue cheese. It's fattening." and "Oooh. Cous cous. I love this stuff. Not sure what it is made of, but I love it."

He just moseyed through the line, listening to (or more likely ignoring) her every word. He had a wooden expression and dead eyes, but I'm just saying.

It took everything in my power not to tell her to grab a huge green pepper and bite it. Isn't a salad bar the culinary equivalent of freedom of choice? Shouldn't the poor guy have been entitled, by the sheer nature of the course of a salad bar, to choose whatever damn vegetable he liked, without her running narrative?

That's just my two cents.

Of course, it is Monday in a holiday week, so who's judging?

Pump Up the Volume

While riding in the elevator at work today, I couldn't help but notice (she ensured that everyone did) this girl in there with us. She had on her iPod, with the infamous white earbud headphones, and the volume must have been turned WAY up.

She was silently bopping along to the music, and by the 27th floor, I was tapping my foot too. Since I could not only hear the music, but I could also easily identify the song and even which verse was playing. Heck, I could hear every word with clarity of enunciation that would make a speech therapist proud.

Made me think, though, that we're going to be one annoyingly hard-of-hearing generation by the time we are our grandparents' age. Deaf, quite possibly, as a whole slew of iPod-addicted people.

I can almost hear the thunderous conversations at Thanksgiving now...

"HONEY, PLEASE PASS THE MASHED POTATOES! NO, NOT THE SMASHED TOMATOES!" and "CHILD, WHAT'S THAT YOU SAY? YOU WANT THE TURKEY? OR THE BEEF JERKY?"

Yeah. Won't THAT be fun?

(And, yes, I realize that no one outside of Alabama's state lines serves beef jerky on Thanksgiving, and I've never even heard of smashed tomatoes, but they rhymed. Pipe down now, wouldja?)

Darth Vader to the Rescue

This morning, I learned something new. Shocking that this type of education could come into my life before 9 am, but it is true.

The CTA bus drivers have a small screen above their heads, within arm's reach, that displays several options for the pre-recorded public service announcements. They can actually CHOOSE which messages they want to cycle up next, and which ones they feel that this busload of people doesn't need to hear.

This isn't that big of news unless you consider the implications and the historical references to these pre-recorded messages in the past. First, there was this girl who talked on her phone so loudly and the "ironic" timing of the message about how that type of behavior should be avoided while on the bus. Or there was the time the bus kept stalling on Michigan Avenue and the announcement about where to direct your compliments or complaints about CTA service was also "ironically" timed. Who knows, maybe it was all in the hands of the bus driver?

Kindof changes my point of view on these announcements. And, makes me wonder...

Wouldn't it be nice to have an omnipresent, omniscient voice to follow you around and say the things that you wish you could say without being a total jerk? In that pre-recorded, banal voice?

I suspect they'd start out professional and public service-y, and end up getting nasty, cutthroat and personal.

Here are a few that MY personal public service announcement recorder would play:

• Please don't stand so close to the person in front of you when in line at the grocery store, a bar, the bus stop or anywhere else where people congregate. It is annoying for you to be up in my business, breathing on my neck.


• Please don't walk in large groups across while going down the sidewalk on Michigan Avenue. While we appreciate that you all want to experience this fair city together and at the SAME EXACT MOMENT, is it really necessary for you to link arms and walk 6 deep? This isn't an offensive line, and you're just plain offending me.


• Please don't chew gum with your mouth open. The sound is distracting, it looks disgusting and I'm pretty sure your momma taught you better.


• Please don't talk through the movie as it is shown in Grant Park on the big screen. If you wanted to just talk to each other, you should have gone to a restaurant. This is for, you know, watching the MOVIE.


• Please don't leave your dishes in the public sink at work as it can spread germs and increase other levels of unsanitary bacteria. And, I'm pretty sure your momma doesn't work here.


• Please replace the paper towel roll in the kitchen if you are the last person to use it. It only takes a second, and it is common sense and common courtesy. Clearly you are deficient in both areas.


• Please use turn signals to indicate the direction of travel you intend to take so I don't ram into the back of your bumper as you jerk to a stop. I can't read minds, and if I could, I'd say that there didn't seem to be much activity in there anyway.

See, wouldn't it be nice for some automated voice to express all of those pesky pet peeves and don'ts to the unsuspecting public around you? I'd like to request James Earl Jones to complete my voice-over, thank you.

What would your public service announcement say? And, more importantly, who would voice it?

Music on a Monday

I find this pretty awesome.

This video was shared with me by my super cool Dad, and features musician David Ford demonstrating the digital music technique of live looping, in which he records his song “Go To Hell” in one take using household kitchen appliances, instruments and a microphone.

The only noises I make in the kitchen are yelps as I burn myself, curses as I drop something all over the hardwood floor and squeals of delight when something actually tastes good.

But, that's just me.

Jenny, if you're interested, he's playing in Augusta tomorrow night!

Celebrity Spotting

Chicago has its fair share of famous natives, and there are a few that even still own real estate here along Lake Michigan. However, this city is not like L.A. or New York where celebrities crawl the streets as often as homeless people.

Therefore, when we do host a few famous ones, it is a pretty big deal.

Last night, I was invited to attend the screening of the new season of "My Boys," a TBS show that is set in Chicago. Three of the cast members all attended, too, and it was quite fun.

As you can see, Kristen, Katie and I met and talked to the cast, and had fun getting to laugh with Kyle Howard (very cute in a boyish way) and Reid Scott (downright hot). I spoke with Michael Bunin, too, but he wasn't around for the above photo. Interestingly enough, Michael knows and is friendly with my cousin Molly through Improv Olympic in L.A., and he was nothing short of hilarious. And totally real, which is always refreshing.

All in all it was fun to meet them, yet we didn't act like those girls who hung around, clinging to their every word, just hoping that the guys would fall in love, pluck them from the mundane reality of Chicago life, and whisk them off into the sunset of Los Angeles. Yeah, right, ladies. It was funny watching the "cougars" wait, ready to pounce.

Simultaneously, my friend Katie got a call from her boyfriend Jeff who was dining and cocktailing at Park Grill at Millennium Park. Apparently he was enjoying the musical stylings of a friend who was playing there, and looked up to see Jack Johnson at the bar. Jack Johnson! Having cocktails!

Jeff walked up to him and shared a few words, and was thrilled to meet the star. Katie and Jeff are actually heading up to Alpine Valley in Wisconsin tomorrow to see Jack Johnson's show, so it was a dream to get to talk to him, just like a regular guy, on a random Thursday. Hoorah! He was as nice as you'd assume he was!

Lookout New York. We're chomping at your heels as the coolest urban city celebrities like to roam.

And, there are fewer homeless people to step over as you do.

Fat Chance

There is a Corner Bakery going into the lobby of my office building.

This CANNOT be good for my wallet, or my waistline.

It sure will be convenient in the winter, however, when the temperature is at a balmy 9 degrees with galeforce winds whipping around Michigan Avenue.

I'll be fat enough by then to ward off the chill, though, I suspect.

I've Got the Want To

Do you ever have the insatiable urge to do something totally wacky? Something that would startle others? Something that breaks all of the laws of etiquette, business or normal rational behavior?

I do.

This is a topic I used to discuss with my old roommate Shannon, as she often experienced (and sometimes acted upon) these urges.

Before you go calling me crazy, or signing me up for the next support group, let me clarify. Often these urges are as simple as telling jokes in a crowded, awkward elevator. It may even be as simple as having ice cream and chocolate sauce for dinner. Sometimes it can be to shove someone off the sidewalk for walking irritatingly slow in large herds.

However, I don't act on these urges.

My first experience with this type of thing was in church as a kid. It was so quiet in there during mass, so peaceful and serene. I just wanted to stand up on the wooden pew, raise my hands over my head and yell out something crazy. Since I grew up Catholic, and didn't belong to a very progressive church where they may look fondly on someone expressing their devotion in such a wild way, it would have been very strange. I wasn't even fighting the urge to speak in tongues—just to behave madly and cause a ruckus. My mother would have been mortified.

I wasn't even a rebel, or a kid who pushed the limits or even colored outside the lines, but these urges exist.

Still, today, I find myself hit with a sudden urge every now and then. To sing at the top of my lungs in the grocery store. To dance down the halls of my office. To skydive. To really tell a client what I think of them. To respond to passive agressive emails or text messages in a truthful, and harshly frank, real way. To glare back at the stranger who rudely stares you up and down. To drink champagne for breakfast. To drive 140 mph on the Edens. To pour water all over a stranger's head. To dye my hair dark brown. To buy a one-way plane ticket to Australia. To jump down onto the El tracks to see if they REALLY would electrocute you upon contact. To read my book aloud on the bus, with voices for each character. To cartwheel across the park lawn (ok, so I do that one every so often). To pick up and move back to my hometown. To approach the beautiful girl on the street and pay her a random compliment. To call in sick and just lay in bed watching bad TV all day. To get a tattoo just to say I did. To tell the obnoxious teenagers on Michigan Avenue what I really think about their outfits. And so on.

Am I fighting these urges because to act on them would make me a crazy person? Or are they really so fleeting that by the time my body catches up with my brain, I've moved on? Or, am I just too shy to be the totally wacky person that sometimes I want to be?

So, I pose the question to you, Internet. What do you have the urge to do, but don't?

If I'm the unkowing cause of a terrible movement of people acting irrationally, I am really sorry.

Fight the urge!

In a Little While

Sometimes you just have nothing new to share. No new story to tell, waving your arms animatedly as you dig up the most random details. No little joke, no tiny little funny event to lighten the day. And, to top it off, no one did anything too outrageous (this is a sliding scale, remember) on the bus today.

So, you post a Meme. I know, I know. It is a bit like playing the MASH game to see who you will marry and whether your home will be a mansion, apartment, shack or house, but I'm bored, and I'm going with it. Read on if you like.

Maybe it's telling?


MEME Rules:
1. Put your iTunes/ music player on shuffle
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER WHAT

IF SOMEONE SAYS “IS THIS OKAY” YOU SAY?
Closest (Look Out)—Matt Pond PA (maybe the look out part is a warning?)

WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?
Three Margaritas—The Truth (isn't that hilarious?)

WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY?
Amazing—Josh Kelly (okay...that works)

HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY?
The Park—Feist (maybe it should read 'where would you rather be today?')

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE’S PURPOSE?
Crazy—Gnarls Barkley (at least that didn't come up for what I like in a guy)

WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
Thank You—The Calling (not a bad one for a polite Southern girl!)

WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
Stand—R.E.M. (maybe that I'll stand up for them? or stand for something?)

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR PARENTS?
All is Full of Love—Bjork (well that worked out nicely)

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?
I Only Have Eyes for You—Jamie Cullum (hmmm...maybe I'm a romantic?)

WHAT IS 2+2?
When You Were Young—The Killers (ha! the math works!)

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
Pilgrims—Widespread Panic (seeing as I'm the girl that moved 1,000 miles away, maybe I AM the pilgrim?)

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Cheap and Cheerful—The Kills (I swear this isn't rigged, and he's not cheap either)

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?
Silver and Gold—U2 (well that can't be all bad!)

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
I Thought She Knew—N'Sync (I'm so embarrassed to have this on my iTunes, but it kindof worked out)

WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Scientist Studies—Death Cab for Cutie (not sure this one works)

WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?
Show Me What I'm Looking For—Carolina Liar (I thought I WAS?)

WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?
Kathy's Song—Eva Cassidy (doubtful, wouldn't it be Colleen's Song?!?)

WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
Story of Your Bones—Jennifer Nettles (I swear to goodness that is what came up...spooky!)

WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
I'm Tired Joey Boy—Van Morrison (yeah, not really)

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
She's For Free—Cary Pierce (I'm not for sale, thank you very much)

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
(Nice to Meet You) Anyway—Gavin DeGraw (how funny!)

WHAT SHOULD YOU POST THIS AS?
In a Little While—U2 (how appropriate)

Thanks for indulging me. And, for not ridiculing me for having N'Sync's album in my archive.

It Is More than Just the Corn Dog

For those in my life who continuously ask me why I put up with Chicago's dreadful winters, I have one simple answer.

Summer.

This weekend was the epitome of why Chicagoans stay. Why we can stand it. Why we suffer through six (eight?) long months of torturously cold air, deep snow drifts, mushy melting snow, ice falling off of city buildings, wind gusts that kidnap your best new winter fuzzy hat and all other things Chicago.

Friday meant summer hours. Which is the adult equivalent to early release you had as a grade-schooler. Ha ha! The teachers have to stay late to finalize report cards?! Ha ha! I'm off to frolick in the neighborhood, pick up a huge game of kick-the-can and eat a melty snow cone on the driveway bought for a dollar from the ice cream man.

Leaving work at 3:30 on Friday meant for me, that I could wander down Michigan Avenue, leisurely window shopping (I'm on personal-spending-sabbatical since returning from Costa Rica), and hopping on the uncrowded, air conditioned bus to head north, while passing by the lake, the beach and the park, all filled with summer tourists and hookey-players.

Arriving at home, I was almost at a loss for how to spend my time. I voted for taking the book up onto the roof deck to enjoy the last few rays of sunshine before the clouds rolled in. Delightful. The breeze and the view combined made it hard to stay focused on the book's rather dry plot, but I endured.

Then it was time to grocery shop for dinner, the long slow meal I'd prepare for my adorably willing eating participant. He arrived to find me gloating about my fresh fruit purchases, only to have me hand him a Goose Island Summertime Ale (brewed right here in the best city on earth) and sit on the sofa to luxuriate in the delicious summer breeze.

Brett makes cooking fun—mostly because I am a total rookie, and when I manage to get it all finished on time, hot all at once!, served on a plate with some sense of artistic flourish, he rants and raves and licks his lips and asks for seconds and thirds and rubs his belly in satisfied bliss after the meal, stating that I was the next Julia Childs. I'd prefer Giada de Laurentiis, but I'm not picky.

Anyway, the meal was great (thanks to Liz's recipe for ranch chicken, Jill's recipe for couch potatoes and Jewel's freshest asparagus and fluffy breads), and we both marveled at my growing domesticity. Movie night with the air conditioning on, under a blanket, was the perfect way to unwind after a newly busy week (the first one back from vacation hurts a lot, to be honest).

Saturday, the sun was shining and the beach was beckoning. When I tell people I live on Lake Shore, I mean it. I literally live on the street that lines Lake Michigan, and that equals beach front. We filled a cooler with aforementioned Goose Island beer (contraband, but we brought Solo cups!) and walked to the beach. Spreading out the towels, I couldn't help but feel in awe of this amazingly situated beach—directly at the base of the city's footprint, though luckily, not in its shadow—and the people that filled it to the water's edge. Which, incidentally, was freezing. The breeze made the 83 degree temps downright lovely.

That evening I co-hosted a 30th birthday/bachelorette party for my dear friend Jill, consisting of berry vodka spritzers (from an O magazine recipe), lingerie (Hanky Pankys galore!) and great snacks. We then walked through the tree-lined streets over to Bucktown's famed six-corner intersection for a lovely meal at Francesca's Forno. We dined and dined and dined, leaving the table fully sated and a little sleepy, at 11 pm.

Heading next door, we entered The Violet Hour, a hip new bar that resembles a SoHo club with no signage, velvet curtains, crystal chandeliers and cyan leather booths. The cocktails are specialty, and you pay a premium. The highlight may be the fact that while we waited in line (all part of the strategy) to enter, we captured part of the Chicago Naked Bike Ride, an annual event that protests oil dependence and fosters positive self image. Hilarious. Put it this way—very few people look good naked on a bike. Not a good day to be a bike seat, let me tell you. It was a wonderful girls evening to celebrate a very special friend and her many 2008 milestones.

Sunday was yet another gorgeous day. Despite the "threat" of storms, the clouds held off and provided an ample breeze for our attendance at the Wells Street Art Festival, one of my favorite Chicago events. Traipsing through the tents, we were able to Ooh and Aaah at the variety of artistic talents, even buying a small piece here and there. I do think that Brett and Mark enjoyed the food tents the best, but I was happy with the entire day's selections. And, I had a corn dog. When's the last time you had a corn dog?!

Capping off a fabulous Chicago summer weekend, we walked down Michigan Avenue to the closest movie theater, and enjoyed the cool breeze of the air conditioned theater. The movie totally sucked, but the evening was great and my mood couldn't be altered by such a lame excuse for cinema. Walking home, we plotted to order some yummy dinner, which was enjoyed while watching a great TV movie with the breezes blowing in through the opened windows.

All in all, this weekend was filled with good friends, amazing weather, cultural activities, lots of walking, beach time, city time, excellent foods and great beverages.

That, my friends, is why I live here.

Pura Vida

As you can imagine, the weeklong vacation in Costa Rica was nothing short of perfect. I will be selling it, and the trip experience, very short if I tried to capture it all here, but do want to express the trip in at least one post.


The country is fantastically beautiful, with every turn revealing a vista that takes your breath away. The "green" season provided us with a backdrop of lush vegetation and vibrant jungles that I'd only experienced in the movies or stock photos. The blue of the water changed hues each day, with the hour, and the sky did much the same. The rainy season equalled late afternoon/early evening thunderstorms, with rich rolling clouds and brilliant lightning displays as the sky grew darker and more intriguing. The people were charming, handsome and friendly. The language was a convenient blend of Spanish and English, with the locals making every attempt to use our language, rather than the opposite, which is almost embarrassing. The colones are one of the more interesting currencies I've seen, with colorful graphics featuring local flora, fauna and wildlife.


All in all, it was pura vida.


The unofficial motto for Costa Rica, pura vida literally translates to pure life. Figuratively, it translates to so much more. Pura vida, to the Ticos, means a way of thinking, a mindset that transcends money, possessions, stresses and the daily grind. To them, it is a way of life—to live well, enjoying each moment to the fullest, to be kind to those around you, and to learn from the lessons of each day.

I think we could all afford a little more pura vida in our lives.

To fulfill the promise of a highlight reel, I've broken it down into each day, and will elaborate where necessary (or possible), keeping in mind that on a good vacation, your mind becomes slippery and the memories get soft around the edges, with the bright spots gleaming and the details fading away.

Saturday: Travel Day
Brett and I were traveling from Chicago, so we were separate from the eleven friends who were coming in from Atlanta, and were therefore a few hours behind them. The them that stopped on the way from San Jose to the house to spot crocodiles 15 feet in length!!


The highlights of this day include: working my magic with the American agent to secure us 6-footers the bulk head/exit row for both legs of the trip; having a beer on the second flight to toast our impending arrival in Central America; spotting a girl puking AT the gate and thus being asked not to board the plane; watching an airplane mechanic board our plane, head to the back, and depart, holding nothing but duct tape (that stuff can fix anything!); and arriving at the house.



Oh, the house. Casa de Suenos, translated to mean House of Dreams, did not disappoint. And, neither did my girls. Racing to meet us at the curb, we were embraced immediately and Brett was already part of the gang. Handshakes, hugs, smiles and laughter were the general theme of this night, followed by a fantastic meal prepared by our personal chefs Denise and Rob. Side note: when meeting Denise, I spoke Spanish to her right away. Then I was told she is from Connecticut. Oops. This evening, like all others, was capped off by molten chocolate cakes and hot tub and pool time beneath the jungle trees in our own backyard. Not bad at all.


Sunday: Sneaky Tiki Day
Sunday was spent unwinding. We enjoyed the crystal blue waters of our pool, and the warmth of the sun on our Chicago shoulders. I should point out that within MINUTES of arriving, Brett already looked savagely tan. It's just not fair.


Anyway, we enjoyed riding the golf carts around the Marriott resort where our house was located, and ate some of the freshest sushi ever for lunch, topped off by MANY cocktails called Sneaky Tikis at the hotel open air bar, facing the Pacific Ocean and the pool/landscape. It was spectacular, and the drinks lived up to their names, sneaking up on us all.


The night was capped by time at the casino, where we commandeered a roulette table and were the liveliest bunch this pretty sorry looking casino had ever seen. It was clean and nice and all, but compared to Vegas, this was a hotel ballroom with a few green felt tables. That didn't stop us from losing lots of money. A huge storm had rolled in, so the sleeping was good after a rainy late night in the pool.

Monday: "Cherish" the Day
While four of the guys played the beautiful golf course on which our house was nestled, the remaining nine once again luxuriated in the pool. Some girls headed to the Marriott's big pool and even found themselves in a water aerobics class. I think they're practicing for when we all live in the old-folks-home together. A few of us joined them later, to discover that the hotel was playing Madonna's Greatest Hits on repeat. It was like being stuck in 1988 for hours on end. With a soundtrack.




Retreating three by three back to the house, we prepared for our massages at the pool. Yes, they came to us. Aaaah. The boys were treated to heavy butt massages, but the attention stopped there, thank goodness. Dinner was at the Los Suenos marina's casual spot, The Hook Up. Sunburns glistened, and the beer chilled us as we dined on fresh fish and other local yums.


Tuesday: Tsunami Day '08
Not wanting to miss out on experiencing the nearby surf town, we chartered a shuttle to take us into Jaco for the day. We shopped, buying pottery, paintings, t-shirts, figurines and other collectibles. And, then we rested for an Imperial or two. Because shopping is hard work! The town is dusty, small and poor, and apparently is lined with "ladies of the night" and other opportunistic street mongrels at night, but during the day, it was pleasant and offered us a taste of the other side of life in Central America (because something tells us most people don't live in 8,000 square foot homes with a pool and a chef). One of the spots was a perfect happy hour locale, and it didn't pass our notice that it was for sale for just $85,000. We concocted plans to buy it together, move to the area and run it on the cheap. Pura vida!


While we dined and shopped, the other half of the crew split time on the beach between surf lessons and relaxing in beach chairs on the grey volcanic sand. The mighty Pacific ruled the day, tiring out our surfers (who all managed to get up on the boards and hang ten!), and drenching our relaxers with a rogue wave that came WAY above high tide line and drenched them with salty, sticky, sandy wetness from the neck down. EVERYTHING was wet and yucky, and it was a test of the spirit of our vacationers to witness the clean-up. I was impressed by the pura vida spirit. Luckily, no cameras were ruined as that may have changed the outcome. For the rest of the trip, Tuesday was Tsunami Day.


That night, we decked out in our finest and shuttled up a mountain to a glorious Greek-inspired charming restaurant called Villa Caletas at the top, hanging over a cliff with a view of the Pacific and the rainforest below. The views were better than the food, but we once again were treated to kind servers, delicious cocktails and vistas that looked like Olan Mills portrait sweeps.



Wednesday: Tarzan Day
Waking to a nervous stomach, Brett and I both prepared for our day's challenge: the Vista los Suenos canopy zipline tour. The fear of heights and fast movement thing was really getting him, and my nerves crested upon the completion of the safety lesson 2.5 miles atop a mountain, on a platform cabled to a tree. Literally, we were in the treetops, and there was only one way down. It was a fantastic experience, and each of us grew more and more comfortable (hanging upside down, even!) as we traversed the 14 cables, including one that spanned 2,400 feet at 60 miles per hour. Woohoo! A shout out to Brett for conquering his fears!




Dinner at the house featured fresh tuna steaks and chicken on the grill, alongside more vegetables and fresh fruits than I usually eat in a month. I would be neglect if I didn't mention our favorite food item of the week: the queso crema. Yes, cream cheese. It was something special, I tell you. The chef joked that it wouldn't pass the FDA regulations (no idea why not) but it was so damn good we considered smuggling it back to the U.S. by the case. The Ticos serve it on EVERYTHING. Pancakes with cream cheese? French toast with cream cheese? Bread with cream cheese? Baked potato with cream cheese? Si, senor.


Thursday: Monkeying Around Day
The last full day of our trip, we wanted to milk it. Nine of the 13 of us shuttled with our lovely Tico guide, Oscar, as we headed to Manuel Antonio National Park. About an hour and a half south of us, we ventured through coastal towns, farming areas (shrimp, teak, palm oil, rice, coffee), sad towns (Parrita, flooded a week before), rickety bridges where the traffic had to go one-way and pray out loud, and expressways with a glorious view of the Santos Mountains in the distance. Costa Rican music was the way of the day, and Oscar treated the shotgun passenger with news, tidbits and factoids about the area and his life. His English was excellent and he had lots to share.

Arriving in Quepos, a small hillside surfing/hostel town just outside the national park, we stretched our legs at a restaurant/bar made from a bomber plane, treated ourselves to a beachside snack of chicken kabobs from a barrel grill in the sand, and bought pottery from a local artisan. Heading towards the entrance of the park, we stepped like Frogger over rocks along the beach, and marveled at the vistas on every side. Sarongs blowing in the wind provided an excellent backdrop to the pineapple being cut and served in the flatbed of a truck, while dogs frolicked at our feet.


The park was beyond words, but I'll try. You climb over rocks, under trees and through the woods to the entrance, which is nothing like Disney World. A run-down shack with a green roof and the Costa Rican flag. For $10 you can explore the jungle via a dirt path that snaked past birds, lizards, chickens, and MONKEYS! The white-faced capuchin monkeys were the star of the show, and even put on a, Ahem, porn movie live action shot for us. Get a room!


Anyway, the path opened up to the most beautiful cove of a beach possible, with the palms draping over the smooth sand. Swimming in the Pacific (for the first time!) was as great as it sounds. The time there wasn't long enough, but I'm sure a lifetime wouldn't suffice, either.



After the park, we once again feasted on grilled chicken, tomatoes, rice/beans, avocados and grilled plantains. With a beer and a bottled water for about $8. Fabulous.



We boarded Oscar's shuttle for a trip to the mangroves, along the Damas River. We'd hoped to (and had been sold on) seeing more monkeys, and interacting with them in the boat. The monkeys had other ideas, however, and didn't respond to Rafa, the father of the monkeys, and his gutteral call to them. We did spot a rainbow boa, and termites nests, herons and crabs, along with Tim Burton's version of a tree-filled forest along a murky muddy river, but that was it.


We still enjoyed our peaceful time with Rafa. And, I didn't pass out when viewing the snake photo (and knowing he was 10 feet from me). Shout out to ME for conquering my fears. Sortof.


The ride home featured more of the amazing scenic views, including my favorite, the palm oil plantations where the trees were planted in even rows for as far as the eye could see. It was like the Costa Rican version of a Christmas tree lot in Wisconsin. Fantastic. At the house, we shared our stories, drank more beer, and had our Last Supper at the marina bar and lost our final hand roulette.


Begrudgingly, we packed our bags and set the alarm for our early departure on Friday.

Friday: Longest Travel Day Ever
Friday is pretty easy to sum up. We were tired. And sweaty. And delayed. And cramped into non-bulkhead seats. And sad to go home. And confused by Miami's customs where you touch your bags again in between flights (couldn't that be dangerous?). And amazed by how rude Americans are. And tired. And delayed. And hungry. And sweaty.

Brett and I waited over an hour for our bags at O'Hare, and over an hour (after midnight) for a cab. I finally put tush to couch at 2 am and it wasn't soon enough. With 20 hours of travel under my belt, it was time to go to sleep, only to dream about the lands we'd left behind.

In Conclusion
The pura vida feeling hasn't totally gone away yet, and either has my tan. My passport has more stamps, and my Kodak photo gallery is full. I was thrilled with how the week turned out, and this was largely in part due to the fantastic friendships I have, and the wonderful men they have married. A special thanks to Mandi & John for planning the trip and inviting us all, playing the gracious friends as usual; to Jenny & Brice for soaking up the hot tub with us on a regular basis and showing us how pool Olympics are done; to Elizabeth & Walton for gambling beside us, bringing us occasional good luck and constant laughs; to Lauren & John for sharing our fears (on the zipline, LT), laughter, and for capturing the best of us on film; to Heather for being an eternally pleasant travel partner and conversationalist; to Wendy & Jason for being the greatest addition to the Posse trip we could have hoped for; and to Brett for being you.

Since I know you're wondering, as I'd built up the whole "introduce him to the friends thing" before we left, Brett was a champ and the Posse gave him flying colors and passing grades. I would have to agree—this is one guy that I am content, pleased and proud to travel with anywhere he'd like to go.

I'd go back tomorrow if any of you asked me to. Let's go and buy the bar in Jaco, okay? The fruit down there makes me do crazy and fun things.


One more time, all together now, PURA VIDA!

Back to Reality

I've been back from Costa Rica for four days now, and have already worked two full days in the office, and it is really much harder to get back into the swing of things than I expected.

When you spent a week with your best friends and cute boyfriend staring at sights like the one shown above (Jaco beach), it is terribly painful to go back to stuff like client service, responding to emails, business meetings and account billing.

And, unfortunately, blogging.

So, bear with me, and I'll be back in no time to update you all on the fabulous stories (or the highlight reel) from the trip. Trust me, if the sheer volume of photos is any indication, you'll want the highlights only. Our full album has in excess of 700 photos in it. The country is just far too beautiful to edit or delete.

Until then...

take a deep breath, and think about the sound of the ocean.

It's helped me immensely.

When that fails to do the trick, try a margarita.

I Fought the Law

As promised, here is the other post that followed my fantastic trip to Mexico in November. The original is posted here, but I must assume you people are lazy, so I have pasted it below.

Always obey the men with the guns. Just another nugget of travel advice.

Policia
Originally posted Monday, November 19, 2007

When preparing for our trip to Mexico, we kept hearing about the Mexican Police (Policia). Apparently they are nasty fellows, and not interested in making your vacation any lovelier. In fact, they have a terrible reputation for picking on American tourists.

So, I carefully observed the speed limit (to the best of my ability) and tried to make heads and tails of the lanes, the speed bumps and the Retorno lane (u-turns). See the previous post for more.

All was going well, until we decide to take a taxi into Playa del Carmen for the evening. Had a great dinner, a lovely time at a local bar, and then a rousing ending to the night at the Blue Parrot, where we danced, made sand angels (don't ask) and watched fire dancers.

Got into the tiny taxi, prepared to shell out our 150 pesos for a safe ride home.

We head out onto the highway, laughing, joking with the driver (in broken, high school Spanish) and were all feeling good (we love tequila).

Then, in the dark, as we rode along through the jungles (literally), with zero street lamps to illumniate our way, we see blue lights flashing.

Now, let's all be honest. Even if you're not driving, those blue lights are enough to make your heart race and palms sweat. Now add to that the urban legends/rumors we'd heard about the Mexican Policia, and the fact that we're 4 American chicks in this tiny taxi, and we're literally freaking out.

Janine is up front with the driver, and knows a little Spanish (un poquito) and she's glancing nervously at the driver. Smart enough to wait it out, we all sit quietly.

He gets out. Walks back toward the cop.

Uh, sir? That's not what we do. We wait, roll down the window and DON'T MOVE.

I crane my neck around (hoping the blue light glare will hide any activity in the car from police view) and see him back there, joshing with the cop.

Uh, sir? This isn't funny.

The cop comes around to us, machine gun in hand (yes, I said machine gun) and rounds the car, with a flashlight in the windows. I manage a feeble smile. Not a "we're guilty, sir" smile, but a "see, we're harmless, sir" smile.

He goes back. Cab driver gets back in. The whole thing lasted about 6 minutes.

The lights go off, we drive away.

Silence.

Janine looks at me. I look at the girls. We say to him, together (as if that's not complicated), in really bad Spanish, "what happened?" (for sake of blog readability, I'll use English here). He replies, in even worse English, "marjiuana."

Uh, sir? Please tell me we're not in a car with you while you're toting drugs across town, or whatever?

Apparently he was clean, but the cop pulled us over because he saw 4 girls, presumably white American girls, and was suspicious. I have no idea how the "flashlight in the eyes" from outside the car was supposed to clear our names, but apparently it did.

Frankly, it all worked out fine (somehow) and we didn't end up going to Mexican prison.

But, damn, wouldn't THAT have been one heck of a blog?!

When Out of the Country...

...obey all traffic signals. Just a word of advice from your friendly commuting Chicagoan.

In honor of my trip to Costa Rica, I figured I'd re-post two blogs from after my trip to Mexico in the Fall. For you traditionalists, the original post is found here, but I figured I'd save you the trouble and post the text here instead. Another one will come tomorrow, so stop back by for that. Then, you'll just have to wait until I return, all tan and obnoxiously rested.

Driving in Mexico
Originally posted Tuesday, November 13, 2007

I've been back from Mexico for less than a week, and I'm still prone to breaking out in giggles over the absolute nightmare that driving was in Mexico.

We were in Puerto Aventuras, which is about 45 minutes south of Cancun. Straight down the coastal highway. Sounds simple, right?

Wrong.

Maybe it is a national joke they play on the tourists, or just some crazy old-fashioned, contrived way to maintain control, but they put SPEED BUMPS on the highway. Yes, speed bumps.

Some are humps, some are those rounded parking-lot style cement knots on the ground, all lined up.

Some just damn near take out the undercarriage of the car.

Or maybe that was just with me at the wheel?

Let's just say this. While I was careening down the Mexican highway, trying desperately to figure it all out, they would crop up out of nowhere. Before I explain the bumps, let's talk about the confusing speed limits. Not to sound totally blonde, but come on.

The speed limits are obviously posted in kilometers, and the rental car was clocking my speed in kilometers, but the sheer math of it all was just too much. You expect me to drive, sing, entertain my fellow passengers AND do math? Yeah right.

I, for one, didn't go to math camp.

The conversion of MPH to KPH is not easy. Something about multiplying by 2, adding 7, subtracting 11 and topping it off with a green X, and there you have it. Your speed. Tu velocidad, if you will.

Now, let's say this. The speed limits went up and down up and down up and down with little to no regard for what was going on. It seemed like the construction guys just got bonuses for every sign they installed, so they went nuts. 80 KPH, 90 KPH, 60 KPH, 100 KPH, all within the span of about 1/4 mile. Or kilometer. Or whatever.

So, in between speeding up and slowing down, I thought "Okay, maybe I'll get the hang of this."

Not so fast, my friend.

Now, add into the mix that the construction guys clearly didn't care much for lines. Lanes be damned. There were NO lane markers in most places. No little friendly white or yellow dashed lines (or solid for that matter) to let you know if it was a two-laner, or a three-laner or a one-laner. Nothing. Nada.

So, the end result was that every driver was all over the place. Feel like passing? Go ahead! Feel like taking a left here? Fine by me - just hit up the Retorno for a trusty U-turn. Feel like driving three cars wide? Have at it.

Then, there were the buses. Apparently the buses pick up and drop off the local workers (construction of the major resorts, mostly) along the road, and there doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason (and sure as heck there were no bus stops) to when they stopped, or why. All I know is that you'd be riding along doing just fine in the right lane, tucked in nicely behind a bus, and all of a sudden, he'd careen off to the right, ending on the shoulder, kicking up dust and slowing at a rapid pace (does that even make sense?)

And when they entered back onto the highway, it was all I could do to swing wide into the left lane(s) to get out of the way.

Being the organized Capricorn that I am, it was all a bit too wonky for lil' old me.

Which brings us back to the speed bumps.

They call them topes. (I have no idea what that translates to, but we decided it was "boobies.") Let me explain.

The signs that they post to indicate a speed bump have either two bumps (boobies) or three bumps (medical mystery). They have a down arrow pointing at the street, where the topes are located. Yeah, that helps. I'm already flying over them at 100 KPH at that point.

Occasionally, there was a topes sign about 100 yards in front of the second one (featuring the aforementioned arrow), and this was your warning. Since I spent half the time worrying about my speed, and half the time worrying about the lanes, this left no brain capacity for Topes Watch '07. So, we coined the phrase "Boobies!" to indicate that there were bumps ahead.

I know, totally mature.

So, the backseat drivers (or front seat passenger, when her eyes weren't squeezed shut in fear) were charged with hollering "Boobies!" at the top of their lungs when this first sign was spotted, giving me time to slow down appropriately, so as not to shred the bottom of our little blue Altima.

Worked great. Just grand. Then, for whatever reason, my Topes Watch team was otherwise occupied, and I didn't see the sign. Maybe that sign wasn't installed yet. But, alas, we went flying over the topes at about 60 KPH (I saw it at the last second and it was just too late). I think that is about 40 miles per hour, but I have no idea (see note about math camp attendance).

Heads hit the roof. Jaws hit the floor. And shit hit the fan. We died laughing. "BOOBIES!"