Just now I was listening to Eminem (don't judge me!) and it reminded me of my first (and hopefully only) time in Detroit.
It was the very end of October, 2010, and my best friend and I were on our way to see one of our favorite bands. They're called Mt. Desolation and they're from England. They had just ended their time in the western U.S. where they opened for our favorite band, Mumford & Sons. They weren't, however, going to be opening for them in the mid-west. So, as a last minute addendum to our already epic road-trip to see (you guessed it) Mumford & Sons, we added a solo Mt. D date at the beginning of our journey. Detroit, here we come!
Twelve miles into my trip, before I even picked up my friend, Rachel, I had a run-in with the law. I was pulled over just north of Lebanon for speeding in a construction zone. You know, everywhere else in the universe, you're only required to slow down if lights are flashing and workers are present. It was 5:30. No orange vests were in sight. While fines weren't, in fact, doubled...they were still doled out harshly (and, in my opinion, unfairly). I sulked, tucked that yellow piece of paper into my glove compartment box, quickly posted to a picture of my odometer at 12 miles (only a few minutes earlier, it seemed, I'd posted one at zero miles)and with a message about getting a ticket, and then I was back on the road. Detroit, here we come! ...again!
I picked up Rachel, opened my birthday present in a truck stop parking lot (a red buffalo plaid fleece blanket and a "Peace, Love & Banjos" bumper sticker!) and then barreled back down the highway. That was until we crossed over into Michigan. Almost immediately across the state line, we came to a dead stop. There was absolutely nothing around us but big rigs and black night. Ten minutes. Nothing was on the highway advisory station. Twenty minutes. We were going to be a little later. Thirty minutes later...we finally moved. We never saw anything to explain why we were stopped for so long. I'm still a little bitter about that. But we sighed happily at just the feeling of the road passing under beneath us. Detroit, here we come! ...eventually.
We hit Detroit with practically no warning at all. As a matter of fact, I wasn't even entirely sure we were in Detroit until I saw the bright green 8 Mile sign quickly approaching. I forced Rachel to snap pictures for me with my cell phone and both our cameras. It was 8 Mile! Home of Eminem! I have no idea just how far off I-75 you have to drive in order to get to the trailer park where the rapper grew up...it could be miles and miles. It didn't matter, though. It was the sign! It was a sight to see! It was a photographic moment! Detroit! We've arrived!
A few miles past downtown, we got off the highway and we were immediately lost. My family's motto has always been, "We're not lost. We're having an adventure." We can make the worst wrong turn into an epic journey and the smallest no-named town into a barrel of laughs. In Detroit, however, I truly felt lost. The week before we left, a friend had joked to me that all of the street signs in Detroit had been stolen. I laughed. I was ignorant. The massive highway signs are still there(-ish), obviously. However, once I exited the highway I was greeted by one unmarked intersection after another. I had no idea where I was at, much less how far I had until I got to where I was going, or even how I was supposed to know when I go to my destination! Detroit! Where the hell are we?!
Our saving grace came from a fellow fan girl. Rach knew here from her days of swooning over The Killers. She was from Michigan and we were going to meet her at the Mt. D gig. She didn't live in the area where the concert was, so it still took us a few "Right-right or right-lefts?" and illegal U-turns, but we eventually made it to the concert...halfway through the set. The second half was worth all the extra gas, used cell phone minutes and exasperated groans, though. Detroit! It wasn't a complete waste of our time!
After the show we were headed toward Milwaukee for the next stop on our "epic adventure"-Milwaukee. Of course, we had to get out of Detroit, first. We started going the right direction, but I doubted myself. We called Rachel's friend who told us we needed to go the other direction. Ten minutes later, though, I was absolutely certain that I was going the right direction the first time. We didn't make it out of Detroit until nearly an hour after the concert had ended. We were tired and beat, but we weren't about to spend a night in a town with no signs of hope (or helpful directions). Detroit! ...yeah, whatever.
Ann Arbor! What's up?!
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Thursday, November 24, 2011
I'll Get There Fast and then I'll Take it Slow
Sweet Jesus, I need an escape. That probably sounds pretty ridiculous to anyone who knows what my life has been like for the last year and a half. I’m always running off to somewhere. But, as I’ve said before, most of my trips have been rocket trips. I need a good ole fashioned vacay. The last time I hung out on a warm beach was the summer of 2005. It wasn’t a very good beach and I was with a whiney boyfriend. We didn’t last long.
I’m not exactly a beach baby. Even growing up in Florida, right by the ocean, I never cared much for the sand between my toes or in other parts of my body. I’d dive around in the ocean all day, but as soon as I was required to sit down for five minutes in the, ick, sand…I was over it. These days I regret never fully optimizing my time on the beach.
The last and one of the very few times I managed to just relax for long lengths of time on the beach was the long weekend I spent at Panama Beach. It was my freshman year of college in Tallahassee. I had two awful roommates and one roommate who refused to get involved. I needed a getaway. In October I booked two nights in a hotel right on the beach. It was off season, so it was dirt cheap. Sometimes, when I’m caught up in finishing school, meeting a deadline an article, or two-hundred pages into my third rewrite of this ridiculous novel I started forever ago, I long to head straight back to Panama Beach and that hotel.
The hotel was far from anything special. It was three floors of rooms full of the same tropical printed polyester comforters every other hotel in the southern part of the world uses. But it was on the beach. It was also clean, had a balcony that overlooked the ocean and the pool and had terracotta tiles. I’m not sure why the terracotta tiles were important, but I was impressed. I live in Ohio now, have a hard time imagining ever living in Florida again, but still think about having a living room floor made of large, terracotta tiles and it started that first afternoon in the hotel.
It may have been Florida, but it was still October. I spent my entire first day on the balcony in jean shorts and my FSU sweatshirt. I varied between looking at the ocean and looking at my laptop screen (mostly my laptop screen, though). Tallahassee was more inland than I was used to, so just breathing in the salty air of Panama was refreshing enough. That night I did what every guide book for absolutely any city, no matter how safe, would advise a young, single girl not to do: I left my sliding glass door wide open and fell asleep listening to the sounds of the waves crashing against the sand.
The next day I had only three things on my agenda and the first was food. I’d spotted a free-standing Chik-fil-a just a few miles back down the strip and I was determined to have lunch there. This was back before Chik-fil-a overtook the world and free-standing ones were like mini-Meccas only scattered every few hundred miles or so. I rolled out of bed at noon and headed straight for the illiterate cows. Oh, heavenly sweet tea!
Next on my list of things to do was to hit the souvenir shops. I had it in my head that the best Christmas gifts I could give my family were incredibly ridiculous and unneeded merchandise promoting Panama Beach tourism. I’ve yet to find anywhere more interesting, colorful and incredibly useless than a souvenir store. I love them. I love the snow globes and the various sized ships in varying sizes of bottles. I adore the postcards that range from overly cheesy, to incredibly inappropriate to downright disconnected to the scene. I always buy more postcards than I’ll ever send. The best thing about souvenir shops in Florida (and I imagine any other beach town) is that you can also get awesome towels, blow-up alligator floats (always the most popular) and water shoes. These things are, of course, absolutely necessary for the two to five days you’ll be spending on the beach this year. I left with a red & white Hawaiian print towel (despite already owning enough beach towels to sew together and keep the Statue of Liberty modest), a mobile made of ribbons, I can’t even remember what I got for my dad and, of course, probably a dozen postcards.
Walking out of my third (or twelfth) souvenir shop I looked up and laid eyes on what had to be the most amazing thing ever. A Dippin’ Dots store! That’s right! You know those kiosks in half the malls in America? The ones that sell ice cream that’s been frozen into tiny balls, thus making it take longer to melt. In Panama Beach they have a whole store! With tables and everything! I got a huge cup of minuscule chocolate balls and then plopped down at a picnic table to stare, bored, at the wall while I devoured them. Why? Because I could.
The last thing on my list was, of course, to write. This time I headed down to the beach with my notebook. Only a smattering of brave tourists splashed toward the water up and down the shockingly white beach (I grew up in Palm Beach. On the east coast, sand is beige. As it should be thank you very much.). I imagined they were all from Canada or Norway, some place where 65 degrees qualified as a record-high, even in July. I plopped down in a chair, pulled my knees up to my chest and my sweatshirt down over my knees and began to write.
At least for a paragraph or two.
When I woke-up it was almost dark. I trudged my way back up to my hotel room, crawled into my bed (again, with the sliding glass door open) and fell asleep. The next morning it was time to head home. I checked out at 12:01 p.m., drove to the nearby Eglin Air Force Base to gawk at boys in uniform for awhile, stopped off at a K-Mart so my parents could transfer me the money I needed to buy gas and get home (Damn Souvenir Shops!) and then headed back to Tallahassee.
I’m not positive, but I think that was my first and only experience with a real vacation. It was the kind of trip where every day wasn’t a new destination. It was one of those vacations where you have no itinerary other than to get to your hotel before midnight Friday night and then not check out until the last minute on Sunday. It was fun but laid-back. Inspiring but not exhausting. I’m ready for another trip like that.
I’m not exactly a beach baby. Even growing up in Florida, right by the ocean, I never cared much for the sand between my toes or in other parts of my body. I’d dive around in the ocean all day, but as soon as I was required to sit down for five minutes in the, ick, sand…I was over it. These days I regret never fully optimizing my time on the beach.
The last and one of the very few times I managed to just relax for long lengths of time on the beach was the long weekend I spent at Panama Beach. It was my freshman year of college in Tallahassee. I had two awful roommates and one roommate who refused to get involved. I needed a getaway. In October I booked two nights in a hotel right on the beach. It was off season, so it was dirt cheap. Sometimes, when I’m caught up in finishing school, meeting a deadline an article, or two-hundred pages into my third rewrite of this ridiculous novel I started forever ago, I long to head straight back to Panama Beach and that hotel.
The hotel was far from anything special. It was three floors of rooms full of the same tropical printed polyester comforters every other hotel in the southern part of the world uses. But it was on the beach. It was also clean, had a balcony that overlooked the ocean and the pool and had terracotta tiles. I’m not sure why the terracotta tiles were important, but I was impressed. I live in Ohio now, have a hard time imagining ever living in Florida again, but still think about having a living room floor made of large, terracotta tiles and it started that first afternoon in the hotel.
It may have been Florida, but it was still October. I spent my entire first day on the balcony in jean shorts and my FSU sweatshirt. I varied between looking at the ocean and looking at my laptop screen (mostly my laptop screen, though). Tallahassee was more inland than I was used to, so just breathing in the salty air of Panama was refreshing enough. That night I did what every guide book for absolutely any city, no matter how safe, would advise a young, single girl not to do: I left my sliding glass door wide open and fell asleep listening to the sounds of the waves crashing against the sand.
The next day I had only three things on my agenda and the first was food. I’d spotted a free-standing Chik-fil-a just a few miles back down the strip and I was determined to have lunch there. This was back before Chik-fil-a overtook the world and free-standing ones were like mini-Meccas only scattered every few hundred miles or so. I rolled out of bed at noon and headed straight for the illiterate cows. Oh, heavenly sweet tea!
Next on my list of things to do was to hit the souvenir shops. I had it in my head that the best Christmas gifts I could give my family were incredibly ridiculous and unneeded merchandise promoting Panama Beach tourism. I’ve yet to find anywhere more interesting, colorful and incredibly useless than a souvenir store. I love them. I love the snow globes and the various sized ships in varying sizes of bottles. I adore the postcards that range from overly cheesy, to incredibly inappropriate to downright disconnected to the scene. I always buy more postcards than I’ll ever send. The best thing about souvenir shops in Florida (and I imagine any other beach town) is that you can also get awesome towels, blow-up alligator floats (always the most popular) and water shoes. These things are, of course, absolutely necessary for the two to five days you’ll be spending on the beach this year. I left with a red & white Hawaiian print towel (despite already owning enough beach towels to sew together and keep the Statue of Liberty modest), a mobile made of ribbons, I can’t even remember what I got for my dad and, of course, probably a dozen postcards.
Walking out of my third (or twelfth) souvenir shop I looked up and laid eyes on what had to be the most amazing thing ever. A Dippin’ Dots store! That’s right! You know those kiosks in half the malls in America? The ones that sell ice cream that’s been frozen into tiny balls, thus making it take longer to melt. In Panama Beach they have a whole store! With tables and everything! I got a huge cup of minuscule chocolate balls and then plopped down at a picnic table to stare, bored, at the wall while I devoured them. Why? Because I could.
The last thing on my list was, of course, to write. This time I headed down to the beach with my notebook. Only a smattering of brave tourists splashed toward the water up and down the shockingly white beach (I grew up in Palm Beach. On the east coast, sand is beige. As it should be thank you very much.). I imagined they were all from Canada or Norway, some place where 65 degrees qualified as a record-high, even in July. I plopped down in a chair, pulled my knees up to my chest and my sweatshirt down over my knees and began to write.
At least for a paragraph or two.
When I woke-up it was almost dark. I trudged my way back up to my hotel room, crawled into my bed (again, with the sliding glass door open) and fell asleep. The next morning it was time to head home. I checked out at 12:01 p.m., drove to the nearby Eglin Air Force Base to gawk at boys in uniform for awhile, stopped off at a K-Mart so my parents could transfer me the money I needed to buy gas and get home (Damn Souvenir Shops!) and then headed back to Tallahassee.
I’m not positive, but I think that was my first and only experience with a real vacation. It was the kind of trip where every day wasn’t a new destination. It was one of those vacations where you have no itinerary other than to get to your hotel before midnight Friday night and then not check out until the last minute on Sunday. It was fun but laid-back. Inspiring but not exhausting. I’m ready for another trip like that.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Twenty, Twenty, Twenty-four Hours to Go-o-o!
I just watched Anthony Bourdain’s new show, The Layover. The concept had me hooked from the start. To begin with, it’s a show with Anthony Bourdain. My love for that graying, crotchety, rock star chef is borderline creepy. My mother, when referring to him, often calls him my “boyfriend.” Right off the bat I knew I’d love this show. The basic gist is, “This is what you do if you only have 24 hours in a city.” Even at my best I am still the most impatient and ADD person I know. Even the cities I love most in the world have a hard time holding my attention-span after a day or two. This is the show for me. I thought I’d share with you my a few cities I’d love to visit for a day. It’s not comprehensive, but it’s a start.
The newest city added to my list (thanks entirely to my boyfriend and his new show) is Singapore. I love ethnic food and apparently Singapore is chock full of immigrants and thus boasts some of the best ethnic food in the world, according to Anthony Bourdain. Because Singapore is anally clean, they rounded up all their street vendors and corralled them into open-air but cleaned up areas. That means I can have all the steamed, stick’ed and fried meats I wanted without having to worry if I’m going to end up with salmonella. Dream come true. Literally. Also, as the ex-wife of a DAAP student, I have an appreciation for architecture and from what I saw on The Layover, Singapore has all sorts of amazing buildings. From one that looks like a lotus flower to a surfboard shaped bar that features an infinity pool and is stretched across three skyscrapers, there are plenty of brand new, glorious buildings to take in and more appearing almost monthly. I also have a love for airports and Tony just said that Singapore has the best airport in the world. That man has spent time in far more airports than I have, so he ought to know.
I’d also like to visit Berlin for a day or two. One of my earliest memories involves sitting on my aunt’s big bed when I was around four years old and watching as they tore down the Berlin Wall. Because of that one tiny memory, I’ve always had a minor obsession with Germany. These days, I can’t imagine there is much there to catch my interest. But I’d love to visit the museum dedicated to the Berlin wall, as well as walk the cobblestone line where the Berlin Wall once stood. I honestly feel like everyone should. We keep putting up walls and fences, like the one in Ireland (is it still there?) and the one in Texas that they keep threatening to make taller, thicker, stronger. I imagine if everyone walked the cobblestone markings of the Berlin Wall, spent time in the museum, asked a German or two what they thought of that awful situation that maybe people would stop trying to separate and start trying to come together. Or maybe that’s just my inner-John Lennon shining through. Berlin always seems like a really grey town, so I think I’d grow sick of it pretty fast.
Speaking of grey, there’s a small fishing town on one of the Scottish Isles called Stornoway. The average high temperature in July is a balmy 60 degrees, which already makes it sound pretty awesome to me. But, goat head is apparently a delicacy there. I want to try it. I also think it’s interesting that with only 9,000 people it’s the largest town in the Western Isles. Can you imagine? That seems so tiny compared to the towns I’ve lived in-my high school actually had 4,500 students during my junior year. There isn’t a whole lot to do in Stornoway. But, there is a castle. Plus, I’m a sucker for marinas, damp air and colorful boats.
Granted, I doubt I’ll ever have a layover in Stornoway, so this will require an actual trip. But, when I’m making my way through Ireland, Scotland & England…this will be an easy stop over. I imagine myself hulled up in a tiny room overlooking the water. I’ll probably spend one day wandering and another day staring out the window and/or writing. It’s kind of perfect for me, really.
I’m sure there are more. These are my top picks, though. Up tomorrow (or maybe just later): Panama City or possibly a list of my dream places to escape the world and write for awhile (once I’m rich enough to be able to take a month off and spend it in some place other than my apartment).
The newest city added to my list (thanks entirely to my boyfriend and his new show) is Singapore. I love ethnic food and apparently Singapore is chock full of immigrants and thus boasts some of the best ethnic food in the world, according to Anthony Bourdain. Because Singapore is anally clean, they rounded up all their street vendors and corralled them into open-air but cleaned up areas. That means I can have all the steamed, stick’ed and fried meats I wanted without having to worry if I’m going to end up with salmonella. Dream come true. Literally. Also, as the ex-wife of a DAAP student, I have an appreciation for architecture and from what I saw on The Layover, Singapore has all sorts of amazing buildings. From one that looks like a lotus flower to a surfboard shaped bar that features an infinity pool and is stretched across three skyscrapers, there are plenty of brand new, glorious buildings to take in and more appearing almost monthly. I also have a love for airports and Tony just said that Singapore has the best airport in the world. That man has spent time in far more airports than I have, so he ought to know.
I’d also like to visit Berlin for a day or two. One of my earliest memories involves sitting on my aunt’s big bed when I was around four years old and watching as they tore down the Berlin Wall. Because of that one tiny memory, I’ve always had a minor obsession with Germany. These days, I can’t imagine there is much there to catch my interest. But I’d love to visit the museum dedicated to the Berlin wall, as well as walk the cobblestone line where the Berlin Wall once stood. I honestly feel like everyone should. We keep putting up walls and fences, like the one in Ireland (is it still there?) and the one in Texas that they keep threatening to make taller, thicker, stronger. I imagine if everyone walked the cobblestone markings of the Berlin Wall, spent time in the museum, asked a German or two what they thought of that awful situation that maybe people would stop trying to separate and start trying to come together. Or maybe that’s just my inner-John Lennon shining through. Berlin always seems like a really grey town, so I think I’d grow sick of it pretty fast.
Speaking of grey, there’s a small fishing town on one of the Scottish Isles called Stornoway. The average high temperature in July is a balmy 60 degrees, which already makes it sound pretty awesome to me. But, goat head is apparently a delicacy there. I want to try it. I also think it’s interesting that with only 9,000 people it’s the largest town in the Western Isles. Can you imagine? That seems so tiny compared to the towns I’ve lived in-my high school actually had 4,500 students during my junior year. There isn’t a whole lot to do in Stornoway. But, there is a castle. Plus, I’m a sucker for marinas, damp air and colorful boats.
Granted, I doubt I’ll ever have a layover in Stornoway, so this will require an actual trip. But, when I’m making my way through Ireland, Scotland & England…this will be an easy stop over. I imagine myself hulled up in a tiny room overlooking the water. I’ll probably spend one day wandering and another day staring out the window and/or writing. It’s kind of perfect for me, really.
I’m sure there are more. These are my top picks, though. Up tomorrow (or maybe just later): Panama City or possibly a list of my dream places to escape the world and write for awhile (once I’m rich enough to be able to take a month off and spend it in some place other than my apartment).
Monday, November 21, 2011
Lord, I was born a Ramblin' Girl
Speaking of not being as well-traveled as some people think: I’ve never been out of the country. Recently, I’ve had multiple concerts in Canada that I’ve been tempted to go to, but…it seems like such a waste for my first trip out of the country to be Canada. There are so many places out of the country that I’d like the chance to see.
Even as a kid in primary school my idea of an epic adventure was to go to Ireland. I think that’s why I don’t want to go to Canada first. I’ve loved Ireland for the entirety of my life and I’m bound and determined to make Ireland the very first stamp on my passport. I don’t want to just visit Ireland, either. I want to explore it. I want to see every inch of those shockingly green hills, crawl out to the edge of every windy cliff and get wasted in absolutely all the best pubs. I want to hang out with chubby, ruddy-cheeked old men and ask them about “The Troubles.” (Read: The conflict between Protestant and Catholic Irishmen) I want to take a black cab tour of Belfast. I want to see the Jameson factory in Dublin. But I want to hit all the tiny east coast villages, too. I won’t be happy until I can stay a week in a nice little bed and breakfast (or, you know, a castle) and just…write.
Of places I’m okay just visiting-France is at the top of my list. I know everyone swoons over Paris, and I suppose I’d like to see it, but it’s not at the top of my list. Nope. The only place in France that makes me swoon is Versailles. Sweet Jesus, that place is gorgeous. In ‘Marie Antoinette’ Sophia Coppola did an excellent job of highlighting enormous parts of the Palace of Versailles and the gardens that surround it. Even the parts that weren’t actually filmed in the Palace seem to be fairly accurate representations. Even still, I want to see it in person. I want to walk on the same steps as Marie Antoinette, no matter how controversial she may be. Revolutionary events took place on those grounds. I want to stand there and try to channel in on the rumblings of thousands of angry people. Nothing gets me more excited than reliving civil unrest!
As completely unaware as this next sentence is going to seem: I want to go surfing in Africa. I know that there are probably more selfless things to do in Africa and I certainly wouldn’t mind doing that, too. However, I want to surf. Blame it on my growing up in South Florida or on my high school obsession with Endless Summer (also probably to blame on growing up in South Florida), but that’s what I want the most. I’d mainly like to visit Barra Point, off the coast of Mozambique. It’s known for having spectacular waves over a rocky, coral-ly ocean floor. Honestly, it’s above my skill-level. But you can bet your ass I plan on going out there. Worst case scenario…I die. But, dude, what a story for my family to tell! Stranger, “How’d your daughter die?” Mom, “She was crushed against a rock by a wave while surfing off the coast in Africa.” It’s right up there with all the times, when I was younger, that the fighting reared up in Ireland and I ached to go see the action for myself. It’s not about wanting to die-it’s wanting to live. Death is a small price to pay, as we all have to pay it at some point.
This is getting heavier than I meant. I think I’ll continue this later. I don’t want to overwhelm you…or myself.
Even as a kid in primary school my idea of an epic adventure was to go to Ireland. I think that’s why I don’t want to go to Canada first. I’ve loved Ireland for the entirety of my life and I’m bound and determined to make Ireland the very first stamp on my passport. I don’t want to just visit Ireland, either. I want to explore it. I want to see every inch of those shockingly green hills, crawl out to the edge of every windy cliff and get wasted in absolutely all the best pubs. I want to hang out with chubby, ruddy-cheeked old men and ask them about “The Troubles.” (Read: The conflict between Protestant and Catholic Irishmen) I want to take a black cab tour of Belfast. I want to see the Jameson factory in Dublin. But I want to hit all the tiny east coast villages, too. I won’t be happy until I can stay a week in a nice little bed and breakfast (or, you know, a castle) and just…write.
Of places I’m okay just visiting-France is at the top of my list. I know everyone swoons over Paris, and I suppose I’d like to see it, but it’s not at the top of my list. Nope. The only place in France that makes me swoon is Versailles. Sweet Jesus, that place is gorgeous. In ‘Marie Antoinette’ Sophia Coppola did an excellent job of highlighting enormous parts of the Palace of Versailles and the gardens that surround it. Even the parts that weren’t actually filmed in the Palace seem to be fairly accurate representations. Even still, I want to see it in person. I want to walk on the same steps as Marie Antoinette, no matter how controversial she may be. Revolutionary events took place on those grounds. I want to stand there and try to channel in on the rumblings of thousands of angry people. Nothing gets me more excited than reliving civil unrest!
As completely unaware as this next sentence is going to seem: I want to go surfing in Africa. I know that there are probably more selfless things to do in Africa and I certainly wouldn’t mind doing that, too. However, I want to surf. Blame it on my growing up in South Florida or on my high school obsession with Endless Summer (also probably to blame on growing up in South Florida), but that’s what I want the most. I’d mainly like to visit Barra Point, off the coast of Mozambique. It’s known for having spectacular waves over a rocky, coral-ly ocean floor. Honestly, it’s above my skill-level. But you can bet your ass I plan on going out there. Worst case scenario…I die. But, dude, what a story for my family to tell! Stranger, “How’d your daughter die?” Mom, “She was crushed against a rock by a wave while surfing off the coast in Africa.” It’s right up there with all the times, when I was younger, that the fighting reared up in Ireland and I ached to go see the action for myself. It’s not about wanting to die-it’s wanting to live. Death is a small price to pay, as we all have to pay it at some point.
This is getting heavier than I meant. I think I’ll continue this later. I don’t want to overwhelm you…or myself.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Just a Small Town Girl, Dreamin' of Seein the WO-ORLD!
Jenny recently referred to me as “well-traveled.” Honestly, I scoffed. In the last few years, after having finally gotten my hands around the steering wheel of a reliable car, I’ve made the rounds to some nearby places. Yes, New York is 12 hours away and, yes, New Orleans is 14 hours away. Still, they weren’t in any way foreign or exotic. I’d been to New Orleans before and I’d lived two (horrible) summers of in New York. I’ve not been east of New York, not west of New Orleans in the south or Milwaukee in the north. Also, most of the places I’ve visited have been for “rocket trips”-I’ve graced most cities for less than 24 hours. Plus, there’s not really anything all that unique or mysterious about places like Atlanta, Philadelphia or Chicago and the highways I take to get there are all ones I’ve traveled a multitude of times. I realize that my list of places I’ve been is far longer than some people’s lists. However, when it’s compared to the list of places I haven’t been and all the roads I’ve yet to travel-I look pretty damn sheltered. Even in the states, I’ve been to less than half the states. I want to visit almost all of them, though some more than others.
I’ve not been to Texas. Everyone I know who has been to or lived in Texas promises me that I’m not missing anything. I say the same thing about Florida, though, and people still go. I want to experience the kind of heavy heat that makes you start sweating the minute you open the car door. I want to see cacti! I want to smell to know what breathing dry air feels like-it’s a totally foreign concept to me. I want to two-step in an old barn-turned-bar, hit up South-by-Southwest, confront a rattlesnake (at a very safe distance and I most certainly do not want to touch it), and camp out under the stars as I make my way on I-10 through the very middle of the state.
I want to live in Colorado even though, you know, I’ve never been there. I want to be out-numbered by Subarus as I circle my way up to mountaintops. Then, I want to not to break my neck as I snowboard by way back down. Renting one of those “ski-in” chalets sounds like the most glorious thing ever, even though I doubt I have the athletic coordination to manage skis. (I know what you’re thinking. But, I’ve heard that if you can surf, you can snowboard. Since I haven’t killed myself trying to surf, I imagine that means I’ll survive trying to snowboard.) This might be the strangest thing ever, but I want to see mansions in Colorado. I picture these magnificent structures made of pine and river rock with steps made of flagstone. I have no idea what exactly flagstone looks like, but it my head it’s beautiful. Also, Colorado seems like a state with a lot of greens and oranges in its landscape. I’ve grown up with a lot of blues and greys, so I welcome the change.
Then there is the entire west coast. From cold green dampness of Washington and Oregon, through the forested part of California, all the way down to the plastic-y, beach-y part. I want to take one long drive that lasts a week or two and see it all. Apparently, Seattle is one of the few places in America where lavender grows as successfully as it does in Italy. I want to see it, and maybe try for myself. I want to kayak through choppy black waters (and hopefully not die.) and surf off rocky, cliffed beaches. I also want to see the Full House house, go down that super curvy road and hang out with the California set of surfers. I’ve heard they’re a million times more chill than the ones in Florida.
Of course, it’s important to note that I can’t imagine flying to any of these places. I would consider it, of course, if I were making another one of my rocket trips. But, ultimately, I’d love to drive all the way out there. In other words, I’d be hitting other places along the way. I’d spend a day at the cowboy museum, check out the memorial for the Oklahoma City Bombing, do the St. Louis Arch and, of course, take a stroll around the Grand Canyon. Basically, in a whole month I probably still couldn’t cover all of the United States that I’m most eager to visit. Then there’s my international wish list! But, I’ll save that for another day.
I’ve not been to Texas. Everyone I know who has been to or lived in Texas promises me that I’m not missing anything. I say the same thing about Florida, though, and people still go. I want to experience the kind of heavy heat that makes you start sweating the minute you open the car door. I want to see cacti! I want to smell to know what breathing dry air feels like-it’s a totally foreign concept to me. I want to two-step in an old barn-turned-bar, hit up South-by-Southwest, confront a rattlesnake (at a very safe distance and I most certainly do not want to touch it), and camp out under the stars as I make my way on I-10 through the very middle of the state.
I want to live in Colorado even though, you know, I’ve never been there. I want to be out-numbered by Subarus as I circle my way up to mountaintops. Then, I want to not to break my neck as I snowboard by way back down. Renting one of those “ski-in” chalets sounds like the most glorious thing ever, even though I doubt I have the athletic coordination to manage skis. (I know what you’re thinking. But, I’ve heard that if you can surf, you can snowboard. Since I haven’t killed myself trying to surf, I imagine that means I’ll survive trying to snowboard.) This might be the strangest thing ever, but I want to see mansions in Colorado. I picture these magnificent structures made of pine and river rock with steps made of flagstone. I have no idea what exactly flagstone looks like, but it my head it’s beautiful. Also, Colorado seems like a state with a lot of greens and oranges in its landscape. I’ve grown up with a lot of blues and greys, so I welcome the change.
Then there is the entire west coast. From cold green dampness of Washington and Oregon, through the forested part of California, all the way down to the plastic-y, beach-y part. I want to take one long drive that lasts a week or two and see it all. Apparently, Seattle is one of the few places in America where lavender grows as successfully as it does in Italy. I want to see it, and maybe try for myself. I want to kayak through choppy black waters (and hopefully not die.) and surf off rocky, cliffed beaches. I also want to see the Full House house, go down that super curvy road and hang out with the California set of surfers. I’ve heard they’re a million times more chill than the ones in Florida.
Of course, it’s important to note that I can’t imagine flying to any of these places. I would consider it, of course, if I were making another one of my rocket trips. But, ultimately, I’d love to drive all the way out there. In other words, I’d be hitting other places along the way. I’d spend a day at the cowboy museum, check out the memorial for the Oklahoma City Bombing, do the St. Louis Arch and, of course, take a stroll around the Grand Canyon. Basically, in a whole month I probably still couldn’t cover all of the United States that I’m most eager to visit. Then there’s my international wish list! But, I’ll save that for another day.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
"Headin' down south to the land of the pines"
I grew up riding in the backseat during a multitude of trips between Florida and Ohio. I can't remember ever not knowing that if you hopped on I-75, it would take you all the way from our house in South Florida to my grandparents' farm in Lebanon, Ohio. I've also always known the best towns, the cleanest bathrooms and the least scary hotels along the way. After not having taken that drive in about five years, I was super stoked last summer when I took my ill-fated trip to Bonnaroo (for more on that, click here), as it meant I would be on I-75 once again. I would spend all night and the following dawn cutting my way through the pine trees and "mountains" of the Smokey's on my way to Manchester, Tennessee. What I didn't expect, though, was the amazing sight that I'd roll across once I ventured off I-75 and headed west on I-24.
There, in the middle of the southern mid-west, nestled down into a valley between a handful of mountains, was a decent sized lake. It was blue and sparkling and covered in the kind of fog only 6 a.m. can conjure. Then, jabbing right out of the middle of the lake, was an island of pine trees. With the bright, summer greenness contrasting against the grey fog and blue of the freshwater lake, it immediately reminded me of the island from "Lost." The highway engineers seemed to know what they were doing when they built I-24, too, because they curved the four-lane road almost 180 degrees around the island. There's even a small pull-off look-out area so the gaping travelers don't collect the morning commuters into a massive accident. I've yet to pass through there with the time to pull off, but it's a tiny feat on my bucket list, that's for sure.
During my trip to Bonnaroo, I soon had to get off that highway and onto another one. Earlier this year, though, on my way to New Orleans, I had the chance to jump onto I-24, again. This time I was graced with its asphalt for a much longer journey. The road curves in and over, down and around, mountain after mountain. On each side of the road dark green pines jut up around you and at dusk, the golden sun glitters through. There's absolutely nothing about my description that isn't entirely cliche sounding, but that's exactly how it is on that section of I-24. The entire trip feels as if you're driving through a music video for a James Taylor or John Denver song. It is a well-paved, well-traveled country road and it is definitely one of my favorites.
If you're driving on I-24 and not listening to Old Crow Medicine Show, you're doing it wrong. Here's the song I pulled my title from...
If you like banjo, fiddle or songs about drinking/drugs/traveling, check out OCMS. Especially Live! This gig was pretty tame, but they can put on a rowdy show sometimes.
There, in the middle of the southern mid-west, nestled down into a valley between a handful of mountains, was a decent sized lake. It was blue and sparkling and covered in the kind of fog only 6 a.m. can conjure. Then, jabbing right out of the middle of the lake, was an island of pine trees. With the bright, summer greenness contrasting against the grey fog and blue of the freshwater lake, it immediately reminded me of the island from "Lost." The highway engineers seemed to know what they were doing when they built I-24, too, because they curved the four-lane road almost 180 degrees around the island. There's even a small pull-off look-out area so the gaping travelers don't collect the morning commuters into a massive accident. I've yet to pass through there with the time to pull off, but it's a tiny feat on my bucket list, that's for sure.
During my trip to Bonnaroo, I soon had to get off that highway and onto another one. Earlier this year, though, on my way to New Orleans, I had the chance to jump onto I-24, again. This time I was graced with its asphalt for a much longer journey. The road curves in and over, down and around, mountain after mountain. On each side of the road dark green pines jut up around you and at dusk, the golden sun glitters through. There's absolutely nothing about my description that isn't entirely cliche sounding, but that's exactly how it is on that section of I-24. The entire trip feels as if you're driving through a music video for a James Taylor or John Denver song. It is a well-paved, well-traveled country road and it is definitely one of my favorites.
If you're driving on I-24 and not listening to Old Crow Medicine Show, you're doing it wrong. Here's the song I pulled my title from...
If you like banjo, fiddle or songs about drinking/drugs/traveling, check out OCMS. Especially Live! This gig was pretty tame, but they can put on a rowdy show sometimes.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Chicago. I'll get there eventually.
Not every road I travel is a great road to take. While I tend to always been in a good mood while traveling, no matter how long the drive or flight, there are certain routes that I must take from time to time that drive me absolutely murderous. In the case of the journey between Cincinnati and Chicago, it’s definitely more of a suicidal kind of murder, though.
The drive doesn’t start out bad-it actually starts out quite nicely. Taking I-74 into the sunset can be quite beautiful thing. Once your retinas are sufficiently scarred, you can focus on the beauty of the burning orange sun as it sinks behind the huge green hills of Indiana. As a Florida girl, these hills always seems more on the “mountainous” side of the spectrum, but I’ve been corrected and assured many-a-time that, no, they really are just “big hills.” Once you’re past the hills, however, it begins to look a like Florida-flat. Straight, grey, worn down, flat roads. For hours. And hours.
Indiana is one huge cornfield. The only real break in the monotony is when you hit what my friends and I refer to as, “Turbine Town.” For ten long miles, the highway is surrounded by a massive farm of wind turbines. Shooting out of the ground like silver, anorexic pinwheels, the wind turbines sparked my interested the first few times I made the journey. Every time I strike across Indiana on a trip to Chicago, a try to count the turbines. They’re planted at such a strange angle, though, it makes counting nearly impossible.
The last time I drove through Turbine Town was at around 10 p.m. With no cities around, I knew it would be dark as all get out and my active imagination picture my little grey V-Dub zipping through the black field, lit up with swirling red lights. I imagined something along the lines (Okay, truthfully, I pictured something exactly like) an airplane control panel. Those long, steel arms had to have lights on them, right? Apparently not. The dead blackness held no spinning red lights- only a couple hundred blinking, stationary ones. It could have been beautiful, if I hadn’t pictured something ten times better.
It’s only ten miles, but after making the trek so many times, the ten times of Turbine Town begin to seem like a million. At five miles in I begin picturing the wind turbine’s arms stretching longer and longer, and possibly growing a foot, until finally, they stretch low enough that I can drive my car to the base of one of the turbines and get punted straight into Lincoln Park, Chicago. By eight miles, the feet are gone and the blades are ever longer. All I want to do is lay in the grass beneath the blades, like they’re a modern day guillotine. Sweet Farmer’s Hell, just put me out of my misery.
Even when it ends, you still feel like you’re the midst. There are just less red blinking lights and more blackness. If you stop for gas at the promised, “always clean restrooms,” you open your door to the smell of cow manure. If you’re delirious at that point, you may not realize the reason for the smell. It is due to the dairy farm said restrooms (that are in a BP, and are truly always clean) share a parking lot with. That explains the massive cow out front.
More blackness. More nothingness. And then you hit Chicago. Like that last Smacksgiving hand-to-cheek action, you don’t see in coming until you’re slamming on your brakes to avoid rear-ending a semi, a motorcycle or ten million Lexus SUVs. You’ve made it to the east side of Chi-town- just an hour of sitting in a six-lane parking lot until you reach your hotel. Unless it is baseball season…in which case, you’re an idiot for not coming prepared for a freeway tailgate party. Cause, buddy, you’re parked ‘til October.
PS-Here's a playlist of songs from people that I love or who rock my world. Just a snippet of the few dozen songs I listened to on my way. Starting with the mellow sunset and ending with anything that would keep me awake and pounding on my steering wheel.
*If you click on the little rectangle in the video window, you can scroll through the list of songs.
The drive doesn’t start out bad-it actually starts out quite nicely. Taking I-74 into the sunset can be quite beautiful thing. Once your retinas are sufficiently scarred, you can focus on the beauty of the burning orange sun as it sinks behind the huge green hills of Indiana. As a Florida girl, these hills always seems more on the “mountainous” side of the spectrum, but I’ve been corrected and assured many-a-time that, no, they really are just “big hills.” Once you’re past the hills, however, it begins to look a like Florida-flat. Straight, grey, worn down, flat roads. For hours. And hours.
Indiana is one huge cornfield. The only real break in the monotony is when you hit what my friends and I refer to as, “Turbine Town.” For ten long miles, the highway is surrounded by a massive farm of wind turbines. Shooting out of the ground like silver, anorexic pinwheels, the wind turbines sparked my interested the first few times I made the journey. Every time I strike across Indiana on a trip to Chicago, a try to count the turbines. They’re planted at such a strange angle, though, it makes counting nearly impossible.
The last time I drove through Turbine Town was at around 10 p.m. With no cities around, I knew it would be dark as all get out and my active imagination picture my little grey V-Dub zipping through the black field, lit up with swirling red lights. I imagined something along the lines (Okay, truthfully, I pictured something exactly like) an airplane control panel. Those long, steel arms had to have lights on them, right? Apparently not. The dead blackness held no spinning red lights- only a couple hundred blinking, stationary ones. It could have been beautiful, if I hadn’t pictured something ten times better.
It’s only ten miles, but after making the trek so many times, the ten times of Turbine Town begin to seem like a million. At five miles in I begin picturing the wind turbine’s arms stretching longer and longer, and possibly growing a foot, until finally, they stretch low enough that I can drive my car to the base of one of the turbines and get punted straight into Lincoln Park, Chicago. By eight miles, the feet are gone and the blades are ever longer. All I want to do is lay in the grass beneath the blades, like they’re a modern day guillotine. Sweet Farmer’s Hell, just put me out of my misery.
Even when it ends, you still feel like you’re the midst. There are just less red blinking lights and more blackness. If you stop for gas at the promised, “always clean restrooms,” you open your door to the smell of cow manure. If you’re delirious at that point, you may not realize the reason for the smell. It is due to the dairy farm said restrooms (that are in a BP, and are truly always clean) share a parking lot with. That explains the massive cow out front.
More blackness. More nothingness. And then you hit Chicago. Like that last Smacksgiving hand-to-cheek action, you don’t see in coming until you’re slamming on your brakes to avoid rear-ending a semi, a motorcycle or ten million Lexus SUVs. You’ve made it to the east side of Chi-town- just an hour of sitting in a six-lane parking lot until you reach your hotel. Unless it is baseball season…in which case, you’re an idiot for not coming prepared for a freeway tailgate party. Cause, buddy, you’re parked ‘til October.
PS-Here's a playlist of songs from people that I love or who rock my world. Just a snippet of the few dozen songs I listened to on my way. Starting with the mellow sunset and ending with anything that would keep me awake and pounding on my steering wheel.
*If you click on the little rectangle in the video window, you can scroll through the list of songs.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Oh, home.
Fall is here in Cincinnati. The air is growing chill and the leaves at the tips on my front yard trees are losing their greenness. Darkness is setting in earlier each night and the fireflies have disappeared. I'm realizing that summer has quickly slipped through my fingers without much appreciation at all. It never really feels like summer here. Not to me. But, then again, as I grew up in Palm Beach, Florida, I always said that it never felt much like Fall down south. Just like the lack of orange leaves kept South Florida from feeling Autumnal, the lack of a beach in Ohio leaves me forever aching for a real summer.
Last night, the breeze was the kind of chilly that would have kept us out of the water in Palm Beach, but I knew that if I were "home," my friends and I would still be at the beach. In my circle, Fall was when you stopped grilling out on the beach and diving into the ocean, and started picking up Bud's Chicken and eating in the car while you took "the drive." As I pulled on my old sweatshirt over my tank top and cut-off shorts, I could feel a slight ache in the pit of my stomach to be back in Palm Beach, piling into my mom's blue van or my best friend's red Grand Prix, and heading down Lake Worth Ave. with a box of chicken in everyone's lap. The route that we followed is one of my most favorite in the entire world.
Lake Worth Avenue comes to a somewhat abrupt and absolutely beautiful dead-end at Lake Worth Beach. Even on a day when a storm seems to be always on the approach but never quite arrives, the grey sky makes the bright green palm fronds glow against it. The water at Lake Worth is some of the clearest turquoise I've seen, but on a cold Autumn day, it can look navy blue and ominous. Most of the tourists have long since headed back home by now, making it easy to find a parking spot right up front where you can overlook the ocean. When the water is at it's darkest, most of the action won't be on the sand. Dozens of locals will be pounding back beer and fresh shrimp at the restaurant on the long pier that juts out from the middle of the beach. Out on the water, only the most dedicated of surfers will be flying over and under the cold, white-capped waves. By the time September or October rolled around, my friends and I had retired our boards to our garages. But it was still fun to go down and watch the band of crazy guys from down the street tackle the chilled water in their wetsuits.
Fingers greasy from fried chicken and hush puppies, we'd eventually get bored with watching the kid with the wild blonde 'fro crash into the shore and begin to head north up Ocean Blvd. If you take the road south, you'll roll in and out of one sleepy beach town after another until you hit South Beach or Miami. We liked going north, instead. At first, sandwiched between tall white and pink buildings filled with condos, Ocean Blvd. doesn't seem all that interesting. It's the expectation of what's up ahead, just a few miles, that keeps the condos and hotels filled with snowbirds from getting too boring. One slow curve to the right is followed by a quick 90 degree turn to the left. If you miss the turn, you go sailing over a cliff into the cold, dark water below. Every time we made the curve, my active imagination pictured one classic car after another careening off the edge to "certain death."
My twisted daydreams would immediately subside once we made the turn, though. As we continued up Ocean Blvd. we were surrounded by overwhelming beauty and I was given a million new things to daydream about. To our right, just past the narrow private beaches, is the open sea. The Atlantic Ocean, it's underwater community and the vessels that floated atop it were not only gorgeous to look at, but fun to dream about. As if I were some modern day Huck Finn. In the summer, his raft was replaced with one of the dozens of sailboats that would glide along the horizon, and the Atlantic was my Mississippi river. In the fall, though, it was all about the yachts, obscenely humongous, the "yachts" of Palm Beach look more like the cruise-ships that take you to The Caribbean. I still want one.
The only thing I wanted more than a yacht, though, and the only thing capable of distracting me from my Mark Twain-inspired daydreams were the views out the left side of the car. Mansion upon mansion upon castle lines the west side of Ocean Blvd. From Donald Trump's spanish-esque monstrosity to the strangely low, mustard colored house, each one held a different millionaire, a different life to dream up and a different party for us to imagine, from decorations to guest list.
A few miles more and the road would open up to another beach and a small section of cross-streets began. Our favorite was the famous Worth Avenue. It takes two swipes to see everything on Worth Avenue. The first time you turn left and head west down the small street, you're usually too caught up in checking out all the parked cars to look past them. I spent many of my Sunday afternoons cruising down Worth Avenue, swooning with the boys over yellow Lamborghinis (any other color is a sin) and blue and brown Rolls Royces and dodging silver Beemers driven by valet boys. At the end of the street (not much longer than a quarter of a mile), we would cut over to the next block, zip back up toward the beach and then turn back down Worth Avenue, yet again. This time, though, it was all about window shopping. In the spring, Chanel would always have the prettiest, most retro bathing suits and in the fall, they were replaced with warm-colored skirts and jackets. Even as a teenager, I was well aware that the old Kennedy Compound was nearby and that the one and only Jackie O. had no doubt graced those metal doors of Chanel with her gloved hand about a million times. I was also certain that she no doubt dropped in at Tiffany & Co. afterwards. We'd peer in at the insanely priced Armani suits and I'd tell my best friend which one he was expected to wear when he took my to prom. My girl friends and I would swoon over the baby clothes in "Cloud Nine" and blink, aghast, at the hideous antique furniture up the street.
When we weren't in a hurry to beat curfew or make a movie, we'd park the car and get out and wander Worth Avenue. The only thing better than window shopping from the car was window shopping from the sidewalks. Even better than window shopping, though, was ducking between the white stucco buildings into the courtyards behind them. Above and behind each of the storefronts were more stores, a cafe or two, a couple fancy restaurants, a million doorways to tiny, overly priced beach condos and a few massive courtyard gardens. Our favorite courtyard was on the north side of the street. Stuck back behind a kids' clothing store and under someone's pristine patio was an iron-worker's shop. The iron pieces that came out the door were horse-shoes or coat-racks. They were amazing life-sized statues of people doing gloriously normal things and he had them scattered throughout the courtyard. There was a child licking an ice cream cone sitting on the edge of one of the benches and another one grinning wildly as her patina swing swung her from under one of the trees. An older couple sat on another bench, a dolphin sprung out of a fountain and a horse reared up in the far corner. Far too many of my prom pictures are of me, in my dark blue sparkly dress, licking metal ice cream and sitting in motionless old men's laps. That courtyard was like a magical world full of friends just waiting to come back to life once we were out of sight. I grew up weaving in and out of those courtyards and sneaking up terracotta stairwells to people's doorways, just to get a better glimpse of the moon. Worth Avenue was full of people I'd never meet and things I'd never own...and it was the best place in the world.
Back in the car and on up Ocean Blvd are more mansions and ocean views. Sometimes the road was empty and other times it was littered with cars from a party by some politician or vacationing micro-celebrity. On up even more is a world famous golf course (supposedly. I know nothing of golf.) and a massive, castle-like hotel called "The Breakers." It's worth driving up it's long, landscaped driveway just to see the gorgeous front doors and laugh at the Gatsby-esque valets all dressed in white. Every year we promised we were all going to take our mothers to the Mother's Day Sunday brunch for mimosas, but as far as I know, we never made it.
Ocean Blvd. carries on for a few more miles, weaving it's way past more stores, more mansions and an insanely expensive country club, but after The Breakers, we usually cut west, took the bridge across the inter-coastal and headed back toward the mainland. I'm not sure anyone else would enjoy planning the parties, making up life stories and playing with fake people as much as my friends or my mother and I, but I think everyone can appreciate the drive. It's on a road and through a place that I was anxious to leave behind when I was in middle and high school and now I long to visit from time to time. I'm certain that most people who have been to Palm Beach and driven up or down Ocean Blvd. feel exactly the same way.
Last night, the breeze was the kind of chilly that would have kept us out of the water in Palm Beach, but I knew that if I were "home," my friends and I would still be at the beach. In my circle, Fall was when you stopped grilling out on the beach and diving into the ocean, and started picking up Bud's Chicken and eating in the car while you took "the drive." As I pulled on my old sweatshirt over my tank top and cut-off shorts, I could feel a slight ache in the pit of my stomach to be back in Palm Beach, piling into my mom's blue van or my best friend's red Grand Prix, and heading down Lake Worth Ave. with a box of chicken in everyone's lap. The route that we followed is one of my most favorite in the entire world.
Lake Worth Avenue comes to a somewhat abrupt and absolutely beautiful dead-end at Lake Worth Beach. Even on a day when a storm seems to be always on the approach but never quite arrives, the grey sky makes the bright green palm fronds glow against it. The water at Lake Worth is some of the clearest turquoise I've seen, but on a cold Autumn day, it can look navy blue and ominous. Most of the tourists have long since headed back home by now, making it easy to find a parking spot right up front where you can overlook the ocean. When the water is at it's darkest, most of the action won't be on the sand. Dozens of locals will be pounding back beer and fresh shrimp at the restaurant on the long pier that juts out from the middle of the beach. Out on the water, only the most dedicated of surfers will be flying over and under the cold, white-capped waves. By the time September or October rolled around, my friends and I had retired our boards to our garages. But it was still fun to go down and watch the band of crazy guys from down the street tackle the chilled water in their wetsuits.
Fingers greasy from fried chicken and hush puppies, we'd eventually get bored with watching the kid with the wild blonde 'fro crash into the shore and begin to head north up Ocean Blvd. If you take the road south, you'll roll in and out of one sleepy beach town after another until you hit South Beach or Miami. We liked going north, instead. At first, sandwiched between tall white and pink buildings filled with condos, Ocean Blvd. doesn't seem all that interesting. It's the expectation of what's up ahead, just a few miles, that keeps the condos and hotels filled with snowbirds from getting too boring. One slow curve to the right is followed by a quick 90 degree turn to the left. If you miss the turn, you go sailing over a cliff into the cold, dark water below. Every time we made the curve, my active imagination pictured one classic car after another careening off the edge to "certain death."
My twisted daydreams would immediately subside once we made the turn, though. As we continued up Ocean Blvd. we were surrounded by overwhelming beauty and I was given a million new things to daydream about. To our right, just past the narrow private beaches, is the open sea. The Atlantic Ocean, it's underwater community and the vessels that floated atop it were not only gorgeous to look at, but fun to dream about. As if I were some modern day Huck Finn. In the summer, his raft was replaced with one of the dozens of sailboats that would glide along the horizon, and the Atlantic was my Mississippi river. In the fall, though, it was all about the yachts, obscenely humongous, the "yachts" of Palm Beach look more like the cruise-ships that take you to The Caribbean. I still want one.
The only thing I wanted more than a yacht, though, and the only thing capable of distracting me from my Mark Twain-inspired daydreams were the views out the left side of the car. Mansion upon mansion upon castle lines the west side of Ocean Blvd. From Donald Trump's spanish-esque monstrosity to the strangely low, mustard colored house, each one held a different millionaire, a different life to dream up and a different party for us to imagine, from decorations to guest list.
A few miles more and the road would open up to another beach and a small section of cross-streets began. Our favorite was the famous Worth Avenue. It takes two swipes to see everything on Worth Avenue. The first time you turn left and head west down the small street, you're usually too caught up in checking out all the parked cars to look past them. I spent many of my Sunday afternoons cruising down Worth Avenue, swooning with the boys over yellow Lamborghinis (any other color is a sin) and blue and brown Rolls Royces and dodging silver Beemers driven by valet boys. At the end of the street (not much longer than a quarter of a mile), we would cut over to the next block, zip back up toward the beach and then turn back down Worth Avenue, yet again. This time, though, it was all about window shopping. In the spring, Chanel would always have the prettiest, most retro bathing suits and in the fall, they were replaced with warm-colored skirts and jackets. Even as a teenager, I was well aware that the old Kennedy Compound was nearby and that the one and only Jackie O. had no doubt graced those metal doors of Chanel with her gloved hand about a million times. I was also certain that she no doubt dropped in at Tiffany & Co. afterwards. We'd peer in at the insanely priced Armani suits and I'd tell my best friend which one he was expected to wear when he took my to prom. My girl friends and I would swoon over the baby clothes in "Cloud Nine" and blink, aghast, at the hideous antique furniture up the street.
When we weren't in a hurry to beat curfew or make a movie, we'd park the car and get out and wander Worth Avenue. The only thing better than window shopping from the car was window shopping from the sidewalks. Even better than window shopping, though, was ducking between the white stucco buildings into the courtyards behind them. Above and behind each of the storefronts were more stores, a cafe or two, a couple fancy restaurants, a million doorways to tiny, overly priced beach condos and a few massive courtyard gardens. Our favorite courtyard was on the north side of the street. Stuck back behind a kids' clothing store and under someone's pristine patio was an iron-worker's shop. The iron pieces that came out the door were horse-shoes or coat-racks. They were amazing life-sized statues of people doing gloriously normal things and he had them scattered throughout the courtyard. There was a child licking an ice cream cone sitting on the edge of one of the benches and another one grinning wildly as her patina swing swung her from under one of the trees. An older couple sat on another bench, a dolphin sprung out of a fountain and a horse reared up in the far corner. Far too many of my prom pictures are of me, in my dark blue sparkly dress, licking metal ice cream and sitting in motionless old men's laps. That courtyard was like a magical world full of friends just waiting to come back to life once we were out of sight. I grew up weaving in and out of those courtyards and sneaking up terracotta stairwells to people's doorways, just to get a better glimpse of the moon. Worth Avenue was full of people I'd never meet and things I'd never own...and it was the best place in the world.
Back in the car and on up Ocean Blvd are more mansions and ocean views. Sometimes the road was empty and other times it was littered with cars from a party by some politician or vacationing micro-celebrity. On up even more is a world famous golf course (supposedly. I know nothing of golf.) and a massive, castle-like hotel called "The Breakers." It's worth driving up it's long, landscaped driveway just to see the gorgeous front doors and laugh at the Gatsby-esque valets all dressed in white. Every year we promised we were all going to take our mothers to the Mother's Day Sunday brunch for mimosas, but as far as I know, we never made it.
Ocean Blvd. carries on for a few more miles, weaving it's way past more stores, more mansions and an insanely expensive country club, but after The Breakers, we usually cut west, took the bridge across the inter-coastal and headed back toward the mainland. I'm not sure anyone else would enjoy planning the parties, making up life stories and playing with fake people as much as my friends or my mother and I, but I think everyone can appreciate the drive. It's on a road and through a place that I was anxious to leave behind when I was in middle and high school and now I long to visit from time to time. I'm certain that most people who have been to Palm Beach and driven up or down Ocean Blvd. feel exactly the same way.
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