Life After Fat

The time has come to admit that I am no longer, in any way, shape or form, fat. I can no longer make self-deprecating comments about my fat. It is now unseemly as opposed to just undignified. I must now humbly join the ranks of the not-fat who still have body issues. As in, I know I am not fat, but that doesn't mean that there isn't room to improve the quality of my midsection.

I'm being flippant, natch, but this is actually a rather difficult transition. I have been legitimately and certainly medically fat my entire adolescent/adult life. It was a fallback defense and a daily reality. The number of times I used fat as an excuse for something entirely non-fat related? Too many times to comfortably admit. It turns out that my shortcomings will now have to be rationalized via other means.

And it's really not easy to get my head out of its fatspace. One great example: buffets. I used to worry that, in an environment where there was easy food access, people would notice when I decided to help myself: too early and they would judge the fat girl who couldn't keep her hands off the food; too late and I was tacitly admitting my fat and its control over me. Also clothing choices, as in, why is that fat girl wearing that form fitting outfit. Does she not know she is fat and should, therefore, be hiding that?

No one has much sympathy for the non-fat body dysmorphia. Glamour magazine no longer considers my body a protected class and all those cover articles promising the best jeans/dress/outfit for your body type, don't have my body type. And while I agonize over the perfect 12" measurement differential (possibly achievable) and the sad state of affairs that is my skin, I don't get to be all that vocal about it because after all, I'm not fat. I really shouldn't have anything to complain about - certainly not the fact that a pair of really tiny jeans I got 10 pounds ago are now loose.

Now I get the "you shouldn't lose any more weight" comments. Which, don't get me wrong, I understand come from a place of support, but don't do much for the lurking suspicion that there actually are some more pounds that wouldn't be missed should they suddenly go missing.

While on vacation, I ate foie gras twice without guilt. Also while on vacation we took some pictures. In all of them I can point out to you what still needs improvement, but as a farewell to the fat that was, I will share two with you.

You see when we went to Corsica in 2005 we took a lot of pictures as well. Including this one:


And while we didn't get the angle quite right, we went in search of the exact same location while on this trip to take the same photo:


Is the first picture rather embarrassing now? Absolutely! Have I delighted in looking at these two side by side ever since we got home? Yup!

So this will be among the last posts I write about my weight. I'll be losing a little more and toning what remains, but I can no longer pretend that this is a real issue that deserves attention. Please bear with me, in person and online, as I make the mental transition from fat to normal - if you've never been both, you might not understand that the brain takes some time to catch up with the body, but I assure you this is neither dissembling nor a pathetic compliment-fishing expedition. And if you hear me refer to my "fat" in the present tense, give me a couple of months before you yell at me. New body and I are still somewhat strangers to each other.

Because It's More Fun Than Tablecloth Colors

Given the number of changes that have occurred since we betrothed, I hesitate to say anything about our nuptials with certainty, but I think we have come to a decision on that most important of topics: the honeymoon.

If you've spent any time around us, you know that we're a little crazy when it comes to travel, a little adventurous, and a lot unconventional. This made the honeymoon decision a mite bit difficult. We pride ourselves on fairly frugal travel and a honeymoon does not lend itself to frugality. So, stepping into the world of imprecise math, we agreed that we would double the budget of our most expensive vacation to date, and that would be our honeymoon budget. Sounds about right, no?

This is, strangely enough, the one topic of conversation that we've had throughout the years. Yes, we were gunshy about getting married, but not at all gunshy about fantasy honeymoon planning. The usual suspects came up: the Maldives, Polynesia, but then when we start having to actually think about it, we realized that while we like the idea of one week at the beach, three weeks is pushing it. We just need more stuff.

When we have been to islands in the past, for a week, there has always come a time when we just had to get in a car and explore. Heck, when we went to St. Thomas for the weekend, we ended up hopping the ferry to St. John for diversion. The simple fact is, we like cars. Driving is relaxing for us. And you can't drive on an atoll. So, exit Maldives and Polynesia, and enter insanity.

We thought about Madagascar until I remembered that, in addition to some political instability, I was certain that I had read in National Geographic about how much of it was impassable. Armed with many positive memories of reading and rereading Redmond O'Hanlon's Into the Heart of Borneo, we started thinking about a trip to Malaysia. It would have stupid driving, lovely beaches, interesting culture, and that wow factor. We were pretty sold on the idea. But wanting options, we considered Myanmar. And, since it had always been my top honeymoon fantasy, safari in Africa followed by some scuba diving somewhere Africanish.

We entered the poorly stocked White Plains Barnes and Noble (remind me that I want to devote another post to the extreme differences between New York and suburban bookstores), grabbed as many books as we could find on our three potential destinations, ordered our fancy pants coffee drinks, and started to read.

At which point we discovered, or rediscovered, that different places have different weather. Since our last international trip to Nicaragua was such a monumental disaster, we were both very concerned about dedicating three expensive weeks to being rained on. And wouldn't you know it, November sees half of Malaysia in a monsoon. [INSERT EXPLETIVES HERE]! And Myanmar, as it turns out, has some issues of it's own, namely fuel rationing. You get 4 gallons of fuel per week and then you're getting the rest on the black market. And the books all said that if you were looking to dive the Myanmar territories, you were going to end up catching your boat in Thailand. [INSERT ADDITIONAL EXPLETIVES]!

Much as we like adventure, we didn't want this trip to be so adventure packed as to have us spending most of it haggling for fuel or avoiding mudslides.

Several years ago I had asked he-who-has-shot-animals-all-over-Africa where we should go and he said that if we only could go on one Safari in Africa, it had to be in South Africa. But devoted partner and I are avid nature documentary nerds, and the lure of Ngorongoro crater and the Serengeti was a powerful one. That was until we learned that the nice people of Tanzania really discourage self-drive safaris. I got some great advice from a former classmate who had honeymooned in Tanzania and looked over some tour companies and then went back to my fuzzy math and realized that there's a big difference between what you CAN afford and what you WANT to afford. We'd be going to Africa to see and do stuff and the organized safaris, even the private ones, put a premium on lodging and food - two things we would, if given the opportunity, choose not to spend on. I'm not saying we want to sleep in a communist-era poorly lit bunker (thanks, Nicaragua), but I don't need five-star accommodation while I'm on Safari. And I certainly don't need to spend for it. Even if it does look nice, I think we're more of a quantity vs. quality couple when it comes to travel.

So I googled DIY safari and found out that the nice people of Kruger National Park will welcome you in your own vehicle. You can stay in the park if you like, and there are many options for that, you can hire guides if you like, you can pretty much do what you like. I like. So then it was a question of where we go after we see our big five. Mauritius was a top choice because South African airlines fly there, but we checked out the diving and it's not brilliant (and, oh yes, it's not cheap). But look at your map and you will notice a little country quite near Kruger National Park that seems to have a lot of coastline. And our 50 Dives to Do Before You Die book mentioned something about Manta Rays. So much as we anticipate he-whose-country-used-to-own-this-country making fun of our choice to vacation in a former colony, we think we'll just take our car over the border to Mozambique, spend up a little on lodging, and dodge bull sharks in the lovely waters of the Indian Ocean.

This sounds like our kind of crazy. That being said, given border crossings, rental cars, and the out-there nature of the trip, I am seriously considering soliciting the assistance of a travel agent, despite the pride I take in planning our trips.

So while we still are iffy on appetizers, we are far less iffy on where we're going afterward. And frankly, the idea that our honeymoon will consist of an orgy of nature on land, in the air, and underwater, is pretty much perfect!

Printout

If you still read magazines, you've doubtless noticed the ads that essentially tell you print isn't dead just because the internet exists and the logic employed is convincing: real coffee didn't go extinct because of instant coffee etc. I am a supporter of print. Well, sort of.

The New York Times is something I may well never again subscribe to simply because the format of a newspaper has always been cumbersome. Since we are no longer a nation of hourlong breakfasts where mom and dad swap sections while sipping freshly squeezed orange juice, the idea of traveling with that behemoth that needs a Master's degree in origami to be utilized holds no appeal to me. Whereas the New York Times online allows me to cherry pick those things I'm interested in and ignore the rest. When they finally come up with a way to do micropayments, I don't think I'd be offended if I was asked to pay a nickel or dime per article I read.

But I subscribe to a frankly dizzying number of magazines. After all, when they tell you it's only a buck an issue, it's hard to say no to that. Currently on roster, I think, are the following:

Bon Appetit
Conde Nast Traveler
Food and Wine
Islands (this was an impulse purchase)
Martha Stewart Living
National Geographic
National Geographic Traveler

Now this is what the list will look like after non-renewing:

Food and Wine (75% chance)
Martha Stewart Living
National Geographic

Occasionally I have flirtations with Real Simple and Saveur, and while at the airport I enjoy picking up Afar, but since I now get so many magazines, I have come to the sad realization that they're all saying the same thing.

I am officially bored with: articles on food trucks, short ribs, Portuguese wine, Dubai, desserts made with cereal, hotels that cost more than 1K/night, "bargain" hotels that cost more than $300/night, recipes for green salads, how hot retro cocktails are, spiritual holidays, and how to cook things on a grill.

I would like to see more: excellent bed & breakfasts/small inns/tiny hotels under $150 (and I know they exist because we stay in them EVERY TIME WE TRAVEL), recipes involving game and how to cook it, suggestions for where to go next that aren't Jaipur, Croatia, Brazil, or Beijing, desserts that don't use enough sugar to turn you immediately diabetic, more technique and fewer 30-minute-meals, travel and kitchen tools that are a) practical (i.e. no Louis Vuitton steamer trunks or gold-plated chargers) and b) reasonably priced (ibid.).

But I know that I'm not going to get those things. So instead I'm going to pare down. Food and Wine is going to get another shot simply because once upon a time they had a Christmas issue that was hands-down the best collection of recipes I have ever seen (and quite probably my Christmas menu this year). National Geographic, while recently in a bit of a boring and/or preachy phase, generally bottoms out at a B+, and Martha Stewart because, well, it just combines so many elements of other lifestyle magazines in a terrifically entertaining way.

My favorite part of MSL is her calendar. Every month the magazine prints Martha's own to-do list and it is wonderful and aspirational. Not only do I wish I did that much horseback riding, but I wonder how one gets to the point where one plans on which day one will beat out comforters and lubricate door locks. I want to get to the point where I have a calendar like that.

So, magazines, when you wonder why you're losing readership, part of it is the internet - it might not have the same glossy appeal or ability to be read on the john, but it also isn't as full of 15-page advertisements for cruiselines designed to look like part of the magazine, and it doesn't have to be so repetitive. When I look back over the issues I have yet to throw out, I can't help but notice how the same they all are. Yes, tacos are in. So, too, is Paris (though I don't remember when Paris was out). There has to be someone on your staff who would welcome the opportunity to travel to and write about Gabon and someone who wants to debone a pheasant. These lifestyle magazines are about the people we WANT to be and know we aren't, so why not toss us a little more exoticism COUPLED WITH a little more we could actually do.

I like reading magazines. It's just I feel I've been reading the same one over and over again.

I'm Sure I'll Feel Differently If I Ever Have Some

In order to fly out of the eminently civilized Westchester airport I made the concession that my flights to and from Portland would not be direct. I was ok with this as the price was the same as a direct from JFK and the connection times were reasonable. But sometimes simplicity is just not attainable.

I was scheduled to leave Thursday afternoon. I ended up leaving Friday afternoon and, trust me, this was the best of all possible scenarios. Combine FAA rules governing presidential visits and airspace with a thunderstorm of significant proportions and you end up with a plane waiting on the tarmac with sporadic air conditioning for nearly three hours. I'll have you know I was among the calmest people on board. I even wrote a letter to Delta telling them how well their people handled things. While the mumblers were carrying on about the ridiculosity of our being trapped in this maelstrom, I did some critical thinking.

The airport knew that there was going to be a mandatory closing of airspace and they rushed like hell to get all the scheduled planes out ahead of it. We would have been among them had it not been for one teeny tiny thing that in other circumstances would not have occasioned a three hour delay. There was a family with three small children who successfully convinced the gate agent that they could schlep all of their strollers on the plane; then they encountered our more vigilant flight attendant who told them that they must be out of their minds and that it was highly illegal to have their behemoth child carriers blocking the aisle of the plane (she said it way nicer than that). In the ten or so minutes it took to sort out that mess, we missed the window of opportunity to get off the ground before the airport was temporarily closed.

I'm not opposed to children qua children, but I'm really really opposed to being around them. In certain circumstances. Since, with the exception of a family's moving to a new home, there is no REASON why young children need to take planes, I'm at a loss to explain why so many do. Or rather why so many parents blatantly ignore the inconvenience their children are about to occasion and take them flying anyway. I read travel websites and know that whenever the subject of kids-only flights or adults-only flights or anything that infringes on the rights of our non-tax paying toddlers, eruptions occur. In a culture of entitlement, how could it be otherwise? I've started to consider just how much money it would be worth to me to travel on adults-only flights and I'm currently at $100. Airlines, take note.

But while you're noting that, allow me to make a possibly less radical suggestion:

CHILDREN SHOULD NEVER BE ALLOWED ON RED-EYE FLIGHTS

NEVER

On my return trip I was shocked and appalled to see not one but two very young children in the boarding area. If you must take your pre-verbal, pre-logic, pre-toilet-trained larva on a plane, what possible lapse of reason and etiquette prompted you to book your mewling progeny on a flight where EVERYONE ELSE ON THE PLANE WILL WANT TO SLEEP? I'm assuming you have to declare your infant when making a reservation and airlines should refuse to give you one if it's an overnight flight. This seems a no-brainer. And parents should exercise a modicum of good taste in never trying to book those flights. Your kid has a bad day and an entire plane load of people suffers. Why would you do this? How did it come to pass that you arrived at that level of selfishness? 100 businesspeople should lose a night of already uncomfortable sleep so that you can drag your kid cross-country? It just boggles the mind.

I'm not a parent and who knows if I will be someday, but I vow this to you, and waybackmachine will have it on record, should I be a traveling parent, you will not hear my child. If I MUST travel somewhere with little Ghengis, he will be appropriately, well, drunk. Yes, you heard it here. I will be doling out the thimblefuls of wine so that he may sleep, you may sleep, I may sleep. European wine producing countries routinely give their children little doses of wine and they haven't yet discovered that those children are horribly scarred, so I'm going to go with that. And I'm counting on you all to back me up when they arrest me!

Sympathetic Pregnancy Eating

Portland is a food town. I know this because after three days there I think I ate everything Portland has to offer. I blame pregnancy.

Not mine, of course, my hostess's. The DuYo clan will become four (yes, I'm counting the dog) and I thought it would the height of rudeness to not eat for two as well while I was their guest. I didn't see a lot of hideously obese people wandering the hipsterized streets, but my guess is that either a) since no one apparently has a job, all may spend the hours not engaged in eating at the gym or b) everyone climbs Mt. Hood - a lot.

Having kickstarted my metabolism after several weeks of subsistence eating, I was pleasantly pleased to discover only a very little damage was done to my downward scale progression, but it wasn't for lack of trying.

The Portland Farmer's market might have beaten out the Ferry Market in San Francisco to be my favorite market. Primarily due to two things: the nectar-of-the-gods nectarine I ate there and the wild boar, hazelnut, and fig pate I bought from Chop Butchery. Frankly, if I could only eat those two items for, say, a month straight, I would not be disappointed. I look forward to returning to Portland to see the new DuYo when he arrives, but also, quite honestly, to spend more time at that market!

Naturally, when you think of Oregon, you think of southern food, so it would be no surprise to you that on my first night we went for southern food. Also of no surprise should be my ordering of the hushpuppies - though you should be surprised that I shared them. The next day found us lunching at the Grilled Cheese Cart (food carts are big in Portland, but unlike in New York the carts have fixed locations - no relying on the vagaries of Twitter and the parking cops here). I enjoyed the "grilled cheese" on sourdough filled with Colby cheese, cream cheese, roasted jalapenos, and tortilla chips, but couldn't resist only eating half the sandwich to justify my purchase of a second sandwich, The Elvis (grilled banana and peanut butter, natch), of which only half was consumed as well. This was followed, predictably, by dinner at Le Pigeon where I happily ate three courses (I should admit now that the reason some of these pictures stink is that this was my first ever time using a prime lens and I still have some kinks to iron out): pigeon on brioche with foie gras and a mache and grape salad, beef cheek bourgignon, and foie gras profiteroles. The next day, after merely scratching the surface at Powell's bookstore, we went to the downtown food cart agglomeration. Two city blocks of food carts. Do you know how difficult it is to make a decision like that? Which is why I wisely suggested we pre-eat some dumplings before getting Vietnamese. And after that, we had to go to Voodoo Doughnut, because there needed to be some food-related sightseeing. I ordered two donuts, and ate one (I like to have choices). It was sweet, disgusting, and eminently satisfying. I IMed devoted partner that we were in luck: Voodoo Doughnuts offers affordable legal wedding packages! Devoted partner directed me to the domain name I bought: nofatti.es.

Point taken.

I don't think I could live in Portland full time unless I also developed a taste for marathon running - perhaps my brother could live there, but then he'd have to develop a taste for hippies which is about as likely as the former.

To Portland. No, The Other Portland.

Two Portlands in one month, who would have thought? I am off to visit the stately manse of the Du-Yos, bless their impending spawn, and try out my new rain gear.

Any last minute suggestions of where I should schlep them for my entertainment?

Love Means Never Having To Say You're Sorry For Posting Photos of Him Kissing a Camel

IMG_2381
Originally uploaded by reallyct

While in Tennessee, we stayed at a B&B cum farm called Ocoee Mist. We affectionately termed it Llamatown due to the (unphotographed and kinda shy) llamas on premises. Also on premises:

two camels
some donkeys
a horse (maybe more)
a slew of goats
a potbellied pig
three dogs
a cat (or two)
two peacocks (one dead and stuffed, one alive and shy)
some parrots
some other birds not native to Tennessee
occasionally some guinea hens from the neighbor's farm

If this sounds a little crazy to you, let me assure you that it is. In the most wonderful of ways. I hope Kevin and Carole know they're a little eccentric and that if it ever gets back to them that I said as much that they take is kindly. Because they were amazingly nice people who ran a beautiful property and served one helluva breakfast, but it's not every day you encounter people with a hobby farm full of llamas, camels, and peacocks.

Mel the camel, took a special shining to devoted partner, even before we had the apples. My narrative couldn't possibly compete with the evidence, so please, enjoy the slideshow. In the interest of fairness, I included an unflattering picture of myself being gnawed by a donkey.

GSM: The (Long) Summary

- This place is almost unspeakably gorgeous. It really doesn't ever stop being gorgeous. Yes, that as a trailer park, but look just behind it and pooppooppoop it's pretty. Also, there are quite a lot more mountains than I had thought - just tons of them really, and they actually don't all look the same. I know this because we pulled over at 75% of all scenic overlooks.

- Kudos to the national parks of Tennessee and North Carolina for having some of the best maintained roads we have ever been on. It can't be easy to keep mountain roads in such pristine condition, but we would have been hard-pressed to complain about anything we drove over.

- Southern people, you really are very very nice. Not every last one of you - devoted partner felt one of you may have judged our living in sin status and been less pleasant to us on that account - but for the most part you said hello and please and thank you and have a nice day with such alarming frequency that my jaded ears nearly wondered if it was a put-on. I think I'm more than a little in love with your gentility.

- But, holy crap, are you people ever fat! I mean orca fat. I mean in any given grouping of people, devoted partner and I were the slenderest. BY 100 POUNDS! We are not slender people. In any given grouping in Greenwich, we are the orcas, but you all (and I mean ALL of you until we got back to Charlotte where women in expensive running gear were athleticizing with their labradors) made us look like we had just emerged from the pages of SI. I thought I had an eating problem, but you guys are probably the least healthy people I have ever encountered. Your fatness was fascinating it was so, pardon the pun, larger than life.

- Which is at least a little understandable given what you all eat. Let us, for a moment, put aside the sheer bounty of your fast food (I had my first Arby's sandwich - it wasn't bad, I just didn't think it tasted like anything; on the other hand, Arby's, your curly fries and god help me banana split shake were a little piece of heart attack heaven), and go back to your indigenous cuisine: bbq. There was not a plate that was put in front of me that didn't contain food enough for two-three people. In my defense, I did only eat the amount I thought was food for one (except for hushpuppies which, as noted last month, are only really delicious in quantities above 10), and I was still too full. A pound of meat, no matter how tender, fatty, and slow-cooked, is still a pound of meat and is, as such, an unsuitable amount for one person to eat at a sitting unless said person is an Olympic athlete which, as I have just mentioned, not one of you is.

- My entirely unscientific survey of what bbq was available gives the nod to Old Hickory House BBQ Restaurant in Charlotte. While your bbq was not wholly Carolina authentic, it was tasty and your hushpuppies were, well, let's just say I'm thinking inappropriate thoughts about them right now. It's still no Allen and Son, which now that we have some comparables, is off the charts delicious, but as a last stop before the north and food privation, it was a delightful send-off. The wood-paneling was a great help to the ambiance as well.

- Also, if I can go back to the fat thing for a moment, it doesn't help that you consider paved walkways "hikes." Hike to the top of Mount Mitchell, read the sign. The hike in question was 250 yards of slightly inclined 10-foot wide pavement. Chimney Rock's Exclamation Point, the highest part of the park, was billed as a strenuous hike. We were advised against climbing to Chimney Rock and then trying to make it to Exclamation Point. Exclamation Point, while making one's heart beat faster, was reached by stair. Some ricketier than others, but stairs. Not a hike. A stairmastering. Perhaps if more of your hiking trails were hikey, you could eat your bbq and assorted fried comestibles with more impunity.

- But none of this should dull the message that you put on an excellent nature show. I saw a bear. Actually I saw two, but only one was slow enough to be photographed (like many of you, it was eating). I saw a deer run by the side of the road - which is exciting for a city girl like me. And, if you've been following my tweets, I saw devoted partner make out with a camel. This was a good trip.

And We're Off

Great Smoky National Park, here we come! Finally figured out how to attach my tripod to my camera bag. The staggering array of printed material concerning planes, cars, and lodgings has been duly printed. I'm sort of packed. As is devoted partner. What remains is a little bit of personal grooming and to call a cab.

In the meantime, though, I thought I'd talk a little bit about food. And the little of it I've been eating recently. You see, the south is full of magical wondrous hideously fattening food of which I occasionally (fine, often) dream. Devoted partner and I, while making progress towards ultimate defatification, kind of slid a little there for a while. Back on the horse, I knew I had to make some serious progress ahead of this trip in order to enjoy pork and hushpuppies and pie without guilt. Now that the trip is upon us, though, I worry about my willpower - after all 12 hushpuppies tasted 12x as good as 1.

So I'm going to make a concerted effort to not clean my plate. I will order what I like and nibble at it, the way I see skinny people do (how do they do this?!?). I will remember that most pie is disappointing and not eat some that isn't stupendous - and only eat half of stupendous slices of pie. I will, while scarfing down pulled pork, remember that the reason it tastes so good is that it was cooked long enough that all the delicious fat had time to sink into the meat. And I will try my hardest not to mainline hushpuppies.

I'm at, what I like to call, a manageable weight right now. I look in the mirror and don't want to kill myself. All clothing that should fit does fit. I would like to not return home next Tuesday weighing five pounds more than I do now.

But then I remind myself that we signed up for a full day of rafting in August. Clearly there's A LOT of rowing in my future!

Monday Nopropos

As we prepare for our slightly spontaneous must-use-vacation-days-before-September-1 vacation to the Great Smoky Mountains, I wanted to dispense with several items.

1. I'm not feeling a lot of love and support vis a vis this trip. To a person, everyone I have told about it, including my beloved sibling, has looked at me incredulously. "What are you going to do?" "Are you, um, outdoorsy?" "Why are you going there?" When I respond with the hiking/rafting/boating/riding we hope to accomplish, the stares become even more incredulous. Listen, I know that I take pride in my Gucci hiking slingbacks and in things like hot water and television, but I would like to remind ye of little faith and great mirth that devoted partner and I, despite our girth, are some pretty outdoorsy types. Offending one and all, devoted partner has been known to call me Action Jew (apologies to Eddie Izzard from whom we shamelessly stole), or if we are being athletic in France, Juif d'Action. In fact, if we can jump on a horse, get in a kayak, or get to the top of something really high, chances are we will. Now it's true, we will not be camping, and that was my decision, but it was prompted way more by the inconvenience of hauling camping crap on a plane than it was any abhorrence of outdoor sleeping. To say nothing of the fact that we have abandoned the sloth of the shore for the wet, oxygen toxicity of beneath the waves. In the future, perhaps a smidgen more benefit of the doubt would not be unwarranted.

2. While I still believe the best future for the MTA lies in Mayor Bloomberg buying it outright and running it like a business instead of a slush fund, I would like to commend the current thieves and criminals for installing, in some stations, the board that updates passengers on when the next train will arrive. Yes, other cities have had these for ages, but I say better late than never.

3. Devoted partner is a far better interweb miner than I, coming up with tons of funnies which he shares with me. I now share some with you and also a serious one courtesy of Antonio:
* Not about OJ Simpson, surprisingly
* Not statistically sound, but tee-hee
* Roger Ebert and I are mind-melding

Happy Monday!

Of Orcas and Puppies

Leave it to devoted partner to know the purported etymology of hushpuppies: to shut up the dogs, excess batter from frying fish would be tossed to them. Leave it to me to develop an immediate and unhealthy addiction to those delicious lumps of essentially fried cornbread.

Let me put the addiction in perspective: I eschewed home-made pie so that I could have more hushpuppies.

As an ignorant yankee, I was under the broad assumption that barbecue is pretty much the same from place to place - after all, it's just meat that's been cooked forever. Not so. Not so at all. Wisely, I schlepped us to Allen & Son in Chapel Hill because the internets seemed to enjoy it. There we ate, easily, the best pulled pork of our lives enhanced by some killer cole slaw. Now, if you're like we were, you're thinking, "what the hell could be so good about cole slaw?" I don't know. But I know this cole slaw was unbelievable! And the hushpuppies...? I could have eaten 50 (in reality, I limited myself to about a dozen).

Later when we sampled fast-food hushpuppies (cut us some slack, it was 2am) and later still when we dined at another bbq establishment, we realized the trip to Allen & Son was more than worthwhile - it was transcendent.

I briefly envisioned a world where I no longer cared how fat I became so long as I could guiltlessly eat pulled pork and hushpuppies. I would wear a tent and frost my hair and be deliriously happy - at least until my massive coronary. Instead, I turned to devoted partner and said that if we ever moved to the neighborhood, we would have to limit our Allen & Son consumption to once a month. But next time I will try the pie.

My first reaction to the greater Raleigh/Durham/Chapel Hill area was a positive one. We saw three separate farmer's markets Saturday morning, and two of them were pretty big and pretty diverse. The shoppers looked like just the kinds of people you'd expect would stand online for 3 dollar tomatoes, otherwise known as insufferable yuppies just like us. Getting around seemed easy enough. It was a favorable first impression marred only by the preponderance of housing developments which are a concept I don't quite grok, being a person interested in privacy. I was assured by locals that stand-alone houses exist in abundance, however.

And the people. Jesus, it was like meeting awesome aliens! They all were friendly and polite. They were everything my metro-north compatriots are not: door-holding, smiling-greeting, non-shoving delights! I don't know if it's in the water, or if the rude ones get turned into pulled pork, but everyone we met was friendly. So much so that I started noticing when people were merely normal-friendly as opposed to super-friendly.

And I truly think good ol' Marcel wouldn't have been such a consumptive killjoy had his madeleines been hushpuppies - the rhapsodic waxings of the latter can only be delivered with joy!

Decadence

When travel was a luxury available to few, the travel experience was luxurious. Many earnest backpackers get to Europe armed with their rail passes only to discover that while the train may get them from Amsterdam to Venice quickly, it won't look like an Agatha Christie novel. The train is merely the conveyance that gets passengers from point A to point B. As the nostalgia for olden times train travel grows, so to does the market for recreations of the old train carriages and experiences. These experiences are generally out of reach for the average person, regardless of how much the idea might interest her.

And while in recent years business-class only airlines have come and gone and talk of charters and fractional ownership arise, the average person who just would prefer that her ride from Dallas to Chicago not resemble a Calcutta (Kolkata - I never remember which is currently correct) bus ride is simply out of luck.

Sort of.

For years I heard the praises sung for Westchester Airport and I turned up my nose. Please. An airport need be able to service non-stops to Tokyo or it simply doesn't count. How quaint, your tiny airport can chauffeur you all to the Vineyard for the weekend. That sort of thing. That was, until I flew from Westchester Airport.

Now it is true, if you want to fly a distance of greater than say, 1500 miles, you should not fly out of Westchester. And frequently our journeys are greater than 1500 miles, but when we went to Miami and were able to take a 10 minute cab ride to the airport, allowing us to leave our house 1 hour and 10 minutes before takeoff; when we realized there were only, maybe 500 other people at the airport facilitating quick check-in and security; when I realized that owing to the tiny size of the airport, the planes would be smaller and therefore sit only two across; well, let's just say my opinion changed. Dramatically.

Flying out of Westchester Airport is the closest the average Joe (and by average Joe I guess I mean average Westchester/Fairfield average) can get to easy flying. I take no responsibility for the return trip (dear god, Fort Lauderdale, could you be a less pleasant airport?), but that outbound leg? Pretty damn near perfect.

When we were in Egypt, we both remarked on the absolutely wondrous airport in Sharm el Sheikh which only caters to tourists and is therefore spotless, efficient, and designed to inconvenience you as little as possible. While older, and therefore not as state of the art, Westchester Airport reminds me of this. Which is why I was absolutely delighted, when booking tickets last night, to discover that for precisely $0 more, we could fly to Charlotte, NC from Westchester as opposed to LaGuardia. It actually means we save money as the round trip cab from our house will be so far less than the cost of parking our car at Laguardia. So we make money on the deal and it's delightful.

So I apologize, Westchester County Airport, for all the times I turned my nose up at your provincialness. I'll have to schlep to JFK or Newark for the big trips, but I'll be checking you first for all the small ones!

Send Off

It is official. As of 5ish this evening, I will be short one best friend. And it's for such a compelling reason, I can't even be pretend-devastated about it. Best friend and best fiance are embarking on a year long tour of Asia, commencing with a 17-day tour through Mongolia (cool, right?). You can follow their progress along with me, as their travel blogs are now gracing the sidebar, Our Year in Asia and life logistics.

Obviously there is a huge part of me that is wildly jealous. I mean, ask me what I'd like to do with my life and the answer is endlessly travel (ask me about my Helsinki to Cape Town itinerary sometime), and there's a huger part of me that has no idea what one does for a year sans best friend. You see Best Friend and I talk on the phone. In fact, other than relatives, Best Friend is the only person I speak to on the phone. For hours. About nothing.

In preparation for this telecommunicative tragedy, Best Friend bought me a portable Skype phone for Christmas so that I can keep in touch with him as he rides yaks and learns kung fu, but I think our habitual 2-hour long Wednesday calls about who knows what are going on hiatus for a while.

Also, Best Friend is the only person I really go out to dinner with. The Boy and I used to do so, but he works far longer hours these days and is less thrilled to then spend more time in a restaurant. Devoted partner and I generally reserve eating out for special occasions and put our eating out money towards our travel instead. But I do like a good meal. I may have to prevail upon the other two men in my life these next 12 or so months.

But the real reason I can't muster any ill will about this abandonment is that I think it's just so darn cool. I know there are a lot of people who look at a decision like this and have an immediate proto-Calvinist reaction to it: how irresponsible, what makes them think they deserve this kind of thing, why aren't they being like everyone else; as an aspirer to the non-status-quo myself, I applaud my friend and his future wife for doing something they WANTED to do and not contenting themselves with merely the things that are acceptable to want. They were able to do it, they wanted to do it, and as of this evening they're doing it. It takes balls, people, and I think it's fantastic!

We hope to meet up with them along the way, possibly in Southeast Asia, possibly in Polynesia, we don't know, they don't know, and the fact that their schedule leaves so much room open for whimsy and spurs of the moments leads me to believe they will have a wonderful, unexpected trip. One I'll be plotting how to emulate for quite some time.

Nicaragua: They Tell Me It's Not Malaria

When I'm looking for sound medical advice, I generally turn to the nearest person wearing neither shoes nor shirt, in this case Jeff from Brisbane. Using a distressing paucity of indecipherable Australian slang, Jeff informs me that the island's mosquitoes carry neither malaria nor dengue, a small comfort after my night of compulsively shivering and sweating - two symptoms I felt certain meant I had malaria. And, the thing of it was, I wasn't that upset. Until devoted partner disabused me of the notion, I had thought malaria was one of those things you got once and I was quite pleased to be using up my one time - to say nothing of the automatic immunity to sickle-cell anemia. Devoted partner finds it charming when I conflate sciencey things in a most Mrs. Malaprop way. Or at least I tell myself that he does.

I'm not going to lie: this was not one of our better vacations, and the would-be malaria was merely a small part of the reason why. The pictures from the last post? Someone took them in the location we were, but they sure as shit didn't take them in June. We had a little bit of weather. Every day. Now I'm one of those knows-how-to-use-the-internet-to-discover-such-nuggets-as-the-weather-at-my-destination so I knew there would be rain. But the internet told me there would be about an hour of rain a day which led me to think, not unwisely, that this would be rain of the tropical variety: sudden, in the afternoon, giving way to sun as quickly as the sun had given way to a shower.

Not so.

Had it not been for the discovery that every location in the Greater Caribbean (including Baja and Myrtle Beach) was experiencing the selfsame weather last week, this story might have turned out differently because we would have fled the deluge. But stuck with the inevitability of poor weather, we toughed it out. Until the not-malaria hit. Then we were less tough. I was particularly less tough. My not-toughness lasted several days and the aftermath was that my right ear was unable to equalize on land much less underwater. This made diving not on the agenda.

So back to my room, decorated by the team that brought you pretty much every Soviet-era interrogation cell, to lie on the bed and moan a little. There was some diving done, and some sharks seen - a plus - but, and I'm all for benefits of the doubt, it seems we had chosen a poor season to dive as the visibility on nearly every site was closer to soup than I would have liked. Lots and lots and lots of plankton sex.

I had about a day and a half of non-malarial entertainment, hampered only by the searing pain I experienced as I forced myself underwater, convinced that I was just being a sissy and that merely taking a long time to equalize underwater would be sufficient to forestall any ruptured eardrums. And, seeing as I emerged exactly zero times bleeding from the ears, I'm going to say that was a usable theory (until, say, something unexpected happens and I start blogging from the waiting room of the Ear, Nose, and Throat doctor). After that, I was struck by the more common form of ailment one encounters in southern countries.

That's right, the tail end of our vacation was spent, for me, at least, both prone and prone to rushing to the ladies room. In defense of the truly spectacular drugs one can get once the FDA isn't sniffing around, whatever it was I took (in Spanish, couldn't tell you) worked almost immediately. Would that the chemist had been opened when the trouble started and that I hadn't had to wait out a night of pretty spectacular discomfort for his shop to open in the morning. Once the "outgoing mail" issue had been settled, I was free to clutch my bloated gut and speculate on what we would name the alien baby I was sure was on its way to joining our family. I have decided (because I believe he is still on the way) to name him: Windsock.

So, yes, there will be details of a non-medical sort, because we did manage to have some fun while away, and there will be pictures as well (rainy, plankton-sex-soaked pictures), but right now I am preoccupied with what color Windsock's room should be and if I am really up to eating the heels of bread in my bag. Please don't feel the need to be extra nice to me for I know in my heart of hearts exactly how much responsibility I bear for carting us off to a third-world island no one had ever heard of with spotty electricity, no hot water, and at the start of the rainy season, no less. Next time I'll listen to the part of my brain that says things like, "Hawaii, swimming pool, cabana boy."

Farewells

Beep....You have reached Yelena and Devoted Partner. We're not here to take your call right now. We are most likely underwater. Or above water. Sweating. Because the Nicaragua is hot in June. Beep.



Beep...You have reached Yelena and Devoted Partner. We are unable to take your call as it appears we have been eaten by sharks. This was, most likely, my fault. I leave all of my shoes to Charlotte. You can burn the rest of our stuff. Beep.



Beep...You have reached Yelena and Devoted Partner. We will be unable to communicate with you due to permanent beach paralysis, a little known malady we have suddenly contracted. Please send money that we may enjoy more beers. Beep.



Beep...The number you have dialled [redacted phone number] is not in service. No further information is available for [redacted phone number]. Please check the number and dial again or call your operator for assistance. This is a recorded message. Beep.

Miami: Finally About Cuban Food

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Originally uploaded by reallyct

Clay sent me an article when I told him I was going to Miami about a place called El Palacio de Jugos, a Cuban joint run by the same family for some very long amount of time like 30 years. It was the single thing I planned to do besides tan while we were in Miami. The thing is, we weren't really in Miami. We were in Sunny Isles which is an approximately 35 dollar cab ride from downtown Miami/South Beach/Little Havana/anywhere and, therefore, a 70 dollar round trip. Which seems to be a lot to enjoy a 10 dollar meal. But the hotel did offer a shuttle to South Beach (eminently missable) which we availed ourselves of and then took a 20 dollar cab to Little Havana. But something happened in the cab. The cab driver said if we only ate in one place while we were there it should be La Esquisito.

And I seem to remember someone, probably Anthony Bourdain, saying that all things being equal, take the advice of your local cab driver on where to eat. So knowing it would probably be quite some time before I was back in Miami, we scrapped the Palace of Juices and went to La Esquisito. The first, and most important thing, to discuss about the ambiance, was the presence - it being Saturday night - of live music. Now before you conjure images of hot young Cuban salsa musicians, I would like to banish those thoughts. Instead there was a heavyset 70-year old man with a synthesizer and a microphone that was turned up way too high for a 500 square foot room. And he sang off-key. Think Murph and the Magictones from Blues Brothers, but with only one person. If it had been ever so slightly less noisy, it would have been fantastic in the way tacky things sometimes are. Fortunately, it was the low point of the meal.

As the lead-off picture I think ably demonstrates, the people of Cuba are compelled to dance all night every night to fast-paced music. This is because their food is, health-wise, DISGUSTING. The appetizer plate is composed of fried pork chunks (the yummiest), fried and breaded ham and potato croquettes (pretty damn yummy), a tamale (yummy), and some thinly sliced and fried plantains (addictively yummy). The plate you see was an appetizer destined for one person.

Then our main course was brought out and it was a mountain of food. Thank god there had been some sort of language barrier because I think we had intended to order two of these (we each wanted the same thing) but we only got one, which is good because I'm pretty sure the weight of the beans alone was in the 1.5 lbs. range. This was the braised Cuban pork and while devoted partner liked the fried pork chunks better, I could see the benefit of both dishes. This one was richer and ropier and more heavily spiced. With the garlic yucca and beans, it made one hell of a bite. (And here I would like to discuss the abject lack of vegetables available. Rice and beans and yucca are apparently what pass as vegetables. I need to do more salsa dancing, clearly.)

But as you know, I find it difficult, even when full, to refuse dessert. And devoted partner is with me on this, especially when dessert includes the words "arroz con leche." I opted for what looked like the Cuban donut or churro. It arrived, as you see, in a BATH OF SUGAR. Yes. Fried dough in a sugar soup. I'd like to tell you it was too much, too sweat, too eminently repulsive to make it down my maw. I would like to be able to tell you that the bite you see missing in this photo was the only bite taken. That would be lying to you and I do not like lying to you. We had just enough time to catch a cab back to South Beach where the shuttle waited to take us back to our hotel. I know that had I done any research whatsoever before we left, we might have gotten a better map of places to visit, but I was really pleased that we just left it to chance and a chatty cab driver because now we have one of those authentic travel moments - the kind we like to bore our friends with over dinner.

Miami (not really): Dinosaur Sex

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Originally uploaded by reallyct

Remember recently when I mentioned that devoted partner and I have a vehicular compulsion that necessitates our jumping in a car and driving places just cause? Our recent trip to Miami was no exception. It's true that I had taken perhaps a trifle more sun than I should have, but it's also a bit of hard work to sit slothfully under the sun doing nothing save reading, occasionally sipping from a pina colada, and cooling off in the pool or ocean from time to time. A day of it is terrific. Two days can also be good. But a ceaseless stream of doing nothing can get old. Since we're throwing ourselves in the water for a good solid week later in June, we decided to forgo a bit of Miamian diving in favor of a needless toodle (toodle=touring) to the Everglades.

We even splurged and rented the Mustang convertible.

We started the day heading west towards Naples and a lovely area run by the Audubon Society known as Corkscrew Swamp. Sounds charming, no? For those fearful of malaria, the Corkscrew Swamp folks have constructed a 2 mile boardwalk through their patch of the Everglades - this is also good for families and persons of limited mobility. While the adventurer in you or me might scoff, considering how putridly hot interior Florida is, having the route mapped out for you ahead of time with no possibility of becoming lost, isn't all that awful.

I was the expert animal tracker (to see the whole (unfinished) set, click here), discovering icky bugs, raccoons and the first alligator of the day. Feeling as though we had accomplished our main task, finding an alligator, we took the long way home, stopping for late lunch at a fish place (bad idea - out of season + flavorless + deep-fried = bland and bad for you), before heading back east.

And then we stopped for Bob. We were driving along an unremarkable and very straight road when we passed two people standing on the side of the road not hitchhiking. They were looking at something. We drove about 200 yards before turning the car around and going back towards the people who we had decided had spotted alligator. This was a fortuitous choice because we then spent the next half hour or so harassing poor Bob (the name we have the alligator) as he tried to swim and ignore fish and just get on with his afternoon. There were also some massive, and massivly attractive-hued, grasshoppers which are in the full (unfinished) set of photos.

Now that we knew what to look for - other not-stranded motorists on the side of the road - we drove the boringest road with more purpose. And this is how we discovered what we discovered. Alligators. Doing it. Yes, for my first non-local outing with the new camera, I was privileged enough to be confronted by some of the worst light, the darkest subject matter, and lizard humping. Do not be confused by the seeming innocence of these shots. These alligators effed one another. Underwater for the money shot and away from the MANY prying eyes, but you knew what they were up to. Then they went at it a second time. As we were walking away a charming blond girl of 3 or 4 came scampering up yelling, "daddy, daddy, alligators!" She turned to me and said, "I think it's a boy and a girl." I told her I thought they were married. "Daddy daddy the alligators are married!" "How do you know, honey?" I told the father it was that the alligators were VERY FRIENDLY. How's that for some serious Discovery Channel shit?

Tomorrow: la comida de Cuba.

Benvenido, Sloth

Once upon a time I would have thought you were out of your mind if you had suggested to me that good times can be had whilst doing nothing. A vacation was touring cathedrals of Spain, castles of Germany, the Great Wall. Anything less was sort of a waste.

Devoted partner saw things differently. On our grand tour of Europe he continually beseeched me (besought me?) to find us a scrap of sand, if only for a day or two, to break up the monotony of Giottos and portculli. Turns out he was right. Beaching becomes me. I don't know why it took me so long to realize. After all, I can recall sunbathing ad nauseam at summer camp (with baby oil) and enjoying that. I just always though beach vacations were a cop out. Until I took one.

Now I have difficulty summoning up the energy for a museum or a walking tour of anything other than the pool. Well, not really, but let's just say I now appreciate the value of a stack of books, a cold beverage, and sweet sweet ultraviolet.

Which is why I invited myself on devoted partner's business conference in Miami over the next two days. I assured him I would be plenty happy alone, with my books, and my drinks, by the pool while he did whatever it is people do at conferences (I hear murmurings of powerpoint). This useless blathering is my way of excusing my sunny absence for the next few days. True, we'll have the computer and, conceivably I could write something, but I make no promises.

Now I am just hoping that the UPS man, armed with Life After Yes arrives before my cab to the airport.

Ciao.

Rally

Best friend is fleeing the country. By choice, not dictat, but the result is the same. I will be best friendless for at least a year. His self-imposed exile with best fiance will commence in Mongolia and, as we discussed this, I said that, should devoted partner and I win the lottery, we would do the Mongol Rally and meet up with them. Prompting, of course the question: what is the Mongol Rally? The short answer is the Mongol Rally is awesome. The longer answer involves perhaps fighting with Uzbek rebels and running out of petrol (this is a Euro thing) somewhere in a desolate landscape and resorting to yak hunting. The longer answer is also awesome.

I don't know where it started though I know I can blame Tim Cahill's Road Fever for much of it (Tierra del Fuego to Prudhoe Bay - sadly the lame-os at Guinness Records no longer allow you to break these sorts of records citing "safety concerns" - lames). Then, as anyone who has ever spoken to us knows, we spent the summer after graduation driving. A lot.

But best friend asked why something like this, 3-6 weeks of driving, would appeal to us. After all, there wouldn't be much time for sightseeing (I disagree; I think we could drive fast enough during the driving parts to leave ample time for local color), it isn't the most conventional of trips, and there is the danger part. I brought this up with devoted partner who, while not setting his sights on the Mongol Rally anytime soon, would certainly join up were having a job not mandatory, and he somewhat coldly analyzed our motivations thusly:

We're relaxed when we drive.

Devoted partner doesn't mind being behind the wheel while I ooh and ahh at scenery and goats who climb trees, and now that I actually know how to drive, devoted partner can feel free to snooze in the passenger seat while I drive (and ooh and ahh at goats). We have twice gone (by google's count) 368 kilometers out of our way simply to enjoy the highway between Nice and Italy. We like being in the car together. I can't remember a single in-car fight about getting lost or almost getting killed (we've both been guilty once). While trying to find a good photo to describe why we like that stretch of highway so much, I found these guys and seriously considered learning how to ride a bike in the hope we could go with them next time.

Perhaps we're just especially canine, leaning our heads out the windows as feeling the force of the wind as we waggle our tongues, but even the thought of getting to the Mongol Rally one of these days (did you know the Paris-Dakar rally is no longer run from Paris to Dakar? this upsets me greatly as that was on the bucket list and I liked our chances) makes me happy. If any of you can think of a way to make it revenue neutral, I'd like to hear about it.

Bienvenido A Miami

My knowledge of Miami, our seventh largest population center, is, well, specific. From birth through age 14, Miami was the place grandma and grandpa, and then just grandma, lived. In a condo full of other old, tan, Jewish people. Very tan. Very Jewish. Like the place where Woody Allen characters go when they're too old to be in the movies. Muumuus, melanoma, and meshuggah. My brother and I swam and learned to play shuffleboard. We went to the beach. We ate dinner at the red sauce Italian joint that was not shy about its garlic use. We stopped at the bakery for prune danish, black and white cookies, and napoleons first thing after deplaning (I swear, my eating disorder...totally nurture and not nature). True, my last visit to Miami took place when NKOTB was an acronym that meant something, but we never did anything while in Miami that could remotely be considered hip. And I swear, I never encountered anyone even remotely Cuban.

Miami stayed perpetually off the radar because once I realized it wasn't populated solely by well-mined stereotypes of one sort, I discovered that it was a melting pot of stereotypes, from Scarface to Gianni Versace. And I'm all about the authenticity. Sure, it popped up now and again; we have certainly flown through Fort Lauderdale enough on our way to island-type places (Fort Lauderdale is the least efficient airport for international connections I have ever encountered; when I am Prime Ruler, I will be sending all FLL employees for re-education at the Zurich airport). And then there was that season of Top Chef where the guy from Miami certainly seemed to be preparing delicious looking food that he assured us was emblematic of Miami cuisine. And I guess it always is available for a quick weekend in the sun, but I was just opposed. Vehemently.

That is until someone else is picking up the hotel bill. Devoted partner has a 2-day conference in May and, seeing how it won't cost the company a penny more if I sleep in his room, I ponied up the plane ticket for the opportunity to lie by a pool and have people bring me boozy pink drinks at 10am. And since the conference is on a Wednesday and a Thursday, it made little sense to not spend the weekend. After all, we were already there. And I hear they have nice weather. And, one hopes, good fish tacos. I have done some preliminary research and, should we be so inclined, we could do a dive or two, but I have the strangest feeling that devoted partner, after two straight months of working weekends, will enjoy a couple days sitting by the pool while people bring him boozy pink drinks at 10am.

Yet I crave more. The kind of more that, perhaps, any of you who has been to Miami since NKOTB had meaning, could provide. Clay, recently reviewed a restaurant he went to while laid over in Miami, and now I hunger (ick, pun) for additional ideas. So if you know anything about Miami worthy of repeating, speak up. And if you know where the best fish tacos live and don't share that information, I shall find you and come to your house.

P.S. Sorry for yesterday's absence, we were internet-deprived at the office.