Cheers, August

I ended August with an adventure that I had not planned on: a backpacking trip with Jenn and a group of wonderfully badass women. It was just one night in Jefferson Park here in Oregon. And although it sounds quite simple – hike in 5.5 miles, pitch tent, sleep on ground, then hike out 5.5 miles – I became profoundly anxious after I agreed to go.

This was my first backpacking trip and I didn’t know if I could hike with a 28 pound pack on my back. I was intimidated by the task and made it worse with self-criticism because I didn’t want to hold up the group or make some unknown backpacking blunder.

I worked myself up in my mind to the point of making myself pretty sick a few days before. So, of course, I added that to my reasons why I couldn’t do it. Then I remembered myself. I remembered that I am highly trained at this point in my personal development and I have a CHOICE. I can walk around telling a false story of: “I have anxiety and I can’t do this.” Or, if I like making up stories so much, why don’t I say, “I am strong and brave. This is the adventure I have been waiting for.”

As soon as I changed the story in my brain, the knots in my stomach started to subside and I went to the store to purchase some Gas-X to make sure I wouldn’t be facing problems on the trail. I packed my supplies and made some food then got a few hours of sleep before the 5 a.m. alarm.

Jenn and I set out that morning with our friend Kristina for the trailhead about 2 hours away. We would hike in and meet our other friends who had gone in the night before to scout a campsite. As you may know, the wilderness has seen a major uptick in visitors as our cities have become less desirable places to hangout and campsite accommodations are slim pickings. (All of my friends in the Adirondacks know the perils of city folk flocking to the mountains.)

After I steadied my nerves and my legs (I nearly tipped over when I put my backpack on). We set off on our trek. Immediately, the Universe sent me a sign that all was to be well: We passed a dog on the trail who was a German Shepherd named Rufus. When I was little, we had a German Shepherd named Rufus, so this was all the comfort I needed to know I could do this.

Thankfully, the incline was gentle and I only needed one snack to get through the hike in. We met our group and settled in alongside a lake at the base of Seekseekqua (its Native American name) also called Mount Jefferson.

We took a very brisk dip into the lake. For me, I just splashed in quickly then ran out again. My friend Jess (who is from Oregon) insists that the lake was warm. I vow to take her to Florida and get her in the ocean in August so she can finally know what warm water feels like.

Then we all bundled up and ate our dinner by the lake and took about 1,000 photos of ourselves at sunset. Right here I want to pause and acknowledge that we were perhaps “annoying” to the other people around the lake enjoying the sunset. But as I said there and I will say now, “We paid good money to be here.”

And I mean that. Each of us has paid real money, blood, sweat, tears, and long hours at work to get to this point of our lives to this dream that we were realizing right before our eyes. So, I am going to laugh and take pictures and be annoying because I was not going to allow my critical inner voice or the disdainful glances of strangers (who don’t know how much I truly paid to be there) steal my joy.

At the end of January, I packed up my life in San Diego on the hope that this dream was waiting for me. This dream of being in the wilderness with people I could be myself with, with people who love the same things I do, with people who dream REAL DAMN BIG. I am living my dreams right now and I am so grateful to these women for being part of my dream. I didn’t know who you were before I got here and you have exceeded my every wish. Thank you for making this August magical.

I could end this post right here, but I want to brag about the fact that Natalia lead us out of the wilderness at a blistering speed of 1 hour and 47 minutes. I don’t think I will ever be nervous about my physical strength again.

Freedom for 2020

A lot happened from September until today and I will loop back and write about those adventures in the near future. Unrelated, I have been fighting a Florida Swamp Flu for the past week that I picked up while visiting my family for Christmas.

The delights of Florida Swamp Flu are not what I have come to discuss, though. The New Year is what I am contemplating right now. I am such a fan of the start of the year. I am ready for fresh starts and nothing feels fresher than Jan. 1.

Last year, my goals were to let go and create. And like anything that you ask the Universe for, those opportunities showed up in spades. 2019 was challenging and heartbreaking but to frame it positively, it was full of learning, growing and expanding myself beyond who I knew myself to be. I am grateful for it and proud of myself for moving through it all. Gracelessly at times, yet with courage to mess up and try again.

Freedom is the name of the game in 2020. Photo by Ranger Holly.

For 2020, I am putting my focus on one word: Freedom.

Freedom of all sorts. Financial freedom, spiritual freedom, freedom with my time, freedom to travel, freedom to authentically express myself, and much more. More freedom in all areas of my life. After last year, I am interested to see how opportunities for freedom will present themselves throughout 2020.

I am also giving myself the freedom to let love find me. I am letting go of the looking for love around every corner. I don’t just mean romantic love. I mean work that I love, friends that I love, coffee shops that I love and adventures I love. This year, they will all find me. I won’t search, struggle or try to control or grasp at people, places or things. If it doesn’t flow, I will let it go.

Another thing that I am thinking about at the start of this year, is something that my Faux Pa Tom quoted to me from Teddy Roosevelt’s “The Man in the Arena.” In full, it reads:

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

The part that Tom quoted was “his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.” I may not succeed at everything I have done or will do but I have felt the distinct joy of victory and I am determined to have that feeling as much as possible.

Victory and freedom feel quite similar to me. Standing on top of any mountain I have ever climbed. Stepping on stage or to the front of a room and making people laugh. Being at the front of the crowd at the concerts of my favorite bands. These all feel like victory and freedom to me. I am looking forward to digging into these experiences and feelings throughout the year. I accept that this means I will also experience some failures. I know that these failures are temporary and do not define me and that I can keep going.

Cheers to 2020, everyone. Happiness, fun and infinite adventure are available to us all, we just need to get in that arena.

Bury me in sequins

It took awhile for these words to come together. I started writing the story of Maureen nearly a year ago. I purchased this shirt on a whim. I had no idea it would be kicking off 12 months of my life where I would be destroying all the subconscious mental and emotional things that were not working for me. A year ago, I would not have thought there was much to work through. Therein lies the beauty of discovery and experimentation. 

I look back on myself a year ago and think of how sweet and naive I was on this day. The day that I met who I call Maureen, an alter-ego in an article of clothing. What a twisted, glorious ride it has been. Every superhero has an origin story, this is hers.

365 days ago

On Saturday, Sept. 8, I arrived in Portland for a weekend with Jenn. We went to breakfast at Beeswing, then thrift shopping at Artifact on Division. 

I’ve written about my dear friend, Jenn, before. For two gals who have spent most of their relationship living thousands of miles apart, we have had numerous memorable adventures together.

There is an indescribable magic in being with this woman. We’ve gone from the East Coast to the West Coast and at this time last year, she had been joking about that meme that says, “We’ve been friends so long, I am not sure who the bad influence is.” That’s us now.

Inside Artifact, the first item that I put my hand on was a vintage top made completely of large black sequins and delicate beadwork. I grabbed it off the rack and just to be funny, I held it up and asked Jenn, “Should I get this?”

“Yes!” she said.

“Ok, but where would I wear it?”

“You can wear it out tonight,” Jenn said.

And she was just so confident about her statement that I decided to try it on. Thinking it would not fit at all.

I went to the dressing room and of course it fit perfectly. As if Oleg Cassini had stitched it for me himself. I was still not convinced that I should buy this $24 sequined top. So I did what I always do when I am undecided about a clothing item: I walk around the store with it to get acquainted and try to imagine my life if I purchase it. Maybe it’s not that serious but I try not to purchase things I’m not going to wear and I had brought a very tiny suitcase to Portland.

In the dressing room at Artifact the day we met.

As I perused the store, I found a couple other items and tried them on and the top again. I took a few dressing room selfies, sent one to my friends in San Diego and asked them if I should buy the top. This is how purchase decisions are made in modern times. 

A few affirmative text messages later, I strolled up to the register at the front of the store to purchase the shirt. 

“Oh, this is interesting. Where are you going to wear this?” the cashier asked me.

Even in PORTLAND — where the motto is “Keep Portland Weird” — the cashier was questioning my wardrobe choice. I didn’t think someone in Portland would think anything of this.

Feigning confidence I replied, “Anywhere! Everywhere! Like Dolly Parton, I am going to be working it 9 to 5.” (Truer words were never spoken, because I wear this top as often as possible.)

Jenn and I left the store and as we walked down Division, I was convinced I had just wasted $24 of my hard-earned dollars on this item.

That night we had plans to go out with our friend Sarah to take in all that the Portland nightlife had to offer us.

Our evening started around 7 p.m. with dinner at Jenn’s house. I was sitting at the kitchen table decked out in my sequins and regaling my married counterparts with my recent ill-fated dating experiences. 

“Let’s see what kind of men I can fetch in this shirt,” I said, feeling rather plucky.

Then in one of my favorite moments of this evening, Sarah asked, “What time will we get back? Like do you think we will be home before 2 a.m.?” 

Jenn and I exchanged a glance that said, “No way will we be home before 2 a.m.” I don’t remember exactly what we responded, but it amounted to a bunch of vague mumbling that Sarah generously accepted.

We set out in an Uber and I made stupid jokes from the backseat for 20 minutes as I often do. The three of us decided that the woman who had owned the sequined shirt before me was a bawdy dame named Maureen who had retired to Miami. She took no prisoners and had no qualms at the end of her life. Maureen had done it right and left it all on the cutting room floor. That woman left a legacy that I was now wearing.

Our first stop on this tour was a wine bar where we did have a great bottle of wine, but it was so subdued, I thought it must be too early for the denizens of Portland to be out. I was dressed to meet people and so I cast my vote to move along. 

We did, and we went to Revolution Hall. Very cute, very trendy and yet again… subdued. Which is my polite way of saying that there were like five people in flannel shirts there and the bartender who I do not recall as being overly chatty. Or chatty at all.

We decided to mosey along again. This time to Roadside Attraction. The eclectic portal to another dimension that is disguised as a Florida yard sale inside a Chinese restaurant on a pirate ship.

Remember, I was dressed to fetch men, and here we were at yet another establishment with nary a person in sight. I set about entertaining myself with Jenn by queuing up several Johnny Cash songs on the jukebox.

However, the jukebox was free and some jackass had clogged it with about a million Black Sabbath songs. Don’t get me wrong, Ozzy Osbourne has a time and a place, but to me the time was not 12 a.m. on Saturday night while I was wearing sequins. It just wasn’t.

I was annoyed by the lack of tomfoolery I was looking for and was about to convince everyone to give up. In fact, I have a text message that I sent to Jenn around this time that says, “Let’s get out of here.” I don’t know where I sent it to her from, maybe the bathroom? But just as I had sat myself back down at the bar cursing this city devoid of men to fetch, “Folsom Prison Blues” finally came over the speakers.

I turned to Jenn with glee and decided we could at least stay a little longer. The next moment, I saw someone leaning over the jukebox and either Maureen or I yelled, “Don’t touch the jukebox!” Super classy.

The man looking at the jukebox claimed he merely wanted to look at the CD that was playing because he had never heard the Johnny Cash version of the song before. I was disgusted by this. But in this alternate universe in the middle of Portland, I befriended this person and convinced him to hop on our proverbial Midnight Express as we took off for not one, but two more bars. None of which had people in them. 

In a way, I did temporarily fetch a man with those sequins, kind of like a fishing lure. And after laughing and rollicking our way around the city, we finally landed back at Jenn’s house around 3:30 a.m. (Sorry, Sarah.) Concluding the first of many chapters with Maureen.

If you’re a keen observer, you will know that I wore this sequined shirt when I did the Moth this summer!

PDX: A love story

Last weekend, I was in Portland with my best friend from college, Jenn (she’s an amazing independent book editor), and we had the best time, as we always do in every city we go to.

Our love affair with Portland began in July 2014, when my friend and her husband were visiting the city to see if they wanted to move there. I joined them and we got an adorable Airbnb in Hawthorne District. Hawthorne remains one of our favorite neighborhoods. We always hit the thrift stores as soon as I get in.

Since I have been home in San Diego, I have been wondering if I would I love Portland so much if it weren’t for Jenn? I have never been there without her and as I started to think about it, I realized some of my favorite cities are the ones I have experienced with her: Ft. Lauderdale, Key West, San Francisco, San Diego, Portland.

Jenn is that friend who is always up for adventure. She’s always up for seeing where the night goes and is ready to adjust the sails when we need to. She’s a fantastic trip planner and navigator. She’s the one who takes ideas and makes them better.

We’ve been friends since we sat next to each other in news writing at University of Central Florida and I’m pretty sure we’re going to be doing the Golden Girls thing in Miami later on in life.  

Our weekend went a little something like this:

Saturday

• We had breakfast on Hawthorne at The Hazel Room. Great food and all the alt-milks your heart desires.

• We always go thrifting at Crossroads. I’ve scored something amazing every time we’ve gone in this store.

• We stopped into the boutique Sloan to look but not buy.

• Then we got manicures at a place I will not name because I do not recommend.

• We had pre-concert dinner and drinks at Tope. This place is a modern minimalist’s haven. The rooftop patio is the thing that dreams are made of.

• Rainbow Kitten Surprise concert at the Roseland Theater. This venue is fantastic and the band was even better! An amazing show and the impetus for this trip with my BFF.

• Post-show drinks at the Elvis Room. It is completely unclear to me why this place is called the Elvis Room. Sorry to be dense. Kitschy and gorgeous nonetheless.

• We stood in an epic Disneyland-style line at Sizzle Pie for approximately 30 minutes. Then inhaled our slices. Worth the wait and the people watching was entertaining. We saw a Prince Harry lookalike!

Sunday

• Lunch with my friend, former San Diegan and amazing artist Anisa at Produce Row. Her art is popping up all over Portland, so keep your eyes peeled!

• When Jenn and I are together, ice cream is a must. We hit up Salt & Straw and had some of their summer Camping Series flavors.

• We stopped into Artifact to peruse vintage finds. This store provided me one of my favorite articles of clothing back in September. It’s a vintage black sequin shirt. Once owned by a woman named Maureen (I made up that last part, but it seems accurate).

• Casual Sunday Beer ™ at Assembly Brewing. My favorite summer ritual is getting a Casual Sunday Beer (CSB) with friends. A CSB is an afternoon drink on a patio where you genuflect in the sun and appreciate how amazing life is. We also got some of their Detroit-style pizza. BONUS - a nice (read: questionable) man in a dirty tank top performed a poem for us. Beautiful.

• We got a drink at Scotch Lodge before we went to see Rainbow Kitten Surprise for their second show.

• I had a late-night sushi craving after the show, so we hit up Saucebox. We didn’t get any sushi because it was too late but we got some food to keep us going.

• Then we went to Roadside Attraction. This place is one of the weirdest dive bars I have ever been in. The decor is ripped from an old Chinese restaurant, a pirate ship and a flea market in Florida. It’s surreal and amazing and I’m pretty certain it is a portal to another dimension.

The flowers along the trail were so beautiful! Photo by Ranger Holly.

Monday

Jenn’s dog Piper was leading us on the trail. She’s the cutest and best leader of the pack. Photo by Ranger Holly.

• When in Portland, one must go hiking. We hit up Multnomah Falls, which though touristy and popular is a hike that requires proper footwear. Just, FYI, don’t be one of those people in flip-flops huffing and puffing up a steep incline.

• After the hike we had lunch and more ice cream at Sugar Pine Drive-in. So good!

• Then, this was the biggest thing for me -- we went to The Moth at The Secret Society. The Moth is a live storytelling event and in December I made up my mind that this year I would get onstage and tell a story at The Moth. AND I DID IT! I was the sixth person called to the stage and it was exhilarating and fun and I loved making a room of about 200 people laugh. I’m going to do a full post about this because it’s that important to me.

• After The Moth, our crew went to Victoria Bar. Another of Portland’s modern minimalist bar/restaurants. I got come celebratory mac and cheese.

Tuesday

This was our last morning together and we had breakfast at Bella’s Italian Bakery and then Jenn dropped me off at the airport.

It took me a full four days to finally unpack and put my luggage away. That’s actually kind of quick by my standards. At any rate, I had a blast in Portland as always and writing this up shows me why I have been so tired this week. Jenn and I always pack it in when we’re adventuring together!

Oh, Paris!

Bonjour! C’est moi! The most latent writer in the land. In July, (yes, you read that correctly… JULY) I said that I would be back with my impressions of Paris. Here I am ready to make good on that promise. Look, I never said how long it would take me to return… just that I would (eventually).

My loves, the last we spoke I was about to take the train out of Avignon into Paris. I was excited for this spell of train travel to be with my companions Dan and Jane. I truly enjoy traveling alone, but there is nothing quite like the fun of exchanging glances and dissolving into laughter from unspoken jokes.

When we arrived in Paris, the train station was overwhelming because there were so many people and part of me is still a tiny bashful child and my initial reaction was to shrink back. However, I had my very well-traveled companions with me and I absorbed all of the knowledge that I could for my future adventures.

We took the metro to Gare du Nord in Montmartre where we would be in staying in the cutest Parisian apartment. Our apartment was on the top floor above a yarn shop and next to the Sacré-Cœur, which we had a beautiful view of from our bathroom window.

Montmartre

There are a couple of things to know about this beautiful neighborhood in the 18th arrondissement of Paris. First, in my mind it is famous for being a large part of the French film Amélie. Second, it is where many artists of the late 19th Century and early 20th Century came to chill and work, but mostly chill. You may know them: Amedeo Modigliani, Claude Monet, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Edgar Degas, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Suzanne Valadon, Piet Mondrian, Pablo Picasso, Camille Pissarro, and Vincent van Gogh.

Jane definitely schooled me on the artist knowledge. Jane is an amazing artist in her own right, you can see more of her work on her website and on Instagram. She’s also a fabulous person and friend.

We didn’t have much time that first evening in Paris, but we got to work straight away on my list of cliché American things to see. Hopping on the metro we zipped over to the Arc de Triomphe, then to the Eiffel Tower and we hoofed it around a bit until we settled on a delightfully touristy restaurant for dinner.

Side note: When I travel, I like to experience as many slices of life as possible. For the most part I am not a touristy person. However, as a student I read about these places in history class and in literature and I can’t stand the idea of not glimpsing them at least once. Even if it means being there with the unwashed masses of tourists who are wearing running shoes and buying tchotchkes. I’m not trying to be offensive or a snob (I may be both those things), but that is not usually my travel style.

The next day, Dan and Jane humored me with my Cliche Tourist Hit Parade as we set out for Père Lachaise Cemetery. Yes, to see Jim Morrison’s faux grave. I know his grave was moved years ago due to excessive visitors with a penchant for vandalism, but the social anthropologist in me HAD to see this relic. We saw it and it was great (?) I suppose you could say. I wouldn’t have skipped seeing it, but the true fun came along a little later.

As luck would have it, we came upon delightful French graveyard ghost who was more than willing to show everyone around. I knew that he was working for tips as he ushered people off to Oscar Wilde’s resting place. But I couldn’t resist following him around as he shouted at me with the exuberance of all the ghosts of that beautiful graveyard.

We attempted to see Notre Dame but it was an absolute mob scene as it was the day before Easter. There was mass being held in the courtyard and a line to get into the church about a million miles long.

No matter, we still stopped into Shakespeare’s books, ate some crepes, saw all the judges on strike during their lunch hour and wandered through the flower market before heading back to explore Montmartre.

We had coffee at the cafe that Amélie worked at and Dan and I got the stink eye for sampling too many free chocolates in the chocolate shop. I mean, we purchased a substantial amount of chocolate, didn’t that entitle us to as many samples as we pleased? Apparently not, because the shopkeeper put them away until we left the store.

We had a little quiet dinner in our perfect Parisian apartment and I got ready to leave in the morning.

Dan and Jane walked me to the metro station bright and early and I set about making my way back home to San Diego!

Mon Dieu! Finally, I have finished writing about France. At least I got it all done before a year had passed me by.

In Père Lachaise Cemetery with the friendliest ghost. Photo by Jane Mitchell.