Carbohydrates

An airport that made me appreciate the compulsively organized, one flight, two trains and a curvy car ride later we arrived in Ravello.  Ravello is a small town perched on top of a coastal mountain range in the Amalfi Coast of Italy.  Ravello has amazing views but due to the amount of time and nausea it takes to get down from Ravello to the other towns along the coast, most people go up for a day and stay in Positano or Amalfi leaving the rest of us perched dwellers with peace and quiet.  I say, “us” like I’m a local, furious at the blimey tourists for ruining my vibes because this is actually how I feel when I travel - all the other tourists are mere peasants infringing on my experience of a new place, but we can discuss my narcissism later.

Italy, as you can assume was full of lemoncillo, red wine and carbohydrates. I do not discriminate against carbs, obviously since I’m learning how to make sourdough bread, but this was carbs to a whole new level.  Trever and I had food coma every night, it’s like we were drunk off carbs and couldn’t keep our eyes open while we stumbled down 500 cobblestone steps and crash landed in our beds.  Our bed could have been compared to a large brick in its comfort, and the pillows were so dense they probably weighed 12 pounds and were devoid of any real cushion, but when you’re carb drunk it doesn’t really matter.  Stuck in the cycle of addiction as we were, we awoke hangover free and ready for a pastry with our coffee.   This is apparently all I have to say about Italy - carbohydrates. 

Click through photos for the story in pictures. 

Love at First Sight

If you follow me on instagram you know very well that I was just on vacation because I was parading it around on social media like it was going out of style.  I don’t feel bad about it. 

I have three older sisters and as a family we have this reputation for being dramatic and exaggerating. This reputation has been perpetuated and mostly created by my dear husband Trever and my sisters doting husbands. Any exaggeration or drama in our nieces and nephews is quickly attributed to the Watkins side. Watkins, that’s my maiden name, simple, easy to spell, easy to pronounce and sounds nothing like horny. When Trever first told me his last name when I met him, I remember very clearly repeating it with confusion and a question mark and so to clarify he said, “yes, it’s like horny without the r.” That’s when I knew.

So anyways, I want you to know I am not exaggerating right now -  Santorini was astonishing. I did not expect to love it so much. The first night we arrived and I was chasing after a Grecian speed walker extraordinaire who was guiding us to our apartment, I started crying because I was so happy to be there. Tears were slightly dramatic and likely due to sleep deprivation, but it’s actually that amazing! We live in California so cliffs above the ocean, although stunning, are not an unseen sight for us. But in Santorini the water is bluer, and the cliffs are more dramatic, and the white and blue buildings lining the coast are like nothing else in the world, and the small stares that spaghetti down the cliff and lead to tiny cafes and shops could charm the greatest cynic, and their baklava is better, and so are their tomatoes.  Then just to blow our minds, in the evening the village looks likes it has been draped in twinkle lights and it obsessed me.  It was love at first sight.  Just like when Trever said to me, “horny without the r”. 

Here are the things one MUST do in Oia, which is the little village we stayed in on Santorini. 

There are stairs at the west end of Oia that lead down to Ammoudi Bay.  There are over 200 of them and they are three steps uphill per stare so it’s really like 600 on the way back up. You may feel like dying, you may want to die, but you will not die.   Once you pass the donkeys and reach the water turn left and walk through the patio of Ammoudi Fish Tavern and continue on the trail until you find a flat rock space and stairs into the water.  You can either jump in there with all the other people, or if you keep walking and climb over the rock until you can once again see Oia above you, there is a large flat rock that juts out perfect for two people to set up camp with total privacy and views of Aegean heaven. From this rock you can jump in and swim in the warm and clear water and climb up some rocks to jump off a cliff.  I jumped off three times and one time almost back-flopped. Trever swam to it with his camera in a zip lock bag above his head and used his free arm to swim against the current to the cliff so he could take pictures, something that would have undoubtedly led to my death had I tried. I’m not afraid of heights, I’m not afraid of swimming, but my doggy paddle will likely kill me one day.

After swimming go back to the restaurant you walked through and get a table on the waters edge.  Thanks to less suing in Europe and thus fewer regulations, the table legs are less than an inch from the waters edge with no railing. It’s like, if you fall in you’re dumb and deserve it, but if you would like to eat ON the water you’re welcome to but try not to knock your wine over because it will fall in the sea. From the boats to the cooler to the grill to our table went a whole fish and squid and it was one of my favorite meals of my life.

Below is a photo montage of the walk to the bay.  It's like you were there with us (click to scroll through).   

Eat baklava anytime you see it.  Walk the length of the village.  Get cocktails at Sun Spirit Cafe. Shop for books at Atlantis books and read on their terrace. Get breakfast at Skiza Cafe. Order takeout street food with extra tatziki and watch the sunset on the west side of the village, or stay here and watch it from your patio. Eat Greek salads with every meal.  Stay up late and wake up early.  Never leave. 

Wait Your Turn

I have some thoughts on travel so that as a human race we will survive our inevitable future of over-population.  I believe that airports specifically reveal our complete incapacity to evolve into an organized sensible species.  This hypothesis is revealed in the following erroneous travel tendencies:

First, the baggage claim and the chaos that ensues.  Why in the name of our holy mother mary do we need to cram up against the turn table until our knees are smashing into the metal? What does this accomplish? Are we afraid that we won’t have time to take the 6 steps forward necessary to grab our bags when we see it coming around the bend at a snails pace?  Are we nervous that we might not see it unless we are capable of laying on the belt in a moments notice? Are we concerned someone might steal our bags unless we hover our presence over the place of our bags future exit? Do we think our bags will come more quickly if the belt senses our anxiety and nearness?

I do not know! These things confuse me and I spend my bag-waiting moments staring with hatred at the backs of all those who just want their moment with no concern for the greater good (this bag waiting pattern, I believe, runs deep into greater themes of human depravity). My solution is as follows: step back. That is my entire solution.  Resist the urge to try and get ahead because you can’t, your bag will come when it comes.  In this utopian society of my making, we would all be able to see more clearly when our bags come and access it with ease rather than shoving belt hoverers out of the way.

Second, in a place that is generally used for a walkway, walk.  If you feel the need for a quick chat with your friends, or a scan at your map to find which way to turn, an over the shoulder glance and then a quick move to the edge of the walkway will save us all from chaos and destruction.  On this note, it should be said that if you are noticing that your pace is quite slower than the speed of traffic, do your best not to spread out across the entire span of the walkway so as to force all those behind you to forever remain behind you.  

Third, lines. In the states we really like stanchions and ropes to control lines, we need these because our narcissistic tendencies urge us to try and get ahead. This has trained Americans to stand in orderly lines and so I sometimes forget that our nature is not linear, until I go to countries where lines are a mass of humanity standing far too close to each other.  At the beginning of our trip I rolled my eyes at the chaos and waited patiently in order, but by the end of the trip I was straight out of Lord of the Flies. I had digressed to my uncivilized tendencies as I shoved my way to the front, sweat dripping and hair in my face ready to do what it takes to get mine.  I have returned home and regained my composure and orderliness, woah. 

Fourth, boarding a plane.  I just have one thought on this, if you are in boarding group C and they are boarding group A, and you are standing anywhere less than 30 feet from the gate I will hate you and I will do my best to let you know that with my face.

Is there something wrong with me that my first topic I wrote about after returning home was my anger towards people? You may be surprised to know I'm not even a type-A person, maybe I'm the one that needs to step back and calm down. But the people are ruining my zen!!!  I just want more for us as the human race, I do believe we can be better. If I run for president that will be my slogan, "we can be better".  Or maybe something about zen. 

Paris Top Ten

I had a dream last night that I was in Paris.  It was more reminiscent of the Vegas version and less of the real thing, but it was fun to be there.  We were with a very random group of people and there were bridges everywhere, but small ones like at the Venetian in Vegas. So, never-mind I had a dream about Vegas last night, not Paris, Vegas. 

Trever and I just booked a trip back in November. To Paris not Vegas.  It got me thinking about all of my favorite things and so I thought I would share a few.

My favorite Pastry: Du Pain et Des Idees

My friend Shannen found this one and it is sterling.  It's by the Canal St. Martin and you'll probably need to order one of everything.  

My favorite Ice-cream: Berthillion

A lot of restaurants serve this ice-cream, but you can find a walk up window on the Isle St. Louis.  They change flavors every day and they're things like dark chocolate lavender, or framboise. 

My favorite Udon Noodles: Kunitoraya

It was cold and rainy so we were looking for hot soup.  This restaurant is in the 1st arrondismont and it's pretty small and crowded inside but it's the all-time best comfort food. 

My favorite Fallafel: L'as Du Fallafel

You'll know it by the line forming behind a walk up window in Le Marais and a crowd of people eating stuffed pitas like barbarians.  They close down on Friday at sundown and all day saturday for shabbat.  

My favorite place to buy wine: L'Etiquette

We used to buy wine at the local market until we discovered this wine shop on the Isle St. Louis.  They are really helpful and offer great selections of wines that are not full of sulfites. 

My favorite Petite Dejuner: Le Saint Regis 

This restaurant is on the Isle St. Louis and they have really good coffee and breakfast options.  We typically get the combo croissant, coffee & fresh orange juice, but every once in a while will switch it up for an egg dish to combat all the carbs we eat on vacation.  We used to go every day to Esmerelda just across the bridge on the Isle De La Cité because of the view, but when we brought friends they forced us to try something new which turned out to be better.  Trever and I are rut people, even in a city we hardly know. 

My favorite art shop: Au Vieux Document

You're going to think I'm crazy for recommending this but if you are interested in buying art this is a great place to go.  The art is stacked high and flat like a hoarder so you need to know a little about what you want because it's not easy to browse, instead the shop owner finds what you might be looking for and pulls it out of the stacks. You might find a real gem. 

My favorite place for wine and cheese: Le Garde Robe

This place is great for getting a plate of cheese, charcuterie, and wine.  The don't speak great english so there might be a lot of pointing involved, but it's worth it. They're open 12:30-2:30 and 6:30-11:00 and closed Sundays. 

My favorite soup for a rainy day: Les Philosophes

We stumbled across this place while we were shopping on a rainy day and under the protection of the overhang we ate soup in the drizzling rain.  Turns out it's really well rated and their butternut squash soup is of the heavens. 

My favorite Macaron: Pierre Herme

This was another Shannen find. I got a box of chocolates and she got macarons and both made me want to cry with happiness.  

Oysters and Disdain

On a street in Williamsburg that a gal from suburbia might call “seedy”, we showed up for our 10:00 reservation at an oyster bar.  We had ubered over from a rooftop bar ten blocks away and were relieved to take off our heavy coats in exchange for the warmth of a dimly lit room and the clatter of diners and their absinthe induced laughs. In a corner booth beneath an oil painting we were sat with a view of the room so perfectly tailored you might find yourself thinking you were transported to the 30’s, and that the noise of the clinking dishes and flirtatious banter around you was all that existed in the world. 

Then, we were judged, well I wasn’t…but.

We were there for my friend Annette’s birthday and this place came highly recommended.  We had looked at the menu the night before because our friends Sarah and Heather are the chicken and spaghetti types and they’ll be very upset with me for saying that.  While I had just a few nights previously been given a quick education on absinthe thanks to a bar tender in Fullerton, we were able to pick one from the menu so we didn’t look like the complete newbs that we were.  So Annette and I ordered absinthe and the chef’s choice of oysters ready to indulge in some of life’s most obscure delicacies. 

Then, our chicken spaghetti friends ordered, and thus began the judgment.  They had to ask for regular butter because the seaweed butter tasted like it was infused with essence of ocean.  They then preceded to order one absinthe to share as they weren’t big fans. The one non-fish dish at the restaurant was a big slab of pork for which they had to bring out the only steak knife in the restaurant, and like a scarlett letter it was placed on our table to be viewed and silently scoffed at throughout the evening.  The server brought the meat out with disdain and a pretentious smirk as he asked with half hearted enthusiasm, “who ordered the pork?…enjoy”. 

Annette and I were giddy with laughter over our fabulous oysters and the cloud of judgment that hung over our friends like an American in Paris.  We fell prey to the pompous environment as we slurped oysters like we were the real adventurers, the true experiencers and our friends watched with disgust over the air of our elevated joy and the gelatinous look of our dinner.

We finished our meal hysterical over our polarized experiences and walked out of the restaurant where the spell broke.  It was not 1930, we were all just tourists in New York, we'll always be Americans in Paris, sometimes we'll have to order the pity dish, and it’s really funny if you laugh about it. The moral of the story is that you should go eat oysters, and if you don't like them you should be like Sarah and Heather, who although they would never dream of eating such grotesque cuisine, would go to an oyster bar anyway and take delight in the snobbery of others. I now deserve to be taken to a steak house in Texas where vegetarian is not in their vocabulary and they throw some iceberg lettuce and ranch on a plate for their costumer who eats rabbit food…how embarrassing.  

Paris Suitcase

Here is what a California girls learns from short periods of time in winter.  First, you basically look the same every day.  The big coat and scarf are necessities to survival, and since most people don't own a closet full of coats, you just sort of have them on repeat…every day.  Same boots, maybe switch the jeans from grey to black, and the shirt is rather irrelevant.  

Second, winter is heavy, for the amount of clothing weighing down my shoulders I figure it's a few of the push-ups I need to do every day. I never do push-ups.

Third, feet matter! I never thought about my socks before, if they cover my toes it's really all I'm looking for in a pair of socks, and sometimes they don't even do that since I buy them once a decade they tend to wear out a bit before being replaced.  A friend recommended wool socks and without them I would have been a significantly sadder person for it. Also waterproof shoes are super helpful, I will educate you and tell you that they keep the rain out of your shoes which will add significantly to your quality of life because when your feet make a swooshing noise every time you take a step, you probably aren't a super happy person.  

Final pointers: get an umbrella that doesn't invert itself the moment you open it, they can be avoided by never purchasing anything ever from a store with any sort of eiffel tower paraphernalia in it, and don't buy new natural deodorant right before a trip because it may not work and it gets warm under all seven layers. 

Cheers! Let me know if you need more advice. 

Grey Wool Coat // Madewell Flannel Top // Dark Grey Ripped Jeans // Ankle Boots // Anine Bing bucket bag // Black Beanie // Wool Scarf

Paris

We were in Paris over Thanksgiving break with my brother-in-law Tyler and his girlfriend Shannen, and discovered our favorite city can be beat, by our favorite city at Christmas.  I mean there where certain points where my feet were wet, the weight of a wool coat was hurting my shoulders and every muscle hurt from being tense against the cold that I would wish through chattering teeth for the sunshine of California, but for the most part I loved every minute of it.  A cup of hot wine under twinkle lights is a cure for all winter ailments.  Trever and I had a couple of perfeclty long walks at sunset where the day was ending and the city turned on, exchanging a thousand shades of grey for the warmth of a thousand amber lights. 

The first morning I was up with my travel companion jet lag, and I headed to our usual spot for a croissant and coffee so I could read under the awning while the rain drizzled and black umbrellas passed by in the sleepy light. We spent days walking and art looking and discovered for the first time the marvelous Picasso museum.  We spent afternoons warming up and drinking organic wine in the apartment while soggy passers-by envied our view. We found some fabulous pastries by Canal St. Martin, which is a neighborhood we haven’t quite gotten our heads around, but I mumbled my way through an order that had Trever in tears over my abhorrent French-like noises resembling a toddler whining and pointing for its toy. 

We drank hot chocolate with a side of butter pastries but always walked it off until our ankles felt like they might detach from our feet if we hit another cobblestone wrong. I started walking along the flat cement edge of the riverbank, willing to risk a fall into the icy river over the risk of another rolled ankle. We wandered around Le Marais while Trever popped in and out of shops, which was all subpar to finding his mother ship St. Laurent where he struggled over a purchase only to leave empty handed and subsequently regretting his decision, which lead to another trip and still no bags. The place bores me, I’m never going to buy anything, so I wandered the streets and enjoyed the Christmas vibes.  We ate Thai food, Japanese food, roasted vegetables at home, and we skipped the yuppy French restaurants this time because they don’t understand a vegetarian and the white linen vibes are terrifying. We crowded into a jazz bar that was too hot and drank sugary cocktails while standing in the middle of a walkway.

Mostly we found peace from a chaotic year, inspiration, slow afternoons and exciting evenings, good food and wine, the joy of good friendships, I finished Gone Girl, and we remembered why we always risk missing out on something better for the same Paris, again and again Paris.

Mammoth

I got a call from my friend Kathleen last week who has a close friendship with nature and she asked if I wanted to join her on a trip up to mammoth, get out of the offices and fluorescents into the great outdoors.  I happily obliged as Trever was out of town anyways, and I convinced another friend Shannen to join.  

As all southern californians know, fall is one of our greatest flaws.  We're usually in some outrageous heat wave while the rest of the country is pulling out winter sweaters and boots. We grieve deeply over this great misfortune every year as if all the previous years of sunshine in October was no prediction of what was to come.  So we find weekends in autumn to runaway to colder temps and changing colors and gobble up as much fall as we can before returning with only our memories of the chill in the air and an instagram account that has been thrown up on by a pumpkin spice latte. 

Mammoth was all this and more.  We arrived to a cold cabin and I quickly lit a fire.  If I could make you re-read that sentence I would.  I started a fire because I know how, and it had big orange flames billowing out of the log tower I made and I deserve a gold star for that.  Kathleen made soup and roasted vegetables, healthy comfort food, and she cut the carrots long ways which was pretty so Shannen took a picture.  Whenever I eat her food I eat a ton, get full and somehow lose weight. I asked her to move in to cook all my food, she said no, but she taught me how to do basic things like make salad dressings by knowing the elements needed so I wasn't glued to a recipe like a robot. 

We hiked to rainbow falls.  Kathleen the friend of nature had on real deal hiking boots and waterproof pants and a coat.  Shannen and I were wearing cotton, fleece and nike frees like newbs.  We hiked a few miles in and took deep clean breathes while marveling at the sites, huge trees, fields of sage cream and grey shrubs dotted by black pines, dramatic rocks, snow capped peaks and finally the waterfall that is supposed to have a rainbow but didn't due to the grey cloud sky.  

Grey cloud sky is a point to be noted because it follows that there might be rain and thunder and buckets of more rain on our two mile hike back to the car. First my hooded cotton sweatshirt blocked the rain, until it just soaked it all up, just soaked up all the rain.  I would have been better off naked because then the water droplets could just fall of my skin, but instead my sweatshirt grabbed hold of every bit of water it could and then laid on my skin gaining weight with water as it clutched tightly to my body like it was saran wrap. What's worse is Shannen, because she didn't even have a hood.  She took a bag we were carrying and balanced it on her head because the rain water was pooling in her eyebrows and dripping into her eyes, when a purse hat is an upgrade you're not in a good place. I laughed inappropriately hard at her misfortune because I felt solidarity in our adventurous misery, we both said it was worth it. 

We got back to the house and thawed out with a big beautiful fire and more soup.  Round two was a hike around lake george, crystal clear and beautiful.  Of course halfway around the lake the hail started, which was an upgrade from the rain because it took longer to soak into our clothes.  At that point we were growing gills and virtually unaffected by our wet hair glued to our faces, we didn't even move it or wipe the mascara from our cheeks, we were one with nature. 

We ended by a hike around Convict Lake on our way out of town and it wasn't even real, but it was real.  The mountains were snow capped from the night before, the clouds were drifting above and settling halfway down the mountain and the trees at the back of the lake had turned bright yellow and painted the path with fall.  Someone needs to get married there, they need to walk down the elevated wood path and have thirty people standing on either side, and not tell the resort or have any chairs or flowers,  just stand there in the yellow and get married.  

The point is, it was cold, clean, quiet and autumn.  It was perfect and I give God an air fist-pump for making October and for making Mammoth.   

Grape Stomping

It was 8:30am and we were waiting in front of the gate at Demetria Estate in Los Olivos with no luck getting the gate open.  The winding highway was empty so we took a quick wander to stare at the view, slack jawed.  All the colors in the morning light were dim and dull under the fog, each layer of mountains a different shade of grey.

Someone opened the gate and we twisted through vines as they followed the hillside up and down and around.  Before we knew it we were standing in front of a conveyer belt with the wine maker and two assistants plucking stems and spiders and leaves from the Syrah berries and zoning out, we were told, “enjoy it, relax, think about life.” 

I don’t know that I thought anything really.  I mostly let my mind be pulled into a trance by the grapes bouncing down the lane, the monotony of deep purple movement. Work, break, work, sit in the sun, work, some white wine, work, discuss the dog biscuit, work, open the concrete vat and stare at the fermenting grapes and get a little high, work.

Then a freezing cold room containing stacks of wine barrels and a metal tub the size of a fiat full with the Syrah grapes we had just worked on.  Get in inside…once the difficulty of launching our bodies and whipping our legs over the edge was complete, the reward was to land in grapes up to our knees.  It felt like tiny squishy ice balls, but then they squished, and we started jumping and laughing and shivering and feeling the burst between our toes until it felt less like fruit explosions and more like liquid juice.  

Learning, making new friends, pools of fruit up to our knees, touching spiders and finding them in our hair…all for the cause of adventure. 

We tasted at Demetria, Babcock & Beckmen

Choir for Peace

I saw a male Muslim with a head covering pass by me on the street today and I subconsciously noted his backpack. I had just been reading an article on BBC where a professor had been tasked with listening and describing the cassette tapes found on the premises of the Taliban headquarters after Osama Bin Laden had fled. It sort of creeped me out, you can’t hear the cassettes but a quick scroll by a photo of his infamous face and lots of memories, videos, articles and fear flashed through my mind. 

So I’ll blame my recent reading of this article and not racism for my judgment of this backpack wearing man and my visions of suicide bombers as I watched him walk in the building and wondered what he might do. It's a whole other level to note that exploding the Quik Mart in Orange California most likely isn't a high priority target, but I don't know, it's where my mind was. Then I thought about my thought, it was prejudice, but it happened and even though the thought might be normal, it’s not ok, it's a blanket bias and it does nothing in the fight for peace.

When I was in Jerusalem we had the privilege of meeting with the teaching Imam at Al-Aqsa Mosque, which is located next to the dome of the rock and is the third holiest site in Islam.  He was gracious enough to speak with us and take all of our questions. He had just returned from a trip to Belgium with his wife and he mentioned the eyes that he felt followed him down the street as he passed by.  It was as if the people were expecting him to detonate a bomb under his shirt, and he was just trying to enjoy a vacation with his wife.  It was a little jolting to hear him talk about the prejudice and assumptions that I myself unknowingly held and the way it felt to be on the other side of them.  This was right during the time of the Kosher Market attack in France in January so everything was very fresh and tense and I’m sure being a traditionally dressed Muslim in Europe was uncomfortable.

In the telling of the Arabic perspective of the history of the Holy Land he mentioned the crusaders in Europe.  He made a point to pause and say that these crusaders were not really Christians, they were doing violence to gain power in the name of a religion.  In that moment he had a perfect opportunity to take a shot at Christianity and say, “See! You were violent too, the name of your religion and your God was used to slaughter thousands of people, don’t forget you have blood on your hands too”, but instead, he side-stepped that opportunity and saw our faith beyond our past and gave a dignity to our history and to our people that we’ve never given to him. He said to kill one man is to kill them all, and that they do not condone violence, just as the crusaders were not Christians so these extremists are not Muslims (Obama and I know this is a sticky comparison, but the only point I'm making is that we both have violence connected to and done in the name of our religion).

The Islamic State is terrifying and that’s real and fear is a normal and appropriate response to their actions, but extremisms is the threat not Islam, so is there a way to respond with kindness and grace to our peaceful Muslim neighbors? I'm talking to myself here because even though I had this peaceful interaction with a gracious man of faith, I still saw a man with a head covering and noticed his backpack.  Maybe I can’t immediatley fix the knee jerk response, but I can work on remembering that the loudest is not the voice of them all.   

Not everyone has the opportunity to directly hear a peaceful voice of a Muslim but I would encourage you to do so.  Because in my interaction with a man of faith who gave his Christian brothers and sisters a chance to drop our stained history and claim the peace that together we aim for, he reminded me to see the faces among the crowd.  So, maybe we can extend the same grace to him that he extended to us and release him from the baggage of a small but terrifying section of his religious community and join him in the quiet but growing choir for peace.

Bats and Rats and the Power of Imagination

I went to the farm with some divas that need good coffee and don’t own hiking shoes.  They know I call them divas because I tell them to their faces, I tell them they’re drama. But I love them because they join me on adventures and are up for trying new things even though it might be a little rough. 

Well not that rough.  We decided to stay on the farm but instead of setting up a tent and rolling out a sleeping bag like most outdoorsy people might, we paid to have someone else do it for us and place beds with blankets and sheets inside, cover the floor with multi colored rugs and set up an outdoor table with pillows to sit on.  It was all very glamorous out there in nature, until…we saw the gap. There was a 4-inch gap between the bottom of the tent wall and the wood planked entrance (yes it had rolled out wood planks like a porch, stop it). The gap was just the right size for, I don’t know, SNAKES or RATS! As we began to ponder all the potential critters that might join us in the evening we began to squeal like little girls and lift up our feet onto our six-inch elevated beds where we would obviously be out of reach of the potential rattler. Nature suddenly went from charming and adventurous to terrifying and unknown and sure to take our lives by the end of the night.

I tried my best to be the strong one who could handle wild life, so I kept my mouth shut in an effort to deescalate the rapidly increasing emotional mania. I was keeping it cool.

Then we went to bed.  I lay there recollecting a snake story I once heard about the little reptile finding its way into someone’s bed and coiling up in between his legs.  I hate the person who told me that story; I will always have to live with its taunting potential.  I laid there listening for a rattler noise ready at any moment for it to raise its diamond shaped head up from next to my bed and hiss at me before it bites me in the face. I’ll probably need face reconstruction surgery if I survive, I probably won’t even look the same. My poor face, I’m so sad to have to have it ruined, good thing I live in Orange County they have lots of good plastic surgeons there.  We don’t have very good cell service, might be hard to get the ambulance out here. 

Then the tent rustles and with my blind eyes all I can see is formerly charming shadow of apple blossoms cast by the moon that is definitely a large animal not a shadow.  Glasses on, no it’s fine, still a tree. I’ll just sleep with my glasses on my face, that’s a totally normal thing to do. Not comfortable but it’s important for my survival that I do it.

Why are my legs itching, oh yes, it’s clearly a black widow biting me, definitely 10 maybe 20 spiders in my bed. A quick sweep with my hand around the bed to be sure nothing is inside ready to lay eggs and cozy up with me for the night. I guess I just need to wrap myself up in my sheets like a burrito - that will keep them out.  Do it real fast, tuck all the edges…ok it’s fine.

Good there’s a pack of coyotes howling, pretty far away though…nope they’re definitely right outside out tent probably picking up the scent of their next prey.  They will break through the thin canvas, they travel in packs right? We’ll probably all die.  Our poor families. Do I think they’ll be deterred by my pepper spray, potentially, it could save our lives.  Ok sleeping with pepper spray in my hand.  Dammit this is it, “God please forgive me and please let me into heaven, I’m headed there tonight.”  Maybe I should call Trever to tell him I love him.  

Bats! I hate bats.  They’re flying rats. Someone once told me they get caught up in girl’s hair when it’s long.  I’ll put my hood on; don’t want any bats in my hair giving me rabies.

Speaking of bats, RATS…

And there it is.  Moved momentarily out of my irrational fear I see myself - cocooned in my sheets tight up to my tense shoulder my hood tied around my face so that the only thing exposed is my nose and mouth, eyes wide with glasses on and smushed against my face, a hand tightly clutched to the pink pepper spray attached to my keys…I am not keeping it cool.

I talked myself down and begged for sleep to come and rescue me from myself, and it finally did right before the rooster so kindly informed us it was morning. We woke to a critter free tent and walked outside to the most beautiful view of orchards and golden hills.  The scary nature monster turned out to just be a shadow cast in the darkness by the exquisite beauty and diversity of the great outdoors.

“Brooke, how did you sleep last night?”

“Great!!! I love nature, I might need a nap later but it’s cool.  You guys are total divas.”

A Garlic Celebration

Every once in a while a person experiences something so beautiful, there’s a little emotional bookmark that gets placed in the memory, tagged for future loving. 

This was one of those weekends for me.  In the afternoon I was running around orange county on the freeways flanked by buildings so I could pick up three of my dearest friends and start heading up to Windrose Farm in Paso Robles.  The mini road trip was perfect for catching up and oogling at the dark blue ocean curving along the sandy coast.  We stopped in Santa Barbara for some wine tasting and dinner where we filled up on beet salads and pappardelle pasta.  Back to the car, no wait the sun in setting, a quick sprint on the beach turned frolicking in the ocean a little too close to the bottom of our shorts and discussing the novelty of the blue moon that lit the sky and turned the ocean silver. We kept driving north and once becoming delirious, rolled down all the windows and listened to chick songs way too loud, the freezing cold an afterthought to stomachs cramping from laughter. 

We drove on dirt roads and searched through orchards for a glamping tent that had been set up, finding it, lighting candles, sharing wine and discussing wild life and its potential to invade our tent and ruin our desire for an eternally soapy existence.

Sleep, sort of…sheep baaing, roosters crowing at 4am…FOUR AYYY EMMMM, coyotes howling, dogs barking, but then eventually finding sleep because of crickets singing, frogs ribbiting and the moon casting a huge shadow of apples blossoms across our tent. 

We woke up late desperate for coffee and took off to downtown Paso for eggs and toast at Vic's with some diner coffee that hit the spot more than Stumptown ever has.  We wandered around the town shopping, passing through a farmers market and feeling the sun begin to heat the air until it was surrounding us like a warm blanket. We pumped the air conditioning, winding through the valleys under huge oak trees hanging across the road like a canopy.  We silently watched out the window as we weaved in between golden hills dotted by deep green trees casting shadows like something from an Edgar Payne painting.

We wine tasted at Tablas Creek and at Halter Ranch bought a bottle of Rose. We sat outside the Ranch and laid out a spread of cheese, olives and crackers and drank the cold wine in the heat of the shade talking deeply and finding acceptance in one another.

We headed back to farm and almost cried at the beauty of the singular long table set up for sixty to celebrate all the varieties of garlic grown on the farm. The crowd was milling about chatting about their lives, the beer they brew, the winery they own, the farm across town they work at, their general love of Windrose Farm.

We had a quick tour of the bio-dynamic farm where my friends got to meet Barbara the farmer so they could love her as much as I do and hear her describe how they believe they are just one in a long line of care takers for this beautiful land. 

At the end of the table where we were seated we had a view of the long farmers table with a thick runner of rosemary and lavender dotted with candles in between.  The table was full of strangers becoming friends, loud laughter and crunching on crostini burrata while we watched the sun fall behind the trees.  Stringed lights and candles lit the evening while we ate freshly handmade pasta showcasing Ajo Roja and Viola de Francesca garlics paired with Gelfand Vineyards Syrah. 

As each new course was brought out chef Evan Funke, formerly of Spago and Bucato, but who is now just trying to get back to Italy (aren’t we all), described the dish and where each ingredient came from followed by a description from the vintner who brought his wine for pairing.  When they brought out the lamb Barbara explained that they let their lambs live until at least two and try to give them a quality life, well cared for and eating the greens on the farm.  It’s my favorite way of looking at eating meat, caring for animals while they are here, knowing where our food comes from and being grateful for the sacrifice (hippies unite)…I still didn’t eat it, because then who would I be?

We kept looking at each other and saying, “I’m so happy, I just don’t think I could be happier.” It was the only thing we could get out, it wasn’t eloquent, it just was. Overwhelmed by the beauty of the moment we just smiled and did our our best to soak in every molecule of detail so we could bookmark the memory and the only emotion we could describe…happiness.  

We slept a second night in the orchard full of food and gratitude and left the farm the next day.  As my friend Sarah said, “we left a piece of our heart in those Orchards” and I agree.  I've only been there twice but it somehow feels a bit like going home.  

Palm Springs

Trever and I were just in Palm Springs and let me tell you, Palm Springs in the summer is not for the weak willed.  It’s low season because hardly anyone goes, trying to avoid the blistering heat they are headed to the coast.  The hotels are mostly empty (except the party hotels) and pools-side chairs are welcoming you while they pump out hippie spa music and offer you another margarita.  It’s like being in a sauna all day and therefore there is nothing to do except lay in the shade and read, lay on a pool floatie and stare at the water ripples, or lay on your big hotel bed and take a nap in the counterfeit cold.  All three options highly gluttonous, lazy, forcefully relaxing and involving some sort of brain disengagement. 

With tan skin and oversized sunnies, people move slower in the Palm Springs sun to try and avoid any extra strenuous movement and therefore elevated body temperatures. With bikinis and a sun hat to block the UV, hotel patrons walk trancelike to the buckets of cucumber water and back to their lounger where they will regain their posture: legs up, head back, eyes half open, cold drink in hand with one mission to accomplish, care about nothing. Hotels are mod, like something out of mad men (the first season), and there’s a good chance you’ll run into the ghost of Frank Sinatra while you’re there. The mountains look like they are directly behind the hotel wall and Palm Trees dot the pink skyline while the warm sun sets and it’s all ultimate California.  Hip hotels, strong sunshine and high capacity city escapees who are so laid back you’d swear their speech is being played out of a slow motion video clip. Dinner is late and night swims are a must because you can jump in and out of the pool lit only by the light from the moon and never notice a temperature difference, it’s just all warm.   

I say it’s not for the weak willed because it will muscle the stress right out of your hands and you’re left with nothing but sunshine and some Mexican food. You just gotta leave that drama in the city, Palm Springs can’t handle it.

I came back warm to my bones like a long day at the spa and ready to take on the week. I've decided it's the best kind of vacation, even though we do the same thing every time.  I'm learning to love the monotony of it, the fulfilled expectations, the predictability of the place, it all puts me at ease and it's kind of nice and a little boring - but in a good way.  Trever and I stay at The Avalon because it’s right downtown.  The Parker is great for drinks and Cheeky's is the only place to go for breakfast.

Latin America in Los Angeles

I live in Orange County, but we southerners often find ourselves crossing the Orange Curtain for a good night of food and entertainment in the big city, but we know LA people look down us, we can see it in their eyes. 

It's like we’re just not cool enough, we’re not quite at the leading edge of culture like they are, they’re like…'that was so last week'. Granted we are known for pleasantville neighborhoods with identical homes and way too much money(I'm looking at you Irvine)…but we’re not all that way, I swear it. I sort of get the obsession though, I think people in LA like the seedy characteristics of the city, they like living in a place that’s part terrifying, part totally awesome.  The grunge adds to the thrill, the intrigue of irony, as they pop from one hip restaurant to another. 

But there we were with fabulous friends, starting at a wine bar with shelves of wine from floor to ceiling and a mescal tasting in a back room.  Smoky Tequila is gross, except that I loved it. It might ruin a margarita but when sipped alone, the subtle details become extravagant. Then on a busy street in Beverly Hills we opted for valet the price of a bottle of wine to avoid the dreaded wondering around the street affair, afraid to hit the Maserati directly in front or the homeless guys directly behind while parallel parking.  The crowd outside the Mexican restaurant was huge, which we later came to find out was a night of prayer, music and gratitude for mother earth, complete with a rainbow display of votive candles to light in a vigil to the gods that be and a performance by Peter, Paul & Mary. Inside the restaurant the beautiful servers who undoubtedly doubled as working actors whirred about the room expertly weaving in between tables, trays full of cocktails and red wine.  While we ate I engaged my skills of peripheral people staring – no watching- and I wanted desperately to be a hippie.  Women were wandering barefoot with braids down their backs, one with a rainbow knit smock that could only have been handmade.  Babies were strapped to backs, which brought along friendly conversation and congratulations “you have a baby…in a bar”. Then there were the modern day hipster hippies, who weren’t quite sold enough.  They did a bad performance of hippie reenactment while they flirted at the bar with chiseled cheekbones and a hat I’m sure I had seen at Urban Outfitters last week. 

We left and ran across town and parked in such a precarious area I would have bet my cats that our car would get stolen.  Unknown streets can be very exaggerated at night, like a scene from some rapist movie that I can’t quite remember but has lodged itself somewhere in the back of my mind to torture me with its fear. Pass the graffiti, pass the overflowing trashcan, pass a man sleeping in a tent, pass a man in a tailored suit - wait, no that’s us.  He leads us upstairs and through a closet (insert Angelinos eye roll) and into a Rum bar with a live Cuban band and a dance floor full of beautiful people and perfectly timed hips and feet. If I’m not careful in a place like this, I might let the mojito tell me I can probably dance like that…I cannot dance like that, NEVER let me try!  

It was a evening of experiences stringed along like beads that made the night like something out of Latin America with a side of 70's, and I was in love with it.  I was grateful for a city close by that may not have it’s own distinct culture, but in a country of immigrants our culture is international and it is definitely alive. Who wants one thing, when you can have pieces of it all.  So LA I’ll give you an A+ for the night, don’t make me fall for you! 

Mammoth Rocks

In South Africa we found some boulders that jet out into the ocean creating a sandy beach on one side and a rocky cove on the other. We crawled around them to get to the edge and I felt like a tiny ant working myself out of breath just to move an inch. In my mind I'm such a big deal, until I scramble to make it to the top of a rock, take note that I'm at the edge of Africa, and realize just how big and beautiful it all is.  Then as a the finale to its colossal spectacal of beauty, the sunset turns the rocks pink and it all totally blows my mind.

Nature grounds me.  It relieves any anxiety or stress about my tiny life but reminds me that no matter how big creation is I still play a part.  I see that this whole big earth is moving and elephants and giraffes exist which are about the most creative pieces of life out there. Mammoth rocks lie on the coast somewhere in South Africa that are so big yet somehow there, like God flexing his much bigger than me muscles and telling me to take a breath cause he's got it.  

I remember that life isn't a movie I'm waiting to start.  It's sunrises and mountains, kindness and brokenness, and the cycle of life as it goes whether or not I tell it to. It's all moving, its chest rising and falling with the breath of life.  I'm just a little piece of it.  But it's now. And it's once.  And it's all totally genius.   

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This beach by the way is really beautiful and close to Cape Town called Llandudno in Hout Bay. You can take the M6 from Cape Town which is a beautiful coastal drive and wander down the trail to the beach.  Be sure to climb the giant rocks to get an even better view and see the gorgeous rocky cove just on the other side.  

Travel Essentials

Since I just travelled a frillion hours I have created some minor obsessions with certain travel carry-on must haves.  So take my advice on my top 5. 

1: Dr. Bronner's lavender hand sanitizer.  This is a great choice because it's natural and doesn't have antibacterial.  Antibacterial is bad for the environment, bad for our health and doesn't actually work better than soap.  Dr. Bronner's uses good old fashioned alcohol to sanitize. 

2. Peppermint Essential Oil. You can put this directly on your temples and behind your ears to ease a headache or to help give energy (you should do your own research when using essential oils). This is also great if you're sitting way too close to smelly guy and trying to breathe through your scarf thus significantly lowering your oxygen levels to avoid waves of B.O.  A few drops at the base of your nose and you'll feel like your in a peppermint candy plane. Lastly you can rub it on your stomach to help ease nausea. 

3. Toms Toothbrush and Toothpaste.  Aint nobody want bad plane breath. One of the fastest ways to your bloodstream is through the arteries under your tongue.  So letting toothpaste full of chemicals sit there every day is a fast way to absorption. Go natural. 

4. Keys Eye Butter. I'm totally obsessed with this eye cream.  It's super thick and perfect for when I get really dried out on a plane. 

5. Omega Trek Mix Handfuls. Yum. Plane food is yuck. 

What I would have said

The other day I was visiting my sister and her new baby in the hospital.  I was excited to meet her new nurse who just so happens to be from Cape Town, South Africa.  I figured we would have a lot to talk about seeing as how I had just returned days earlier.  A few minutes into our conversation I gave her a brief overview of the work we were doing in the region, and the ways we were trying to help NGO’s and churches understand and know how to work with those who have been traumatized in townships.  I’ll do my best not to miss-quote her, but her response was something like – “could they even receive the help you were trying to offer them? The people in the townships have a totally different value system.  They’re like animals, not that I’m comparing them to animals, but they can’t really change.  They just have such a different value system.”

I just looked at her and said nothing.  I think I was trying to interpret what she was saying, I was hoping desperately that I was misunderstanding her, hoping that it was just a hot button for me since I just returned and she wasn’t saying what I thought she was saying. I was trying to formulate a response and be aware of that fact that my role in that moment was to smile, silently disagree and remember that my priority was my sister enjoying her time in the hospital with her new baby girl. 

But, if I was back in that moment in a different context and clarity of mind, I think might have responded differently.  I might have asked her to clarify what it is about them that makes them incapable of receiving help. I think I might have told her about Abbie, a black woman who lives in an immaculately clean 200 square foot pinned up home in a township and spends her time with children teaching them, basically for free. I might have told her about Sylvia who lost everyone she loved which drove her to prostitution but she found healing, made different choices and now helps at risk youth avoid her terrible fate. I would have told her several other stories of people who were brought into unthinkable situations in townships, with nothing but what was given to them, and who chose to grow and change and become people helpers against all odds. I would have asked her how she thinks she might have turned out had she been born in a township, but I guess only God knows that. 

Animals? Unable to learn and change? No. Fellow human beings born into and placed into terrible situations from the brokenness of this world and the brokenness of one another with all the capacity to become great? Yes. Their blackness is not what fundamentally makes them disadvantaged. Racism, unequal socioeconomic opportunity, lack of education, cycles of violence, poverty, that’s what breaks people. 

Differences drives fear, fear drives separation, separation reinforces the cycle and it becomes easy to accept that the other wants the impoverished lives they’re living, that we are fundamentally different with unequal capacity for goodness. 

I believe that we can see one another’s humanness only when we interact with the other, and when we do, when there is a shred of good in us we humans at our best will treat the other with kindness.  Maybe if this nurse knew Abbie or Sylvia, her value system and unchanging mindset might just do the thing she believes to be impossible…and change.

Would it have made a difference if I said all this to her…probably not. But in a different context I would have said it anyways, just to be a small voice in a small moment for the oppressed.  I hope after this hypothetical conversation I would realize that yes, I did misunderstand her and that she too believes that no matter our skin color we are all worthy of the same human rights and capable of good, if but only by the grace of God. 

South Africa in Polaroids

I'm in the London heathrow airport with nothing but time. Airports are funny that way, so much chaos, so much boredom.  I'm reflecting on my trip to South Africa and just beginning to feel the experiences seep into my heart. Sometimes when I see and feel so much and my heart and mind are stretched, I can't seem to experience it all real time. I have all these Polaroids in my mind that I slowly sift through and I keep learning new things and noticing different elements of each memory for months.

I saw new and powerful parts of nature and I felt the shear strength of God through it. I saw neighborhoods made of pinned up sheet metal and neighborhoods made of Newport Beach and diamonds.  I battled with the exposure to my own blindness to racism and poverty in and around my life and country and was forced to recognize my previously decidedly apathetic response to it all. I saw advocates for the poor giving their lives for the cause of the rejected and was inspired in a irreversible way to the power of simply yet difficulty showing up and loving the other. We laughed ourselves into tears and stomach cramps in bumpy cars on the wrong side of the road with friends who have genius minds and benevolent hearts. What a week. More to come. 

Lavender and Luxury

I spent the other day in the lap of luxury.  I was enjoying my Christmas present from Trever and getting a relaxing massage at the most beautiful hotel I know of. 

I sat in an overstuffed chair, in a perfectly temperatured room, drinking hot tea and dozing in and out of sleep while foggily wondering what it must be like for all the other women.  The ones who seemed to do this on a regular basis. What must their lives be like – to have it all, but never have it all.  Who is missing out on life? Them? Me? Both of us?  I had this flash moment of arrogance birthed from pity that was really just a façade for jealousy deep down, and I thought...oh me, I prefer the farm. I think we’re meant to get a little dirty.  We’re meant to work hard and get rough skin and sob over the brokenness of the world and try our best to help even when it hurts. 

I was relaying these thoughts to a coworker who responded, “Yes, but if all you know is privilege, you don’t know what you’re missing out on.”  In a way the privileged, if they aren’t aware, can live a candy-coated life in a diamond bubble never understanding some very real parts of life.  And then a news flash...oh wait that’s me.  I’m in the top 1%.  I help the broken, but generally I’m not the broken.  Rough skin - I pay extra for organic lotion that smells of lavender.  I volunteered on an organic farm for kicks because I have the luxury to do so and it’s a novelty for me to work hard. In the world’s standards all I’ve ever known has been the lap of luxury.

I’m going to South Africa in a few weeks with a mental health team to help develop a lay counseling curriculum for local churches working with those who have been traumatized in the townships.  I haven’t even been there and the trip is already ripping me apart.  In reviewing our methods for trauma counseling that we have studied at our fancy universities, that we paid tens of thousands of dollars to attend, we realize that some of our methods don’t work. Helping someone work through trauma when they are probably going home to the perpetrator that night…that’s a whole different ball game.  Helping someone see that the whole world isn’t dangerous just because they had a dangerous experience is a little different when their reality is actually that dangerous.

There is a lot we can do, but I’m keenly aware of how much we can’t. I’m just going to set a huge chunk of my pretty little degree aside, probably sob for a minute, and link arms with friends to make the tiniest little difference in a reality I’ll never understand. I'm privileged, educated and wealthy. I am those other women at the spa who have it all but never have it all.  I guess I'm just convicted to do something with it all.  

Also a shameless plug, if you want to donate to our trip we would be so grateful for you generosity. Click HERE for details. 

Rose Scented Geranium

Barbara was a professional cellist for most of her adult life.  She played in the LA Philharmonic and with musicians like Frank Sinatra and Elvis Presley.  She was in the orchestra recordings for movies like Forest Gump and E.T. and now she plays with a local orchestra…ya know just for fun.  20 years ago she married Bill and moved to a farm to spend her days gardening.

“You just need to be able to read plants and know how to water them”, apparently that’s all it takes to be a good farmer.  Such a simple statement for someone like her, but so much more complex for a brown thumb like me – she tells me I'm a natural with the plants…I’m not convinced. Here’s my one tip, when you water your plants don’t be a afraid to spray the leaves directly so they get rustled up a little, it mimics the wind and will get your plants stronger more quickly. Other than that, I have nothing for you in the way of farming advice.  I’m sorry to say I didn’t ask a lot of detailed questions because most of the information wouldn’t pertain to my real life so instead I asked them questions about their lives and I made some new friends and gained a lot more than a farming experience, I gained some peace.

I’m home now in my concrete world full of the people I love, my cats, a fabulously full schedule, my warm bed, the persistent buzz of a city full of activity & lights and a few new herb plants that I’m trying desperately to keep alive. The reality is I can’t live in a golden valley surrounded by nothing but hills and oak trees and earth, but I think I can find a way to integrate some of the serenity that I’ve found into my wildly active life. I can thrust my nose into the soil of my tiny plants for hours on end and bring myself back to my peaceful hours in the greenhouse, Trever might leave me, but at least I’d have my plants. I can wake up early and drink my coffee gazing at the serene train station while listening to the peaceful sounds of train whistles and grinding metal wheels. I can enjoy nature by looking directly up in the sky as that is the only unobstructed space around me, but boy is that blue blue. 

But really, the truth is I love living in a city. I like the hustle and bustle, and people and things to do.  But in the middle of it, I can make a choice to allow myself off the hook sometimes.  I can let myself sit and relax and be unproductive for a few moments, to make time to be outside finding hiking trails and spaces for peace. And then in a few months I can go back to the farm and love it all over again. 

In August or September they have their tomato harvest dinner and they bring in chefs to the farm to cook a fabulous meal at twilight.  You eat under the open sky and sleep in a glamping tent in the orchards and maybe do a little wine tasting in the area the next day.  They have a similar dinner on August 1st to celebrate garlic.  I will be at BOTH. Obviously.