blaugra

Better than Blaugra

At a holiday party, a friend said he was going to start a new blog that would be called Better than Blaugra. Because I haven't posted in a while. Understatement. I'm not sure, I think there was wine involved in this conversation, at least for me.  Better? I'd like to see that. Ha.

Now, what could be better than planning a trip to Madrid? I ask you.

That's right. For the year of my 50th birthday (WHAT) and my 20th anniversary (again what) I am going to Madrid. I lived there for 10 months back in the 1980s. I often say it was the best year of my life. To go back, after so many years, will be a dream come true. I have now hazy memories of the places and the city layout and where I lived and the language, but I hope most comes back to me. All the good stuff, of course.

Now I can afford to eat the expensive ham and drink the cocktails, not just the jugs of sangria. The hotel won't be the kind with the bathroom with just cold running water, down the hall. And I probably won't be at the dance clubs at 7:00 am. But I am ready to be jolted again by the capital city where I have mused that I want to retire to. We'll see about that. I'll have to save up some Euros and practice staying awake past 8:30pm.

 

Take a Look

I went to a very creative seminar on how to be more creative. At the same time, my friend's daughter is blogging about her school program in Chile. Both of these made me think of  that one time...

I was in Madrid, Puerta del Sol, age 19. Sitting by this fountain and writing in a journal.

Writing about how beautiful everything was, how strange, how I really missed home, how I wish I had chosen a different roommate, how I was having a hard time adjusting to my host family and the language, how was I going to deal for a year, and how I was afraid I was going to be robbed by a gypsy at any moment.

A high school-aged Madrilena approached me. She just walked up to me to see what I was doing. I was a little freaked out...but she didn't look like a gypsy, so I relaxed.

I spoke in broken Spanish, I told her I was estudiando en la universidad and she asked me what I saw. What I saw? My mind was blown by everything I had seen so far. But I was scared to let go.

She said, in broken English, "You're here. Take a look. There is so much." She left me by the fountain.

I don't know why she made a beeline for me that day. Perhaps she had a future in the Spanish tourism field. Or it was meant to be. Because I remembered those words (obviously) and really looked around Madrid after that.

I started to let go. I put away my Reeboks with the straps and American jeans, and adopted some Madrileno fashion (at the time, short plaid or bubble or flouncy skirts and sheer black hose) that I found in little shops on my street and at Zara. I went to happy hours at bars with my classmates. I loosened up a little and the language started to flow. The art appreciation kicked in, and I ate anything that was put in front of me.

I recently made a remark to someone that I haven't been creative in ages. In fact, the most creative thing I've done recently was to make my standard to-do list, then do the things out of order. That's really tearin' it up, right?

I relished the mundane and routine for a while, but I'm ready to mix it up. Taking a look around is a good start. 

Fear has kept me from looking around and getting to creative. Just like the fear I felt when I was new to Madrid. Shed the fear and the ability to create can come.

Salty D. just said this point-blank last night: "Write your blog."

"But..." I said, "but I should shut it down. What if someone reads it? A future employer? THE GOVERNMENT?"

"So what?" said D. "They're not going to care. Just write."

Caution to the wind.

 

I went to Chicago.

D. and I took our vacation to Chicago! During a major midwestern heat wave!

I know it's summer, I know it's always hot, but whaah whaah whaah it was triple-digit hot in the city. Even the breeze from Lake Michigan was like a hair dryer blowing in my mouth. 

I love the Architectural tour. I couldn't name one architect now even though I've been on the tour three times. I mostly just gaze around and take pictures. The tour guide's schpiel goes in one ear and out the other.  Just relaxing.

Seeing Impressionists at the Art Institute is such a Chicago thing to do. What a great museum and not too overwhelming.  As a matter of fact, we did a few museums, picked up some cult-chuh. Even the one at the Federal Reserve, just to take refuge from the hotness.

Taking D. to a site from the Blues Brothers movie -- the Cook County Courthouse -- did not disappoint. He was so excited. The employees at the courthouse acted as if we were the first tourists to ever want to take photos at the office of the tax assessor of Cook County, though.  Hmm.

Beluga whales and jellyfish at the Aquarium were very soothing. The multitudes of children were not. There's a line that small humans cross over from being cute and funny to being hellions, especially in large numbers.

Ditka's surf -n- turf with a Hendricks and tonic, accompanied by a big slice of cucumber, was perfect.

Going up to the 95th floor of the Hancock Center at sunset, as advised by our Brazilian cab driver, was worth it. The best view was from the ladies' room where all the French tourist girls were taking tons of pictures. So Salty D. missed the best view.


Meli was a recommendation that I'm glad we followed, and the French toast and fresh-squeezed juice were nectar. We got to ride the El to the Merchandise Mart stop.

 

Big Star: For some reason this is called, by some, a "hipster hangout." I don't mind hipsters, they entertain me. But I was annoyed here because I simply find hanging out in hot loud crowded bars to be annoying (translated: I'M OLD.) Well, the tacos al pastor and guacamole were really, really good but the tequila did me in. D. informed me he could have stayed there drinking cans of Olympia all night.

Other people seemed to weather the weather just fine, but for me, even Garrett popcorn didn't taste that good, I was so hot. 

All I wanted to eat was fruit, hot dogs, and gin with cucumbers. Nothing wrong with that.

Oh, then the sugar on top of the vacation was the visit with old friends up in the Milwaukee area. Stay gold.

Chicago!

This summer, Salty D. and I are actually taking a vacation together, getting away for longer than a weekend. We considered lots of places and times for traveling, including Europe (not a great idea now, and over our budget,) the Caribbean, the southwest U.S., Napa Valley, the Jersey shore. 

We decided on Chicago. In the summer. Hot in the city.

D. has never ever been there and I have. He has a fantasy about visiting all the places in the Blues Brothers movie. I know that's not possible, but we'll give it a fair shot.

"This is definitely Lower Wacker Drive. If my estimations are correct, we should be very close to the Honorable Richard J. Daley Plaza!"

"That's where they got that Picasso. "

"Yep."

So I found a hotel near Lower Wacker Drive. And we'll go see that Picasso.

And a whole list of other stuff, including a side trip to Milwaukee to see friends and Harley-Davidson and Laverne & Shirley.

I'm still wondering about great places to eat and drink in Chicago, and maybe hear some live music.  We're not leaving tomorrow, and there's still plenty of time to plan. I'm a planner.

Love the city? Have a favorite place you'd like to recommend?

Please comment and I'll send you a postcard (because I actually still do that.)

Living the high life

Salty D. and I took a bus to the Big Apple for a somewhat spontaneous day of downtown recreation.

First stop, Chelsea Market for coffee and scones and a requisite tourist shot of fresh pretty flowers:

I dragged Salty D. up to the Highline Park, which I love.  I think he may have been mildly impressed.

Birdhouse condos:

And seeing the spring springing on the old tracks.

We descended into the Meatpacking District where I led us into the Bond No. 9 New York store and said, "I'd like to smell Highline please" and it was my favorite scent and they had a springy display that made me happy:

And then of course there's the traditional meatpacking district wall art:

We decided to take a train across town to the East Village. Rather, Alphabet City. There we found Salty D's hero memorialized in spraypaint:

And we shopped along St. Mark's Place:

Feeling a little punk rock, we walked over to Manitoba's, via another bar I can't remember, where I matched D. drink for drink. Unfortunately his drink was beer and mine was double Bombay Sapphires and tonics. I was -- er -- highly inebriated but navigating pretty well although my photos started to blur even more.

Dick Manitoba's wife Zoe told us she opened the bar late that afternoon because it had been a late night with patrons from the Bruce Springsteen at the Apollo Theater show.  That was okay.

We loved the pics on the wall and I have a soft spot for both Brian Wilson and The Ramones:

The jukebox of course featured The Dictators and was AWESOME.

We were giddy, and not just because of the alcohol. But hungry. So somewhere in the neighborhood, we ended up at a restaurant where I ate a banana filled with pork, I have no idea. My next memory is that the 90-minute bus ride back home sucked ass.

Even though all I bought in NYC was a headache, the day was great and it was the first time since girls' weekend in early December that I had gotten the hell out of my hometown. I needed this. Thus ends this travel essay.

Blaugra vs. Mothra

Those sneaky little monsters! I sought revenge and got the non-subtly labeled traps to capture the dreaded moths. Still, they appear, and when I go to bed, the last thought I have before skipping off to dreamland is the moths. Pantry moths.

Admitting to having pantry moths is as embarassing as buying yeast infection medicine.

My pantry is clean. Nuts and rice that were sealed in impenetrable Tupperware for godssakes fell victim to those determined little creatures of hell.

I tossed flour and cereal into the garbage. I scrubbed twice.  I did my holiday cookie baking at my mom's house. And still...when I come home from a day at the salt mines I see one, sitting on the counter. Lying in wait.

I can't believe I'm so uninteresting that I'm blogging about pantry moths. But seriously, where are they coming from?

And why, after the flurry of activity during Thanksgiving weekend, can I only manage to write about the flurry of the moths?

I hope to change that with a weekend in New York City. 

My mom told me to get into a New York state of mind, and she sang the song to me. So, off I go, Christmastime cocktails in the big city with this girl, and this one, and her.

I'm sure the moths will still be here when I get back.

"Is it smashed blueberry or blueberry smash?"

I sat on the train from New York to Boston, looking out the windows at the boats on the sound.

I love this train ride. Even though it's stressful, taking a bus from home into the big city, and then getting to the train, and then rushing to find a seat that is not a foursome around a table (I hate those because I tend to be anti-social when I travel,) when the train starts moving, I start to relax immediately.

The graffiti strewn cityscape facing the train tracks eventually gives way to the sun sparkling on the water.

Whatever music I play -- the Bee Gees'"Nights on Broadway,"  Kate Bush's "Breathing," or the Dum Dum Girls' "Bedroom Eyes" -- always matches the rhythm of the train rolling on the tracks.

The best part of this train ride is that my BFF is at the end of it.

And this visit I needed her more than ever to feel normal again. Not to cry over shit but to cry together about the fall of Penn State and child abuse. Not to cry over shit but to explore a museum and have coffee under a blinking chandelier in a really cool modern space. And again not to cry but to indulge in lobster guacamole and shoe shopping, beers and laughter.

So went the "Nudes, Foods and Shoes" theme weekend.  It's OK to click on that link to the Degas exhibit at the MFA in Boston. It just means so much to be able to get out of town and twist the perspective for a little while.

The weekend also included indulging in a brunch-for-lunch of amazing French toast and bacon at a great diner with her family, and the pleasure I don't feel so guilty about: seeing Footloose.

I love Boston and I love feeling like I could breathe more clearly and have some fun for Pete's sake.

Ya me he ido. I'm already gone.

On a rainy, unusually chilly night in Marbella, Spain, two teenage girls ran from the marina in Puerto Banus -*smack*- into a metal guardrail on their way to a bar. Oops.

Ow, my leg. We limped over the guardrail and went to a mostly empty joint called Gringo's. It had been recommended by someone we met at a restaurant. Wonder why. Silly Americans.

Here we are, in jet-set heaven (or hell depending on your taste,) cold and wet and bruised and sober, and nobody jet-setty to look at. I had expected the pages of Hola! to come to life but so far on this trip, on my first day, no dice.

I write about this rainy night for two reasons. First, I heard The Eagles' "Already Gone" on the classic rock station. Then, I watched Piers Morgan on Marbella. Connection. Here's why.

I de-planed in Madrid for my semesters-abroad-experience, and I looked like this...

 
A couple of weeks after this poufy-permed-hair photo was snapped I got on a train bound for the Costa del Sol with a new friend who was very excited about going to party in Puerto Banus and I was like "Whaaat? Que?  Where?" And the only pics I have from the trip itself are of us shivering in front of the Rock of Gibraltar. Anyway, that flower is behind me, not on top of my Julia-Roberts- wannabe-hair. (Unfortunately this was not a banana-clip hairstyle day.)

At this Gringo's place we drank big beers while the DJ played the Eagles' Greatest Hits. To this day I hear  "Tequila Sunrise" and I get a quick flash of Marbella. Lest you think all I remember is partying with obnoxious English tourists, I also recall the pretty orange trees in the courtyard of our hostel. But free oranges didn't do very much to help soak up the alcohol.

I had no idea Marbella was full of such dirty money and dirty birds. Thanks for ruining the illusion for me now, Piers. 

Back in the 80's I had just flown out of sheltered suburbia to Madrid, then I transported myself to a sandbox in the devil's playground. Oh, I embellish un poco. I was there before the big boom, when Marbella was just a little demon's playground. Not the devil. But I was so naive anyway that I wouldn't have known a male prostitute or a drug deal if they were in front of my face.

My amiga and I bar hopped after listening to the Eagles at Gringo's and getting momentarily homesick, and ended the night at La Comedia, which is still there.

And I was thinking to myself "This could be heaven or this could be he-heh-ell"  Are you kidding me - bars and discos and boys boys boys until 7 am?  Si, por favor. That was a slice of heaven.  

Take it easy, I'm exhausted just thinking about it. 

But I'd like to go there right about now.

Summer in the City - #BlogHer10 countdown!

I just realized that BlogHer is a little more than 2 weeks away!

I'm a NYC occasional tourista so I thought I'd pull together some fun things I like to do in midtown. So like, when you need to get some fresh air outside of the conference, see some fun New York!  Get yourself a fold-out map of Manhattan. Even seasoned tourists use these to find our way around.

I've been to the BlogHer big hotel several times for conferences and awards shindigs, but I've never stayed overnight (@ the New York Hilton).  I hope they don't have bedbugs like much of Manhattan.

We'll be across from Radio City Music Hall and Rockefeller Center, and if you haven't seen Rock Center, well then duh, make sure you do. Take photos in the channel gardens, find a cupcake shop, visit the Radio City store and La Maison du Chocolat.

From Rockefeller Center, cruise 5th Avenue for shopping experiences you can't get in your hometown. Don't do it all, just un poco.  You don't want to get mallitosis.

> Turn left and cross the street and walk to Tiffany & Co. flagship store - Come on, Holly Golightly. Shop for your dream jewels.

> If you need some clothes and you don't have H&M in your town, now's your opportunity.

> Salvatore Ferragamo - as I recall, on the second floor there is a shoe

Withering in the heat, thinking 'bout BlogHer

When we have 100+ degree temps in our stagnant little valley, I'm reminded that it could be worse. In someplace like, say, NYC, where the shade doesn't help and the Met Museum is probably a good place to hide.

I selfishly hope that the heat is down to about 91 degrees during BlogHer '10 next month!

Because I want to be able to get tipsy with my fellow bloggers and go to the Empire State Building's observation deck at, like, midnight, without getting asthmatic.

Down on street level of the ESB there's a swanky gin joint where the post office used to be.  Last month we went there and I had a sick drink with fresh blackberries, muddled, with gin and some other aromatics. It was delicious. We were two of only a handful of customers.  Maybe it's still in business, it's a good place to get kinda tanked before taking the big elevator ride.

The place was part of "The List":

And it occurs to me I need to assemble a List of BlogHer NYC diversions, for those who have extra time and want to do some touristy stuff in the city.  Provided it's not 102 degrees.  Otherwise all I can advise is to hunker down with some Pinkberry.