Travel Bug

I have somewhat of a little dream to be a travel writer. I mean, it took me long enough to put two of my favorite things together (duh!), but there it is, finally. However, I realize something the more I thumb through the colorful, exotic photographs in travel magazines. These secret places aren't so secret anymore, and I've never been a fan of the loud tourists taking up every square inch of space sporting printed button-ups with decibel levels matching that of their wearers' voices, Wal-Mart's entire array of $5 shades, and black cameras dangling from their necks. There's a very real danger that if I explore some remote location and fall in love with the beauty and simplicity of it just to write about it in a travel magazine catering to those sorts of people, I would be contributing to the ruination of the very thing that makes the place so special.  I can see it now: I write a great piece on a new, gorgeous location, and 2.5 seconds later, all these people show up in their tacky shirts bearing various photo apparatuses.

I wish I could teach people to be proper tourists, thereby single-handedly changing the stereotype by introducing them to, and making them students of, the word unobtrusive. Go to a place, observe a place, take it in for all the wonder that it is. Absorb the sounds, breathe in the air, document if you must, but don't ruin the stillness with idle, insignificant prattle. I would want us to make our intrusion of places in the world, well, less intrusive. Without a mailbox and a registered address, we should always be humble visitors in other lands. We would do well to remember that.

La Tortuga y La Cucaracha

Two interesting things happened today. One, in the middle of a conversation he was having with someone else, a guy on H Street tried to sell me a baby turtle. He was standing with hands full of about four miniature aquariums, each containing many multi-colored little rocks, a bit of water, and a tiny dark green turtle. I believe his exact words were, "Excuse me miss, can I interest you in a baby turtle?" OMG, how did you know? And I thought they just dealt drugs here.

The second interesting thing occured tonight when I walked into my bathroom to brush my teeth. For some reason, I turned around to gaze at my newly scrubbed to gleaming tub, and saw my fave! a medium sized multi-legged house centipede. However, this time, my heart didn't even skip a beat as I noticed he was continually sliding back down the sides of the tub. I kinda felt sorry for the little guy, especially after having done some Wikipedianess on his nasty butt and learning, to my shock, that they actually eat other gross creepy crawlies. I continued to watch him in fascination and pity as his many feet struggled for purchase on the white ceramic. At one point, his body rather comically stayed in one place while his legs moved frantically as if they were playing invisible miniscule piano keys. I just didn't have the heart to go grab my flip-flop and squish his tiny body on the underside of my sole. Cruel, I know, as he'll probably die there from starvation. Perhaps a cockroach will crawl up out of the drain and they'll engage in an insect UFC fight that ends with Mr. Centipede having La Cucaracha for dinner. Now that's something I'd like to see. Mixed martial arts have nothing on you-better-win-this-or-I'll-eat-your-torso combat.

Cupcakes and Spanish... Spanish cupcakes?

I would like to put forth the argument that cupcakes may just be the best thing ever. Although it is nearly impossible to maintain any dignity while eating one since usually, as opposed to looking like you just took a bite, it seems as if you rubbed it all over your face. As a child, icing face is funny. As an adult, not so much. I, for one, don't care, seeing that alternatively I would never get to enjoy all of that deliciousness sweetly packaged in a ruffly paper baking cup. Dear Lord, this must have been what You were doing on the 8th day.

In other news, I graduated from my Part A Spanish 1 lessons today, hoorah! Newsflash: they're getting harder. I respond, "Es mucho," but, no, it's "Es muy," and they won't tell me why, and now I spend half my time concentrating on including the right amount of syllables (why do they need five to say "too much?") and pretending my tongue should never actually make contact with the back of my teeth. Sometimes I bounce my mini Nerf basketball on the floor while I'm learning, which I'm sure my basement-mate Rachel really appreciates. "Tengo dos pesos" thunk "Puedo comprar las" thunk "¿Que hora es?" thunk "¡No quiero hablar con usted!" thunk. One of these days she's going to come screaming down the hallway, pulling her hair out, begging me to please stop so she can sleep. Oh yeah, did I mention I sometimes do these just before midnight? Roommate of the Year award, right here. Please, no applause. My roommate is trying to sleep.

Vive Mexico!

I am on the precipice of my next adventure. Once again, some place that has never been on my radar all of the sudden is the final destination on the e-tickets sitting in my inbox. What the? I'm sometimes at a loss as to how these things happen. All I know is that my friend/boss Kristin left me with a link to a coffee shop in Mexico before flying off to Italy for ten days, and before she got back, I had had two pointed conversations with the staff at said coffee shop, a round-trip bought and paid for ticket, an ad out on my room for two months, and a full set of audio Spanish lessons downloaded off the internet via nefarious means. She should have known better. Information like that is similar to a live grenade in my hands.

So I'm off to Mazatlán, Mexico to whip up lattes, Limonadas, and brainstorm for a bit as a volunteer while simultaneously working on staring at blue ocean and perfecting the art of applying sunscreen. It's tough work, but somebody's gotta do it. Those surf boards don't rent out themselves.

In all seriousness, while the thought of being next to salty blue for almost two months thrills me beyond words, I want this trip to be different. It's time to be someone else's hands and feet for a while. I'm hoping Mexico can teach me a few things I have yet to learn. Lessons in fighting down this selfishness, and maybe even an extra salsa step or two. I'll keep you posted.

MOVIE REVIEW: Take One

At the risk of being too simplistic, I LOVED this movie. My friend and I just so happened to be the only ones in the theater, but it was a Wednesday night, and it was some shady establishment located behind some half deserted office buildings in BFE, Maryland (also known as the other side of Silver Spring, the one you've never heard about), so don't let our happenstance solidarity deter you from buying your ticket.

This movie is one of the best cartoons I've seen in a long time. Granted, I have yet to see Up which I've heard great things about, but this one has it all: relatable characters with great cartoon hair, fire-breathing beasty fights, just the right amount of self-effacing sarcasm, the cutest/coolest pet dragon that anyone would take home to Mom and say "can I keep him?" and even a little bit o' romance sprinkled on top. It isn't even the overdone cheesy kind, like when the waiter grates too much on top of your pasta, and praise Jesus, not one character bursts into spontaneous song. I laughed, I held my breath, I fought alongside, I even clapped a little bit and said "yay" at one point. I left the theater feeling like I could take on the world (and I will- tomorrow).

The dialogue was intelligent and witty, the characters engaging and sympathetic, and the soundtrack by one of my new faves, John Powell, stole my heart. This story did exactly what movies should which is took me 100% out of my world and sucked me in for every entertaining second (except when my need to use the facilities halfway through jerked me temporarily back, of course). I recommend taking a good friend, grabbing a Cherry Coke and some Sour Patch Kids and settling in for a night at the movies. I promise you, you won't be disappointed.

One of my favorites:
Stoick: When we crack this mountain, all hell is going to break loose.
Gobber: And my undies. Good thing I brought extras.

Oh Little Box Fan

Any given night, I usually get at least 6 solid hours of sleep, sometimes even 8. But apparently, my miniature box fan is currently in its death throes and, as a result, commenced a ridiculously high pitched shrieking right about 7 in the AM this morning. Not ok.

After my heart rate slowed down to something resembling normal, I peeled my eyelids open and stared at the wall, willing the sad little motor on this contraption that, before I rescued it from my gramma's closet last year had remained unopened in it's original packaging since the year I was born, to speed back up to normal and stop emulating a squealing banshee. No such luck. Forcing my body into movement normally unaccustomed for another three hours, I padded over to negotiate with the fan from hell, picking it up and shaking it only to have it squawk at me louder. Really, little fan? Do we need to have words? Because it's a bit too early for Jenn to be formulating grumbling sentences. All I want is to be able to crawl back into my groggy oblivion serenaded by beautiful white noise and not have you sound like a herd of dying cats. Now is that too much to ask? I think not.

The solution appeared to be lying little fan on it's back so that it blew air up to the ceiling, which kind of defeated the purpose; however, my lovely humming motor sound was back which meant I could, once again, sleep like a baby. Maybe I can eke another few months of life out of this bad boy after all. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

Here's Your Sign

You know, if you're an Islamic man who probably fits most people's physical idea of 'the profile' and you're trying to sneak a smoke in an airplane bathroom, it's probably not the best idea in today's climate to make a joke to the authorities about trying to light your shoes on fire. Just a thought...

Man on Flight Trying to Sneak Smoke

PS

First house centipede squishing of the season took place Monday afternoon. Time of death: 1:48pm. No signs of struggle. The Old Navy flip flop was quick and merciful.

For Now

I know this new background isn't 80 different kinds of spectacular like I was wanting, but until my design skills improve themselves and/or I actually take the time to create my Awesome and Amazing, this will have to do. At least the color scheme is something similar to what I have in my head. Ah well.

Just so this post isn't completely underwhelming, I leave you with my quote of the indeterminate time period that lasts as long as it takes me to run across another one. 

"You need chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star." -Friedrich Nietzsche

Literally or figuratively speaking, I like this one.

Jet Stream

My world is punctuated by airplanes. They carry me to my dreams and deposit me back in the arms of those who love me. I wake up in one part of the world and go to sleep in another, a state of things that never ceases to astonish me.  If I'm not on a plane, I'm watching them float by far overhead, usually keeping my eyes on them until the clouds envelop them or the distance makes them invisible. I always wonder where they're going, a thought immediately followed by "when will I be on one again?"

There's a park in Virginia, just across the Potomac, over which airplanes fly just before touching down at Reagan National Airport. They're so close I can almost graze their underbellies with my fingertips. After they cross over the water, they leave behind them an eerie jet stream, thousands of tiny whispering voices that dance in the aftermath of a landing. It's one of my favorite parts, and this park one of my favorite places. I could come here and eat sunshine for breakfast to the soundtrack of burning jet fuel. What better way to spend a day off.

Bruce

Sova is perfect this time of day. It's just around seven, and the sun is fierce and golden on the uneven street outside. I'm the only customer in this part of the store with nothing but the twin parking meters outside to stare at me. My iced coffee with vanilla leaves something to be desired, and Bruce Springsteen's rough, cowboy voice coming over the loud speaker accompanied by cacaphanous banjos and bells is a little much. In fact, my thoughts are being forcibly removed from my head by the minute, but my completely self-sabotoged Let's Be Productive Day is still managing to redeem itself somewhat here on this sleepy corner of H Street. At least it will if I can quit trying so hard to suck the honey on the bottom of my cup through a red coffee stirrer. For some reason that seems to hold more appeal to me at the moment than writing a blog post. Bygones.

Alas, the Boss is winning the battle for precedence in my brain, so I'm going to have to find another way to be productive, such as... looking for a new blog background template! Bah bah BAH! (fanfare) Stay tuned, because it's coming... and I fully expect it to be amazing.