Sins of the Amish: Buggy Nights

If you're a guy and watch too many movies, your idea of girls' weekends might involve pillow fights, giggling, and hanging out in lingerie. In reality, girls' weekend is about four things: baggy pajamas, laughing so hard you make awkward snorting noises like a small feral hog, mimosas, and eating a truly obscene amount of tortilla chips. And on occasion, when your group is a mix of 90% bookworms and 50% former stars of high school plays, girls' weekend involves taking turns reading the most ridiculous passages from a giant stack of romance novels out loud to everyone: "Oh God, are those tentacles?!" It was about when we got to the tentacles that I remembered The Sins of the Amish.

A couple of years ago, I happened to mention to some friends at dinner that I had never read a romance novel. Since I enjoyed making fun of them, I thought I should probably read one. My friend, who we shall call Rose, said she could recommend one she'd really enjoyed. But there was a problem: Rose couldn't remember the title. So using keywords from her description of the plot, I tried to google it. I failed. But in the process I did discover a previously unknown subgenre: the Amish romance. At which point I decided that the only thing more fun than reading a romance novel centered on a religious group so conservative that you're not allowed to wear colors would be writing one. So I sat down and wrote the first chapter of "The Sins of the Amish."

Without further ado, I give you "The Sins of the Amish" Chapter One: Buggy Nights. . . .

As Ethelfrieda sensuously dipped her fingers into the rendered pig fat, she met Hans' searching gaze. 

'No,' she thought, 'Johann must be done castrating the spring lambs by now. He could walk in at any moment.' 

Deaf to her mental pleading, Hans took a step forward, the afternoon sun catching the sweat glistening on his bushy sternum-length beard. In that light he looked more like Sumerian warlord than an Amish cowherd. He stepped closer again, eyeing her hungrily. 

'No, Hans,' she said, 'I must make the offal pie.' 

'You are more tempting than any offal pie, Ethelfrieda,' he said. 

He reached out with both hands to undo the first hook-and-eye of the black wool dress she had fastened up to her chin. He silently cursed their ordnung's prohibition on buttons. It would take at least an hour to undress her. 

'Let's go to the buggy,' he said.

'No, Hans,' she said, 'we have defiled the buggy too often. Grand-uncle Yoder found your suspenders when he took the turnips to market last week. He suspects.' 

Hans banged his fist on the butcher block, sending the rendered pig fat sloshing out the sides of its 200 year old wooden mixing bowl. '

Yoder does not govern my passion!' he shouted. 

But she was right. Their love was verboten.

Ten Things I Completely Misunderstood as a Kid

When you're a little kid, a lot of things go right over your head, both literally and figuratively. Everyone has stories about the things they didn't quite understand as a child. Like finally noticing the dirty jokes in Disney movies. Or the horrifying moment when you realized that hamburgers were actually made of cow. Or realizing that your deceased goldfish did not actually leave to join the circus. So for your holiday reading pleasure, I've put together a (somewhat embarrassing) list of things I completely misunderstood as a kid:

1. During the first Gulf War, I was very concerned about the fate of Louisiana. I was five years old, and the only gulf I was aware of was the Gulf of Mexico.

2. In the fifth grade, I played Erato, supposedly the muse of lyrics, in my class’s  Greek play. I didn’t think about it again until over a decade later, on a trip to a museum, where I learned I had actually played the muse of erotic poetry.  When I was 10 years old.

3. If I had had to write a dictionary definition of God in kindergarten, this is probably what it would have looked like:

God: (noun) the being over America, as described in the Pledge of Allegiance.

4. At the beginning of the first grade, I thought werewolves were a real (and entirely non-magical) species of wolf. So when our teacher asked us to name some animals, I raised my hand and said “werewolf,” just as one might have said “baboon” or “prairie dog.” This (understandably) resulted in peals of laughter from my classmates and teacher, who, to my total confusion, said “Someone’s been reading too many scary stories.” It was my first week at a new school. I didn’t raise my hand again in a science class until the 10^th grade.

5. For a long time I thought a ham was a kind of bird. (This is all the more ridiculous being from Virginia, commonwealth o’ ham.)

6. My babysitter told me that being angry makes your liver turn black and die. This had two results: 1) I drew a lot of pissed-off-looking pigtailed stick figures with giant black blobs in their bellies; and 2) even as an adult, I still find it hard to be angry for any great length of time [without worrying about cirrhosis].

7. I believed that all toys with moveable eyes were secretly alive and controlled by my cousin.

8. I had no concept of time. I have seen a video of my second birthday. When my parents asked me how old I thought my grandfather was (we shared a birthday), my answer was “six.”

9. Trees are part of nature. Paper comes from trees. Throwing paper on the ground is littering. Littering is bad. Conclusion: Once you have taken tree-parts out of nature, they can never go back, or the planet will be destroyed. 

10. One of my earliest memories is of throwing a tantrum at age three over a pair of overalls. I ran around screaming like a Tasmanian devil, before my parents eventually captured me and imprisoned me in the overalls. My thoughts at the time were not exactly clear, but this pretty much sums it up:

Overalls = End of the Universe

How to Wear an Avocado

Spa day. Ordinarily this would mean lounging around in a fluffy white robe all day, drinking water with floating cucumbers in it. Or listening to a CD of whales groaning at each other while a stern woman with needle-thumbs attacks my pressure points. Or being dipped in Hungarian mineral mud and left to ferment in a steam room with no clock. (Because when you put mud on an airplane from Europe, it becomes fancy mud.) DIY spa day, however, was something else entirely. DIY spa day was about playing with food. 

I've been reading a lot of articles recently about the presence of harmful chemicals in beauty products. Articles with fun titles like "Is Your Lipstick Trying to Murder You?" and "Carcinogens: Our Cosmetics in Crisis." OK, I made those up, but they're no more dramatic than the real headlines. Over and over again the message was drilled into my brain: the opposite of wellness is chemicals. So, clearly, our DIY spa day was not going to be as simple as buying out a shelf of the local drugstore. Instead, we'd be whisking together our facial mask and body scrub in the kitchen, like dermatological Betty Crockers.

I went to work finding recipes without frightening or impossible-to-find ingredients. (I have no idea where to buy pure algae. And no promise of luminous skin was going to make me smear my face with the placenta of a farm animal, in some Real Housewives meets Lord of the Flies quest for beauty.) I also ruled out things that would smell bad. Raw egg. Beer. Mayonnaise. All of those were out. In the end, we selected two (incredibly vague) recipes:

Body Scrub: A bunch of sugar, a banana, and some sweet almond oil. (Consistency of cookie batter.)

Facial Mask: An avocado, a banana, some yogurt, some olive oil. (Consistency of monkey brains.)

Lauren and I went into this phase of the project a bit skeptical, to put it mildly. I didn't expect big results. To be honest, I didn't expect any results, except maybe smelling like a banana. And Lauren doesn't even like bananas. We were wrong. Scrubbing our hands and feet with the sugar/banana goo made our skin so soft, it was like having hands made of butter. (In a good way, not a Tim Burton movie kind of way.) It was so good, we packed up the leftovers and brought them home after the retreat was done. This led to my subsequent discovery, which is that when you use the scrub in the shower, it makes you and your home smell like Funfetti cake. I still can't decide if that's good or bad. We might have noticed that aroma earlier, except after the scrub we put on argan oil. Which smells like ham. Or tanned deerskin. So here's my verdict on argan oil: overhyped, over-priced, really stinky.

Last but not least, there was the avocado facial. First things first, if you read the ingredients list above, you may have noticed that our face mask was technically edible. So you may be wondering, did you taste it? Answer: yes, we did. And while I'm not about to suggest you bring to your next party, it was much tastier than the green juice. I would rather eat that entire bowl of face mask with my hands tied behind my back than have to take one sip of the green juice. 

Also, eating it might be easier than using it for its intended purpose. Putting on a thick layer of gloppy avocado was a challenge to say the least. It was not interested in cooperating with the half hour time requirement and voiced its displeasure by making my face sting with varying degrees of intensity. A rogue avocado chunk also spent five minutes abseiling down my nose before making a kamikaze plop onto the sink. Needless to say, it was not very glamorous. And I'm not sure it did anything for my skin. 

But I did learn an important lesson: it is very difficult to wear an avocado. 

Lauren and I, demonstrating sea monster chic.

Chachaphobia and the Dance of Wellness

Dance and I are not a match made in heaven. When music is playing, I lose the ability to count. My right foot and my left foot have creative differences and haven't worked together for years. I have no idea what I'm supposed to do with my arms. I have a deep-seated fear of the cha-cha. And sometimes I crash into inanimate objects. Like the floor. But with the soaring popularity of workouts like Barre Method (which I've tried before), Zumba, and pole dancing classes, Lauren and I knew we were going to have to give dance fitness a shot.

For our "art as wellness" day, we'd be taking on four DVDs: The New York City Ballet Workout; Sizzling Salsa; Belly Dance: Arms, Abs, Hips, Buns, and Thighs; and Carmen Electra's Aerobic Striptease Hip-Hop. At this point you're probably thinking, "Aerobic striptease counts as art?" But have you ever tried to do sexy face while sweating profusely and doing late 90s dance moves? I'm telling you, it's an art. You might also be thinking that the name of our belly dance DVD sounds more like a dinner menu for cannibals than a workout. I agree. So I have renamed it Belly Dance: Isolations from Hell. 

We did not get off to a good start. The first move of workout #1 was simple: "Breathe in." For reasons unknown, this resulted in a high-speed collision in which I accidentally gouged Lauren with my ring. (This was after she fell off the ottoman trying to put her sneakers on.) It didn't get much better from there. I spent half the time walking backwards and forwards counting and waiting for an opportune time to get back in sync with Carmen Electra. It was rarely, if ever, successful. This led to an important discovery: striptease counting is not great exercise. But this was a wellness retreat. I needed tough workouts. It was time for drastic measures. It was time for The 3-Fold Path to Dance Madness for Those Who Suck at Dance, or 3FPDMTWSD (What, the acronym is too long? You must not be from Washington.)

Step One: Take a deep breath. Accept, without judgment, the fact that you're about to make a fool of yourself.

Step Two:  Mindfully, position yourself away from staircases and open windows. 

Step Three: Visualize a chihuahua drinking Red Bull. Harness his ch'i. Dance, little rat dog! Dance!

This was my strategy and I went all out. I flailed my arms. I leaped unnecessarily. Was it graceful? No. But it was a workout. It may have been a completely different workout from the one Lauren and the people on the screen were doing (as seen in the picture below), but still, I highly recommend amped-up chihuahua ballet. I was all ready to channel my energy into the next workout. But that was before we started it. Sizzling salsa: the ultimate test of my commitment to looking like an idiot.

The New York City Ballet Workout (sort of)

It is, without question, the most irritating workout DVD ever made. It's led by a Disney villain with psycho eyes, who stares into the camera with rapturous glee and yells "Welcome to my fiesta!" You know, in the way Satan would if he was hosting a theme party. (And don't even get me started on the endless use off the words "sizzling," "spicy," "flavor," "heat" and the 50 other stereotypical words to describe all things Latin, from people to burritos.) Still, I persevered. I put a tragic amount of effort into doing "samba arms." I tried to tune out Cruella and focus on doing my own crazy-pants version of the merengue. But then the unthinkable happened. I pulled a muscle. In my back. Doing something called the mucho mambo combo. (It involved a lot of flinging.)

Once you have injured yourself doing the mucho mambo combo, you have hit your rock bottom. Here are some steps for caring for your mucho mambo combo injury:

Step One: Don't talk about the mucho mambo combo injury. Ever. (Clearly, I broke this rule.)

Step Two: Denial. Don't even admit it to yourself. 

Step Three: Try and keep the pain grunting to a minimum. People ask questions.

But honestly, aside from the aforementioned pseudo-salsa misery (which I blame on this DVD and not all salsa dancing), I have to say it was pretty fun. Once I stopped caring how bad I was at dancing. And if my sore calves were anything go by, it was a good workout. Amazingly, my back mysteriously healed itself during the night. In fact, I felt great when I woke up in the morning. At 6:45 AM. And I am not a morning person. Maybe anything is possible when you dance like a Muppet in need of an exorcism.  

NOTE: You can also check out Lauren's post, Why I Don't Dance Sober, on Just My Mazel.

The Green Juice, or, When Leprechauns Poop in a Glass

When we were first planning this project, there was one thing I knew we'd have to do that I was absolutely dreading: green juice. I spent hours looking through green juice recipes, but eventually had to accept the inevitable truth: celery is always included. 

It is difficult to describe the degree to which I loathe celery. It is my lifelong nemesis, and it permeates even my earliest memories, thanks to the vile snack favored by preschools across America: "ants on a log." In fact, there are only three things I remember about preschool: swingsets, singing oddly repetitive songs about Virginia wildlife, and those heinous bits of stuffed celery. Every day, the "ants on a log" would appear. And every day, I would scoop out the raisins and peanut butter with my tongue and leave the empty celery canals on the plate. (I maintain this is closer to the behavior of an actual anteater and should have been seen as an homage to our fellow mammals, rather than poor table manners.) In fact, "ants on a log" was such a constant presence in my childhood that, to this day, one of the things I like most about being an adult is that no one can make eat celery. 

And then came bootcamp day of the DIY wellness project. To be fair, no one forced me to do this. But Lauren and I agreed to try the biggest wellness trends, and it seems like half the fluff articles I read online extoll the wonders of green juice (and juicing in general). It seemed like cheating to only put in the green veggies I like (which is, incidentally, all of them except for celery). And that is what led us to put celery, kale, wheatgrass, cucumber, an apple, and a pear in a blender yesterday, and dare to drink the neon green sludge that was formed as a result. 

And it was every bit as bad as we thought it would be. It was like you chopped up Ursula the Sea Witch and put her in a glass. It was like koala barf - in a glass. It was like leprechaun poop - in a glass. It tasted liked celery. And we made a video of it. So for your viewing pleasure (or digust), Lauren (of Just My Mazel) and I present "The Green Juice, or, When Leprechauns Poop in a Glass."

A quick disclaimer and a word of forewarning: We made this video at the end of bootcamp day, after multiple workouts. This is what we look like covered in sweat, sand, salt, and no makeup. Vanity went out the window on Day 1 of the project. And for those with sensitive ears, we apologize for the loud celery-induced expletive in the middle of the video. (It was a moment of weakness.)

One post, two flavors? Check out Lauren's take on the green juice experiment at Just My Mazel.

Because Laughter is the Best Medicine

Lauren and I have arrived in an undisclosed location on the East Coast with one mission: to get well. "Are you sick?" you may ask. No, we are not. Confused? To be honest, so were we. I consider myself to be a healthy, active person. And yet not a day goes by that I don't receive bits of advice, often contradictory, that subtly imply that my life choices will result in me falling into a heap of distress and disease before I hit 30. (Example: "You still eat wheat? But wheat is poison!") Never mind that health trends are propelled in and out of the limelight faster than a cheetah strapped to a jet pack.

Typically I just roll my eyes. I've never smoked. I workout. I eat an unholy amount of spinach. So I never bother with these new-fangled ideas. (Yes, sometimes I'm like a crotchety old man from the Victorian era.) But then Lauren and I came up with the project. A three-day DIY wellness retreat, where we would unscientifically test fitness, diet, and beauty trends day and night. We would jump on the wellness bandwagon. We would run barefoot. We would drink coconut water. And we would blog about the disasters results.

Our retreat is divided into three themes (guess which one we're looking forward to the least):
Day One: Artsiness as Wellness
Day Two: Boot Camp
Day Three: Spa Day

And we have two rules.
1. Everything is DIY. That means no personal trainers, fancy gyms, or fitness classes. We don't actually get to go to a real spa.

2. Safety first. We will not be taking strange herbal supplements. We will pay attention to aches, pains, mental collapse, etc. as we put our bodies through the ringer.

Oh, and there is one last thing. We're not doing a juice cleanse. We know it's the biggest trend out there right now, but it doesn't mesh well with multi-hour workouts. (And call me crazy, but here is my logic on juice cleanses: Mother Nature opted to give me teeth. My teeth are useless for defending against a yeti attacks. Ergo, they are meant for chewing. Thus, I chew.)

So stay tuned for additional posts, as we go through hell to get well. Because if there's one theory we subscribe to, it's that laughter is the best medicine.

(You can also check out Lauren's blog, Just My Mazel, to continue reading about our reluctant road to wellness.)

With Cheeks the Color of a Baboon's Backside

Much like our canine friend the chihuahua, I am not made for the cold. Blame it on my lifelong acclimation to muggy Virginia summers, my Mediterranean roots, or just general wimpiness. If the temperature dips below 70 degrees (21 degrees Celsius for all my metric system readers), I'm probably chilly. In fact, I'm usually so cold in my apartment that I wrap myself head to toe in blankets like a polar burrito (as seen on the right).

Why then, you may ask, do I plan so many trips that require the following packing considerations:
"I wonder how many pairs of thermal underwear I can fit under these jeans."
"I should probably own more faux fur."
"Is my coat puffy enough to protect against moose antlers?"

The reason? Offseason travel. Sure, you can empty your wallet to escape winter at a crowded tropical beach. But why do that when you can spend pennies to risk frostbite alone in the tundra? Here are three reasons I take the cold-weather option.

1. I travel with Pulpo, the human furnace. While I'm concerned with my ears turning black and dropping off my head, Pulpo is flapping his jacket open in the wind like a flightless bird trying to cool off. Conveniently, I can use him to syphon off body heat like an iguana on a hot rock.

2. Traveling in the depths of winter really is much less expensive. Places that are completely unaffordable in nice weather are suddenly dirt cheap. All you have to do is wade through four feet of snow to get to your hotel room.

3. Here are some things you can only do in winter: Go on a sleigh ride through a herd of elk. See bison clearing the snow with their heads. Be the only visitors at Blarney Castle. Stay in a luxury hotel for $95 a night. And last but not least, drink something called a hot apple pie toddy. (Obviously these are not all at the same place. Do not go looking for bison or cocktails at Blarney Castle. You will not find any.)

And sometimes the practical reasons go right out the window, because winter is spectacular all on its own. Like in Wyoming. Yes, the temperature is -5 degrees (-20 Celsius). Yes, you're vaguely concerned that your frozen toes may fall off when you remove your boots later. Yes, your wind-burned cheeks have turned a shade of scarlet typically seen only on the back end of a baboon. And yes, you're on a snowmobile at dawn looking like an arctic storm trooper, wearing a giant helmet and person-shaped padded snowsuit. But isn't it worth it, when this is what you're sitting in the middle of:

Of course, people will still think you're crazy. When you return from your travels, they will most likely say something to the effect of "Didn't you just freeze?" or "Seriously? Who goes there in January?" And you will be able to hold your head high, with your cheeks the color of a baboon's backside, and say "I do. I go there in January."

Newlyweds Crushed by Flatulent Elephant

I am constantly on the lookout for situations that will result in my death being reported on Yahoo’s News of the Weird. In moments of possible danger, headlines appear in my brain: American Tourists Brutalized by Charlie Chaplin Impersonator, or, Slasher Monkey Disembowels Students at Taj Mahal. It’s my brain’s way of telling me, “So the Roman mime just hit you in the ass with a riding crop. Best not to retaliate. He looks like he does judo in his spare time.” (Or in the case of the monkey, “Run. Run now.”) But sometimes this warning system kicks in a little too late, when there’s no escape option. And such was the case this week, when these words flashed through my mind: Newlyweds Crushed to Death By Flatulent Elephant.

Thailand is the mothership of weird news. Drugged Owls Found in Man’s Pants. Cache of Pygmy Marmosets Escape from Guitar Case at Bangkok Airport. Smuggler Dies After Cobra in Underwear Bites Buttock. OK, I made up those titles. But Thailand does produce a staggering number of stories in which air travelers alert the authorities because someone’s pants are chirping. As I have zero interest in joining an international crime ring and even less in stashing fruit bats in my skinny jeans, I wasn’t too worried. Which is why my alarm bells didn’t go off when our tour guide suggested we ride an elephant up a mountain.

I did have a bit of trepidation. After all, I’ve been on an elephant before. In India, my traveling companion, whom we shall call Mango in this post (she now has multiple pseudonyms on this blog), and I rode an elephant named Rangmala. Rangmala was the Ferrari of the elephant world. I’m pretty sure we broke the land speed record at one point, as she bolted for the cliff’s edge while trumpeting like a lunatic. Naturally, we interpreted this to mean, “Enough with hauling things up the mountain! Up, down, up, down! Who am I?! Sisyphus?! I’ll jump! I mean it!” In fact, what she really meant was, “Excuse me, please, but I must pee.” It was terrifying, and I truly hope that is the only time in my life I‘ll be glad to be enveloped in wisps of pee steam.

This time our elephant (whom we will call Bang, because in the adrenaline haze I forgot the second syllable of his name) was definitely not built for speed. Bang was built to digest. Two minutes into the ride (when I was already gripping the safety bar like a sailor clinging to the mast of a sinking ship) Bang stopped to eat a thicket, after which he expelled an equal amount of waste products. A short time later, Bang stopped again to eat large quantity of reeds. He then paused to release a gas pocket so powerful I’m pretty sure birds dropped out of the sky behind us due to lack of oxygen.

Eventually we came to a harrowingly steep and narrow part of the path, which had turned entirely to goo thanks to the monsoon rains. It was covered in elephant foot slide marks. It was on the edge of a cliff. It was easy to imagine the elephant tumbling backward, smushing us flat like cartoon characters. That’s when the prospective headline popped into my head: as Bang opted to take his next meal, in the middle of this death slope, us leaning precariously backward in the rickety elephant saddle. He munched away while the mahout tried to urge him onward. Bang’s only response was to make huffing sounds as if to say, “Screw you, I will eat this tree.” We were there for what felt like the better part of a decade, the blood slowly draining out of my head, allowing the next elephant a chance to catch up. Bang waited until the elephant’s head was only a couple of feet away, before releasing The World’s Most Epic Fart. There are operas performed in less time than that fart. It reverberated. It is the sound used in the making of horror movies when some ancient, cursed tomb has been opened, unleashing the beast within. When it was finally over, there was a long silence. Then the stunned reaction of the couple behind us: “Wow.” They didn’t utter a word for the rest of the trip.

Bang’s intestinal pyrotechnics continued up the mountain, prompting the mahout to turn around from his perch and say, “He eats many bananas.” Which at once made me a) never want to eat bananas again, and b) feel very guilty for having fed some to the elephants back at the camp. Eventually we made it to our destination, very much alive and three-dimensional. Which just goes to show that you can face your fears, with the only appreciable reward being a new addition to your mental library of nature sounds. (Seriously, not everything can lead to an epiphany.) But at least it gives me the perfect excuse to avoid future pachyderm riding opportunities. Because I can already see the headline: Blogger Crushed by Elephant Forsees Own Demise.

Us with Bang, who is actually very cute. You can see me gripping the handle bars. You can also see the unfortunate couple behind us.

This Traffic Circle Does Not Exist

I am hopeless at navigation. I could get lost in a shoebox. I have gotten lost on the street where I live. I once pulled over at a motel for directions, and discovered, to my surprise, that I had landed in West Virginia. Very often I have no idea where I am.

Some people have told me this is a blessing in disguise. “If you’re wandering around clueless for hours, you’ll encounter all kinds of wonderful and unexpected things” they say. Lies. It’s a great way to find the places where someone will either try to purchase you for the night or assess how much ransom they could demand from your family. I submit as evidence the following quotes:

“Man, there are a lot of hookers on this street.” (My friend Chris, in Berlin, Germany)

“That’s the fifth chop shop we’ve seen on this block. I’m pretty sure the house on the corner is a mafia stronghold. I think we took a wrong turn somewhere.” (Oso (formerly known as Pulpo), in Buenos Aires, Argentina)

But the biggest problem doesn’t come on foot. It’s in the car. Yes, that’s right. The GPS. “Wait,” you may be thinking, “the GPS is supposed to help you!” It’s true, the GPS is capable of finding a route to your destination. It inspires your trust. You just have to follow its instructions. And that is exactly what makes this device so subtly evil. (Well, that and it receives its information from space, which leaves you vulnerable if aliens ever decide to claim your Volvo.)

My first GPS was named Federica. She got her name because her voice sounds like a phone sex operator who moonlights as a professional assassin, and obviously such a person would be named Federica. To her credit, Federica did actually get us to Mount Rushmore. But not before taking us up the wrong mountain, directing us into a picnic area, then taking us back the way we came for twenty miles. It was an early lesson: the GPS will get you there eventually, but it will do its damnedest to make you give up first.

And so it was on Part One of our honeymoon. Pulpo (ugh, I mean Oso) and I rented a GPS-equipped car for a few days in rural France. Now let me tell you something about PulpOso. He is from the country (and very proud of it). His celebrity doppelganger is Paul Bunyan. He is one of those people who can tell you your exact latitude and longitude just by mentally cross-referencing the local bird songs and species of moss. He says that is an exaggeration, but I have seen this rural magic. So when my husband exclaimed halfway through our four-hour trek to the cottage, “Where the hell is this thing taking us? It’s like France by goat path!” I knew we were in for it. The GPS had gone rogue.

Our path across the map looked like a sugar-high kindergartener had drawn it on an Etch-a-Sketch. And as the trip went on, we discovered that sometimes your GPS aspires to be a murderer. Exhibit A: Its suggestion that we drive 90 KPH on gravel mountain switchbacks only wide enough for a large cow. Exhibit B: Its demand that we drive up a claustrophobia-inducing alleyway, straight into a pedestrians-only farmer’s market. And lastly, Exhibit C: The directions that took us up a staggeringly steep cobblestone path, which had been closed off due to deadly rockslides. Oh, and did I mention this path was on the edge of a cliff? If you’d like a visual of the scene inside the car during that ordeal, go find a cat. Then pick it up. Take it to the seaside. Try and throw it in the ocean. Look at the cat. That’s what I was doing in the car.

On the other hand, there is one major benefit to that devious dashboard parasite known as the GPS. You can never have enough ridiculousness in your travels. Maybe it’s just me, but I enjoy whenever life borders on the absurd. Like this scene in our car:

PulpOso: I’m coming up to a traffic circle. Which direction do I go?
Me: There is no traffic circle.
PulpOso: What do you mean? There it is. There’s the traffic circle. It’s huge.
Me: Not on the GPS. It made up its own road.
PulpOso: The traffic circle doesn’t exist. Great. So where do I go?
Me: Maybe go straight? If the road on the GPS existed, it looks like it would go straight.
PulpOso: What?
Me: I don’t know. Just go straight.
PulpOso: Right, cause the traffic circle we’re on right now as we speak doesn’t exist.
Me: Exactly.

I admit, I have to appreciate a machine that pays homage to the work of George Berkeley, Abbot & Costello, and Rand McNally simultaneously. A little bit. Maybe. As long as it stays away from the cliffs.

Mini Monsters, Snowballs, and Shots

As Pulpo (AKA Oso) and I have been planning our honeymoon, we've fielded a lot of questions about our choice of destinations. Most often it's something like, "You do realize that France and Thailand are nowhere near each other, right?". Yes, we do, but I think we've established by now that Pulpo and I are a little nuts. Another common one has been "Why go to Thailand? Don't you think you'll get sick there?". And I have to admit, that question leaves me a bit perplexed.

I have never been to Thailand. I don't think I've ever met anyone from Thailand. I used to send stacks of papers to Thailand for my old job, but to my knowledge, viruses haven't figured out how to fax themselves. So it's pretty much guaranteed that I'm going to run into a whole universe of pathogens I've never encountered before. Mini-monsters lurking in a bowl of coconut soup, plotting an extended vacation in my digestive system. Squadrons of airborne bacteria released when someone sneezes next to me in a spice market. Monkey-riding insects with cartoonishly evil Latin names, trying to hail a human taxi. Yeah, I think there's a good chance we might catch something.

I do not have an invincibility complex. There are lots of those people traveling the world. Sometimes they fit the stereotype: a 23-year-old college dropout who goes by the name OakFish who hasn't washed his hair in three months and doesn't own a pair of shoes. OakFish will walk off alone at night with any person who offers an invitation. He will eat raw sheep eyeball, if the opportunity presents itself. He thinks common sense gets in the way of "the experience." But let's not pick on OakFish. I have met plenty of well-educated, well-dressed, well-informed people who proudly proclaim, "I didn't get any vaccines or malaria pills before I went to Kenya, and I'm just fine." And they are just as crazy as OakFish. Survival is not proof that you used good judgment. It just means you were lucky. I, on the other hand, am I human pincushion. I'll list my vaccines at the bottom, in case anyone is interested.

Still, no matter how well you try and protect yourself, infections and injuries will still happen. And unfortunately, sometimes they snowball. Take for example, my trip to India with my friend Sneezy (Obviously Sneezy is not her real name, but it works for this post). When we got off the plane, Sneezy already wasn't feeling so hot. By the time we got to our host family, Sneezy had a full-on nasal/respiratory/swamp monster cold going on (which she had obviously caught in the U.S., but would now have to deal with in India). That night we accidentally knocked down the privacy curtain shielding our room from the other household occupants. While trying to put it back up, I managed to fall off the wobbly chair I was standing on and slam my ribs on the backrest. I spent the entire trip trying to breathe like a hamster, because if I inhaled completely, the pain was like being stabbed with a pitchfork. Meanwhile, Sneezy's immune system, already overwhelmed by the swamp monster cold, fell prey to everything else we encountered, including (but not limited to): a second cold, a sore throat, a stomach bug, and finally, some lovely intestinal parasites. I managed to stay comparatively healthy until we started traveling outside Delhi, when I was overtaken by some kind of fever. I remember dragging myself through the Taj Mahal, cold and miserable. It was my sickest day of the whole trip. It was also the day we got attacked by a monkey.

These things happen when you travel. They're also just part of life. (Well, maybe not getting attacked by a monkey, but you know what I mean.) The sickest I've ever been, without comparison, was in Western Europe. There are no special health hazards there. I just happened to pick up a nasty stomach virus, which, thanks to appallingly bad medical care at a Swiss clinic, got worse and worse, until I ended up hospitalized in Germany. I was ferried from doctor to doctor for two hours at the German hospital, trying to communicate in a pathetic mixture of German and English ("Ich bin sehr, sehr krank. Doktor bitte."), before getting to a wonderful internist, who explained that my kidneys weren't working. She gave me tons of IV fluid, and for the first time in days, I was able to sit up without the room spinning. It was a miserable experience.

But aside from the language barrier, it could have happened anywhere, even at home. At least if I'm traveling I get to see cool things while I'm ill, like pagodas and catacombs. I mean, seriously. Pagoda vs. bedroom ceiling? I'll take the pagoda anytime. I don't mean to be trivial. Obviously there are some bad diseases out there. But I'll take that risk over not getting to see the world.

So fingers crossed neither Pulpo nor I will get sick on our honeymoon. Obviously, trips are more fun when you're healthy, especially on a honeymoon. But if we do, it's OK. After all, true love isn't roses and champagne. True love is taking care of someone when they have food poisoning. And we've traveled enough to know that from experience :-).

NOTE: As promised, for those of you interested, here are the vaccinations listed on my yellow card: Hepatitis A (1st dose), typhoid, the adult polio vaccine, typhoid again, Hep A (2nd dose), Tdap, Hepatitis B Booster, 2 flu shots, and yellow fever. This doesn't include my pandemic flu shot from 2009, my three doses of Gardasil, or my childhood vaccinations. Told you I'm a human pincushion.

The Idiot's Guide to Accidental Swimming

If there's one thing I learned in Scotland, it is this: I have no skills. Scotland is the land of intense and bizarre skills that I had a) never heard of before the trip and b) don't have a prayer of attaining at any point in the future.

Take, for example, the gentleman at the left. At first you may think, "this man's skill is looking awesome." And while he is clearly rocking his muscle shirt and kilt ensemble (because when you look like you eat raw puma meat for breakfast, you can wear whatever the f@&# you want), please direct your attention to what's in his hand. It's a big metal thing that weighs [mumble]billion pounds, which he flung across a field after spinning around a few times like a big, bearded ballerina. It was seriously impressive. This man later went on to throw a medley of objects across the field, including a big rock, a giant log, and something that looked like a anvil on a stick. I, conversely, couldn't arm wrestle a squirrel. Puma-eating-ballerina: 1; Lani: 0.

For exhibit two, I submit the preschoolers in the photos to the right. First, I have to congratulate them on their sock choice. I totally want a pair. But more importantly, take a look at how they're all moving in sync with each other. Have you ever seen little kids do that? I babysat in high school. I've worked in a preschool. Usually when little kids are corralled together with music on, about half of them do a weird squat-stand-squat-stand dance with their arms up, and the other half mills around aimlessly like the ghosts in Pacman. These kids moved in perfect timing, gracefully hopping up and down like tiny, plaid-covered kangaroos.

But the mini-highlander to the left really took it to the next level. First of all, she looks like something out of The Matrix. (Seriously, compare her to this picture. Uncanny.) Secondly, did you notice what she's jumping over? That's right, she's leaping over swords. The four year-old is leaping over swords. When I was four years-old, I tripped over my own feet so much that my parents were actually concerned that I had a neurological problem. This girl, on the other hand, is a fairly competent ninja. Tiny ninjas: 1. Lani: 0.

It's not really surprising, though, that I don't have those skills. Unfortunately, however, Scotland also taught me that I'm lacking skills I really thought I had. Like knowing how to read. Or more specifically, pronouncing the letters I read. How do you say Druim na Droichaid exactly? Yeah, no idea. Driving is another example. I thought I knew how to drive. But then the steering wheel moved to the other side, and I had to drive on the left, and there were 8,000 roundabouts, and before I knew it, I had smashed the side-view mirror on a gate. Thank god for the "peace of mind" insurance package.

But I was still pretty sure I possessed the ability to decide for myself when to go for a swim. Not so. Nothing could have made me voluntarily go for an open-water swim in chilly, drizzly Scotland. I'd have been even less likely to go for said swim in my jeans, shoes, and shirt, while carrying my camera. Did I end up going for such a swim? Yes, I did. Where? In Loch Ness. Thanks to a horse named Moss. We had made it about halfway through our lake crossing when Moss stopped. He turned to the side, with that unmistakeable horse facial expression that says, "I'm freaking out, man!" Then he tried to launch into orbit, flinging me sideways into Loch Ness, much like what the puma-eating ballerina did to the big rock.

So here's my advice should you unexpectedly find yourself swimming in Loch Ness.
1) Enjoy the moment! You're in Loch Ness! I mean, if you had to fall into any lake, this one makes for the best story.
2) When walking out, try to move fast. That mud has some sucking power.
3) Start laughing. That way you can join right in with your companions on shore, who are by this point doubled over and red in the face.

So what did I do when I finally got to dry land? I pet Moss and slung myself into the saddle. I have realized after all this that I do have one skill. I may not be able to keep myself on the horse, but I'm pretty good at getting back on. And for the Disaster with a Passport, that's a useful skill to have.

Me, having just crawled out of Loch Ness.

Me, back on the horse post-swim



















And just to provide a more equitable comparison with the little highland dancers, here's a picture of me at age five, showing off the proudest accomplishment of my life to that point: losing my first tooth. And I didn't really lose it. It wouldn't fall out on its own, so the dentist had to pull it out. Yeah . . . they win.

The Zombie Goes to Tea

In theory, I possess the ability to sleep on airplanes. In practice, I almost never do. No, it's not because the seats were designed by medieval torturers. I'm pretty much OK with folding myself into a small cube and passing out. It's the one place where being built like a dachshund is actually a plus. (If you have never seen a dachshund, this is what they look like, dressed as hot dogs: click to see) No, the reason I don't sleep on planes is because I'm always seated next to people who are either a) crazy; b) smelly; or c) possess some kind of sleep disorder that turns them into a space invader.

Allow me to illustrate. In category A, we have the man who kept me awake for seven hours while trying to convince me to come to Greece and meet his mother. In category B, we have the algae-covered man I shared a row with on a flight from Japan to Detroit. His carry-on was giant trash bag full of socks, and he smelled like the small mammal house at the zoo. Lastly, in category C we have the Rasputin look-alike with narcolepsy whose unconscious head bludgeoned me every twenty minutes on a flight from DC to LA. (If you don't know what Rasputin looked like, this is him: click here. I ask you, would you be able to sleep next to that?)

And on my flight to London last Tuesday, I was once again given a less than ideal seatmate. She also fell into category C. I should have known things were not going to go well when she piled her jacket, blanket, and pillow on top of me in order to buckle her seatbelt. I should really have known after she fell asleep twice while eating. But the moment I actually realized I wasn't going to get any rest was when she started tilting further and further to the side, like a stinky-breathed Leaning Tower of Pisa, until she took up more of my seat than I did. Where was I, you may ask? Pressed flat to the window like a tree frog. Eventually a flight attendant came to the rescue and woke her up. And then we repeated the whole process for six and half hours. Leaning Tower of Pisa. Tree Frog. Rescue. Repeat. All night long.

If you've ever flown east across the Atlantic, chances are you've arrived at the crack of dawn, about eight hours before you can check into your hotel. Such was the case for my arrival. It was hour 20 of being awake. Wrinkled and cranky, I left my bags at hotel reception and set out into the city to kill several hours. As time crept on, the sleep deprivation began to take its toll. My eyes got redder and would only open one at a time. This affected my depth perception, so I tripped a lot. I became too tired to focus, which caused illiteracy, aimless roaming, and an inability to speak in anything but moans. In short, I become a zombie. (Since I was in the U.K., think either 28 Days Later or Shaun of the Dead, depending on your taste.)

Technically, I could check into the hotel at 3:30. But I was meeting friends. They had made high tea reservations for four. I didn't have time to go back to the hotel. So I went, in zombie mode, to tea at Fortnum and Mason. I looked like hell. I could hardly sit up. I'm sure the waitress was surprised to see the bedraggled semi-conscious heap look up at her with one eye and say, "I'd like a pot of rose pouchong, please." After that, I mostly remember consuming lots of miniature food. (I'm somewhat concerned that the kitchens at Fortnum and Mason are staffed by Lilliputians.)

As the day, and then night, went on, I kept saying, "I should really go check in after this." And for reasons I don't quite comprehend, it just never happened. By the time I finally got back to my hotel, it was 1:30 in the morning. I had been awake for about 36 hours (at least I think it was 36, I lost the ability to count in the afternoon). I was surprised to discover that the woman who collected my bags was still on duty. Her coworker, who we will call Igor, eyed me suspiciously as I dragged myself into the lobby. I put my head down on the counter and said something like, "Left bags in the morning. Must need room. I sleep." He smiled and said, "Come with me. They are in the back. I must open [lengthy pause] the vault." Um, creepy. It was at this point that I noticed the dirty flickering overhead lamps and dark red stains on the floor. The dusty windows. The creaking doors. And the fact that the staff seemed to work all night without needing sleep . . . I am staying at a hotel run by Nosferatu, I thought. (I read the Twilight series three years ago, so clearly I'm an expert on these things.) They're were definitely vampires. I should have been concerned. Igor the Undead was about to turn me into his own personal Jamba Juice and all I could think was, "Damn it, now I'll never get to brush my teeth."

Needless to say, I survived. Igor handed me my bags, and I went to my room. I was still fairly sure I was going to be murdered in my sleep, based on the state of the room. That was obviously what had happened to the last occupant. But I was so exhausted I didn't care. "They can have me," I thought, "Just as long as I get to take a nap first." And with that, I, the tea-drinking zombie plopped on the bed and fell fast asleep.

Snuggies at the Studios: A Birthday Story

Here are some things I don't usually do on the weekend: a) hug a rapper; b) wear false eyelashes so long I could thresh a wheatfield by blinking (or really, wear false eyelashes at all); and c) drink frozen cocktails dipped in liquid nitrogen by a reality TV star. Did all of those things happen last weekend? Yes, they did. It was very, "Toto, I don't think we're in Washington anymore." But in an awesome way, not a flying-monkeys-are-coming-to-make-me-their-bitch kind of way.

Don't get me wrong, I love Washington. And I'm sure I'm used to things that would make other people have that Oz-like feeling ("This is the longest presidential motorcade ever! Can't I cross the street yet?!"). But it's kind of like veggie pad thai. I love veggie pad thai. It's my staple Thai food. But sometimes, you want something different. You want the evil prince curry with fried tofu. Los Angeles is evil prince curry with fried tofu. But as it happens, I wasn't in Los Angeles for a change of scenery. I was there for a far more important reason: celebrating my cousin's 18th birthday!

If you've ever spent any time with my family, you know that they could make an appendectomy fun. I mean that literally. When family members have had surgery, we have been known to turn hospital rooms into party suites. (We're pretty sure restricted visiting hours are detrimental to recovery.) So for actual celebrations, like Ariana's birthday, just imagine. After all, 18 is big deal: (Insert Rock the Vote PSA here). Now, I'd like to go on and on here about how talented my cousins are, and how fabulous they were at the birthday extravaganza: Frankie was hilarious, and Ariana's voice is even more astonishingly awesome than this fish: (click here to see the fish). But there's a problem. I am so proud of them, and was so blown away by their show on Saturday, that I'm alternately gushy or speechless about them, and neither works very well in a blog. So sufficed to say, however wonderful they are on stage, they are just as amazing off it. I'd consider myself lucky to have them as cousins, even if they were tone-deaf garage collectors instead of brilliant performers.

In addition to their awesomeness, there were other recurring themes to the weekend. Here are three of them:

1. Nonna
Our grandmother is a very special woman. When you think of Nonna, don't picture an old granny sitting in rocking chair with her knitting, waiting for the roast to be done. Nonna is the matriarch. She wears stilettos and swears like a sailor. She has uncanny luck at three-card poker. She wears sunglasses indoors, because she can. She is Nonna, known universally by the one name, like the geriatric Madonna. She is, in short, kind of a badass. And after she was introduced to Patti LaBelle this weekend, a legend of the music world, Nonna came back to her seat and said, "She was thrilled to meet me." Later on in the night, she was asked not once, but twice, for her autograph. She signed "Nonna."

2. Snuggie vs. Slanket
A few of us got into a conversation, after a few cocktails, about the merits of the snuggie versus the slanket. (The party favor was a pink snuggie.) We ultimately decided that the snuggie wins, not because of any real benefits over the slanket (they're both just blankets with sleeves), but because the word "slanket" sounds either like a murder weapon or something from a porn movie. For four of us, "Slanket, baby, slanket" became the catchphrase of the night.

3. Interesting Answers to the Question "What do you do for a Living?"
In Washington, there aren't many answers to that question. Usually it's something like, "I'm a lawyer with [complicated acronym]." I discovered that in L.A., you get answers like, "Oh, I'm a figure skating coach" or "I'm a Ferrari broker" or "I'm a pet masseuse." (Two of those three were real answers I got this weekend. You guess which two.)

Now, before I finish this, I just want to state that I'm aware I've mentioned wheat twice in two posts, which is bizarre. But since I may have offended some wheat enthusiasts last week, I thought I'd include something to make amends. If wheat is your passion in life, take a look at this video, which shows wheat threshing, just as my Grande ancestors may have done: Party time in the wheatfield.

Nonna and Grandpa. If I told you how old they are, you wouldn't believe it. Also, Nonna would kill me.

The Birthday Girl and I before her party (I've exercised great restraint in not using her childhood nickname)

There are few genes more dominant on this earth than the Grande jawline and eye shape. Here are Frankie, Grandpa, and I displaying said characteristics.

Spin the Globe, Point a Finger

When Pulpo and I first moved into our apartment, the first thing we did was put up a world map. (Actually, the first thing we did was paint. But then we put up the map.) We covered it in colored coded pins for places we've been, and we stuck in big white flag pins for the places we wanted to go. The debate over which countries would receive a white flag pin was intense. These were going to be our priority countries. Funds would be allocated. Lists and timelines would be drawn up. We took it seriously. I campaigned hard for Mongolia (I had just seen The Story of the Weeping Camel), but alas, my bid was rejected. Pulpo countered with Morocco, but I vetoed (mostly out of despair over the crushing defeat of Mongolia). Mysteriously, Greenland managed to get a white flag pin. In the end, we had about ten white flag pin destinations . . . And we've never gone to any of them.

We could have. We've gone lots of places since The Great Map Debate of '08. But instead we went elsewhere. Inevitably, when people see the map in our apartment, they say, "Oh, are these the places you're going to go next?" And we don't really have a good answer, other than, "No. In fact, we think the white flag pins might be cursed." We came to this realization one night while tossing around ideas for our honeymoon. We were talking about a place we'd both like to go and I said, "Hey, maybe we should put a pin in the map for it!" Horrorstruck, Pulpo said, "No! Then we'll never go there!" My reaction: "Ooooh, that's true. Nevermind."

When I think it through though, I'm about 99% sure that evil spirits haven't possessed our map. I think the problem is much simpler: we took it too seriously. We almost always pick our travel spots based on what we're excited about in the moment. Sometimes they come out of the blue. And there isn't much discussion. When Pulpo was working overseas last year, we planned to meet somewhere in the middle for a week. Here's how we decided where to go:

Me: I'm not sure where we should go.
Pulpo: Let's go to the Philippines.
Me: Why the Philippines?
Pulpo: Why not the Philippines?
Me: Good point. Let's go.

This is pretty much how we make every travel decision. There's no debate. I could get excited about a trip to our backyard, and Pulpo is up for anything. Which is good, because some of my ideas are a little out there. (If you're ever in Szentendre, Hungary, there is a marzipan museum, and in it there are Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and a life-sized Michael Jackson made out of marzipan. Amazing.) Anyway, the point is that it's much more exciting to decide on a whim than to consult the methodically negotiated map. So that's what we do. The big white flag pins are a buzzkill. Which pretty much makes them useless. Which means maybe there's hope for Mongolia yet!

Of course, the budgeting, booking, and logistics are not done on a whim, but that's a whole other subject, about which I will never write a blog post. Why not? Because it's about as riveting as an encyclopedia on various kinds of wheat. (Translation for wheat geneticists: Not very exciting at all, but have a good time with your freaky wheat.)

And now for two side notes . . .

When I first started the blog, I thought maybe five people would be reading it, so I didn't think there was a real need to consult Pulpo when I came up with his pseudonym. I was wrong on both counts, so I have to state for the record that Pulpo strenuously objects to being named Pulpo. He would have preferred Oso. And he has a point. He bears a greater resemblance to an oso than a pulpo. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, I suggest Google Translate (Spanish to English).

And the second note: I have written and posted this whole blog entry while on a flight to Los Angeles. I have never been on plane with internet access before. I bet this is how the pilgrims felt at the end of winter.

Trolls, Voodoo, and the Pacific: An ELM Adventure

Before there was Panama, there was ELM. What does ELM stand for, you may ask? It's actually just our names: Emily, Lani, and Margaret. But I get asked that question so often, I'm going to come up with a more interesting explanation of the acronym. Effervescent liquid marmosets. Elephants love muffins. It's something I'll keep working on.

ELM grew out of my all-consuming desire to go to South Dakota. I had taken an anthropology class on the native groups of the Plains my senior year, and as Pulpo will tell you, if I read about a place long enough, I will become completely obsessed with going there. Unsurprisingly, most people did not share my passion for South Dakota. In fact, my search for travel companions was usually met with reactions like "Why in the name of god are you going to South Dakota?" or "Who the hell would want to go there?" Thankfully, I got an answer to the last one: Emily. For months we planned our trip and tried to convince Margaret to come with us. Finally, a couple of weeks before the trip, my cellphone rang: "I seriously need a weekend away. Can I still come to South Dakota?" And ELM was born.

That was in 2008. We have done an ELM trip every year since that first trip to South Dakota. In 2009, we met up in Las Vegas, and road tripped to Utah and Arizona. In 2010, we went to Boston for the 4th of July. And this year, over Memorial Day weekend, we went to Seattle and Portland. We have seen humpback whales, gone on a bison safari, and walked the whole length of The Strip. We have ridden horses on the beach, been to the top of the Crazy Horse Memorial, and eaten donuts shaped like voodoo dolls. But most importantly, we have continued to travel together, through relocations, new jobs, family tragedies, financial constraints, cramped schedules, and all the good things in between. Girlfriends are what keep you sane, and ELM is a bit like recharging the batteries. It's like therapy, with cocktails, sushi, and suitcases. And I wait for it excitedly all year.

So here are some of the highlights from ELM 2011: Seattle and Portland . . .

Oh, and just for the record, South Dakota was awesome, and you'd have to be crazy to not want to go there.

Seafood on sale at Pike Place Market in Seattle

M, L, and E at our hotel in Portland

On the roof of The Nines for drinks

Horseback riding on the Oregon Coast (and Emily's first time seeing the Pacific!)

Wine tasting at Montinore

We waited on line for over an hour at Voodoo Donuts. Definitely worth it. (The cyclops is mine.)

Back in Seattle

Margaret and I on top of the Fremont Troll

My Heat Stroke roll at Japonessa

View over Portland, Oregon

Pictures of Paradise

As promised, here are some pictures from Bocas del Toro, Panama and Playa Nicuesa, Costa Rica:

KoKo Resort Cabins in Bocas del Toro

Me holding a red frog (the guide said it was OK)

Pulpo and I island hopping in Bocas del Toro

Outside an island restaurant (Panama)

Dolphin!

Tiny plane to Costa Rica

Basilisk in a tree in Costa Rica

Flower at the resort

Hiking up to the waterfall

Under the mosquito net in our room

Dear Panama, (Insert Love Letter Here)

Three and a half months ago, I was sitting in the Houston airport, killing time during a three hour layover before my flight to Panama City. More specifically, I was having a glass of wine in the Houston airport, at 10:30 in the morning, in a failed attempt to calm my nerves before moving to a city I had never been to and knew almost nothing about. The wine did nothing to relax me, so instead I became a slightly drunk ball of nerves. Under the combined effect of fermented grapes and thirty pounds of carry-on luggage, I aimlessly roamed the international terminal, walking like a bedraggled pirate. Believe it or not, this was an improvement compared to the weepy zombie that got to the Washington airport at 5 o'clock that morning. It was not my finest day.

Now once again I'm in an airport (Newark this time), stuck here for a three hour layover, waiting to go home for the first time since January. Most of me is ecstatic. I could write a small encyclopedia about how much I've missed my friends and Pulpo. And there are some trivial perks to being home, like free museums, living in a walkable city, and having easy access to copious amounts of sushi. But at the same time, it feels a bit like leaving home to go home. Somewhere along the way, I fell in love with Panama.

I spent the last few days traveling in Costa Rica, a trip planned back in December. Everyone goes to Costa Rica, I thought, and I'll be right next door. Why not go? This week, however, I found myself determined to dislike Costa Rica. Why? Because it wasn't Panama. And I wanted more time in Panama. I refused to accept that a neighboring country could possibly have something to offer that Panama did not. Why was I even bothering to go? It was clearly going to be inferior. Oh, they have sloths? Who cares? I saw two in Panama, so there! I had the sense not to say any of this out loud, but inside my head I was a five year old kid throwing a temper tantrum at Thelma's. I wanted strawberry ice cream, and if I couldn't have strawberry ice cream, I didn't want any ice cream. All other ice cream was obviously going to taste like poop. (NOTE: For those of you unlucky enough to have missed Thelma's, it was an ice cream shop in Great Falls, Virginia, and it was awesome.)

In reality, Costa Rica is very nice and well worth a trip. But it turns out that my cranky brain was right, at least in part. Because the things I'll miss most about Panama just aren't anywhere else. My apartment and its resident lizards who kept it bug-free. (I ended up naming them all Renfield, after the character in Dracula who eats insects.) Having watermelon juice at Pan y Canela every day. Living next to the water and going for runs on the Cinta Costera before going to work. And last, but certainly not least, my friends and coworkers (shout-out to Victoria and Camila! You have a place to stay in Washington any time.).

So now that my time in Panama is done, there is one remaining question: What happens to this blog? Inevitably there will be at least one more entry, with pictures from the last few days in Panama and Costa Rica. But after that? In theory, Disaster with a Passport could go on. The title is pretty general and I travel a lot. I suppose I'll make a decision in the next couple of weeks, but in the meantime, I just wanted to say thanks to everyone who's been reading. When I started this blog, I thought my audience was going to be a few close friends. The pool of readers ended up being larger than I ever imagined, and the blog has officially traveled more places than I have at this point (thanks in no small part to my awesome cousin). I hope I've provided some entertainment for you all, and if not, then I hope it's at least been a good way to procrastinate. So thanks again, everyone!

And Panama, thank you.