Leaves on the Vino

Before I forget, let me mention just a few reasons why I fell in love with California. 

Muir Woods.  Think they'd let me have a tree house here?

Just outside of San Francisco is a green oasis, filled with giant trees, so tall that they make you feel like Doc, Sleepy, Grumpy or Happy.  Happiness is what I felt when I entered into this beautiful forest.  Quiet.  That's all I heard.  The air was so clean, unpolluted.  The colors of nature were all around me - shades of green, brown, gray, and the blue of the sky peeking through the treetops.  Birds were chirping.  The wind was whispering.  I wanted to reach in my bag for a book and snuggle into the safe arms of the trees that made me feel like a munchkin...   

Muir Woods - the giant redwood forest located 12 miles from foggy San Fran.  The land was donated in 1908 to the federal government by William and Elizabeth Kent and became a National Monument.  In fact, the Antiquities Act of 1906 was used for the first time to preserve a living species, the Coast Redwood tree.

A trip to Cali wouldn't be complete without a stop in Sonoma and Napa Valley.  We hopped off at Gloria Ferrar Vineyards, Cline Cellars and Madonna Estate to wet our whistle.  I had never been to a wine tasting before, but I learned to swirl, sniff, and taste like a champ.  More specifically, I learned how to volatilize the aromatic esters.  Yeah, that's right.  Volatilize.  Big, fancy wine word.  

Wine cellar at Madonna Estate in Napa Valley. Barrels of fun.

If the wine gave my head a spin, the countryside took my breath away.  I didn't want to leave.  Can you blame me? 

Gloria Ferrar Vineyards in Sonoma. A whole lot of gorgeous.

Our last full day in San Francisco was a Saturday, and Saturday in San Francisco means the farmers have come to town.  I'd have to say that the Ferry Plaza Farmers Market down by the pier really made me fall head over heels, if I wasn't already starry-eyed.  

Fresh pickings at the Ferry Plaza Farmers Market

Everything was fresh!  Organic!  Homegrown!  The market stands for everything I stand for, everything I'm all about.  We bought homemade boysenberry jam, the boysenberries coming from the seller's own garden.  I sampled as many California almonds as I could before finally settling on dark chocolate almond brittle and hickory smoked almonds.  We added fresh cherry juice to our organic stash, along with another bag of almond brittle, and a couple more jars of jam.  At that moment, I was cursing the fact that I had to hop on a plane the next day and travel thousands of miles.  More than anything, I wished I was a local filling my reusable (and recycled) mesh bag full of fresh fruits and veggies.  By the way, if you ever find yourself at the Farmers Market in San Fran, make sure you're hungry.  You'll leave with a happy, healthy belly thanks to the food vendors set up along the bay. 

Since we're on the subject of tasty food, I can't leave out Mama.  I'm talking about Mama's, a local, family-run eatery on Washington Square.  Insider tip: Get there 30-45 minutes before they open for breakfast.  The line starts at the door and runs the length of the building by the time they open.  They have the best breakfast in the land.  The banana pancakes and freshly squeezed OJ come highly recommended.  Make sure you have cash or a debit card on hand, no credit cards accepted. 

At Mama's - best breakfast I've ever had.

After breakfast, take a walk up to Coit Tower, you're just a few steps away.

  

View from Coit Tower - Alcatraz in the distance.

Sitting on the Dock of the Bay

A new destination.  You've seen pictures, maybe heard some stories, even graciously accepted a few tips on what to see or where to eat.  But until you've been there for yourself, smelled the smells, heard the sounds, felt the foreign climate on your skin, you're only seeing the painting instead of living it. 

I'm truly, madly, deeply in love with traveling.  Perhaps my wanderlust came from too many storybooks and a wild imagination.  Either way, I have a desire to move, to go, to explore.  Christopher Columbus would have been my best bud, I just know it.  

San Francisco is my current stop.  First-timer.  Day one was spent touring the city by tour bus.  (Not my ideal way to roam, but a great way to get a lay of the land.)  The Golden Gate Bridge was playing hide and seek behind a blanket of fog, but its majesty was evident despite it being cut in half.  (FYI, San Fran's foggiest days are in June, July and August.)  International orange is the official color of the bridge, chosen because of its complimentary contrast to the landscape and visibility to ship captains sailing into the bay.  Standing alone, though, international orange wouldn't show so well.  It's as though God created this color especially for the Golden Gate.  Never have I seen a more beautiful color palate.  Nature's gradient with man's compliments.

On to Golden Gate Park, Fisherman's Wharf, Ghirardelli Square and Lombard Street.  Next came the Castro district and two naked hippies sitting in lawn chairs on the sidewalk, showing off their birthday suits.  No tan lines, I can appreciate that (only because their legs were crossed, keeping the boys from seeing the sun and ruining my sweet dreams).  If I lived here, I probably wouldn't wear clothes either.  Not because I'm anxious to "feel what freedom really feels like," but because I wouldn't have money to spend on anything but a roof over my head.  Jeez, San Fran is an expensive city.  A foot of space from your neighbor's house and no yard can cost over one million (even in a bad housing market).  

The weather here is bizarre.  Microclimates they call them.  Ten steps from the water and you're taking off your sweater.  Ten steps closer to the water and you're wishing you had another sweater.  If you're a wimpy Southerner like me, you're wishing you had a parka and hand warmers.  Swear it feels like Christmas in July here.  

Want a bodacious booty?  Walk the streets of San Fran.  The hills are crazy steep and car brakes pampered more than their owners.  Riding a cable car is like riding a roller coaster--I caught myself lifting my hands up on the way down a hill.  Yeah, just hold on when you start tipping over the edge of the hill, it's the smart thing to do.  

The food here is amazing, at least what I've had so far.  Tommy's Joynt is a clever local place that serves you cafeteria style (without the hair nets) at an affordable price.  BBQ beef brisket, mashed potatoes and gravy and cucumber salad was my plate's company, all for a cheap ten bucks.  So, so tasty.  (Make sure you have some Washingtons on hand--Tommy's is cash only.)  I'm always sayin' it, but I promise you, the best food you'll ever eat will most likely be at a local eatery that has avoided The Tourist's Almanac.  

San Fran day one down, three and half more to go. 

Golden Gate Bridge (post fog)

Lombard Street a.k.a The Crookedest Street

San Fran roller coaster

I obviously fell off the chocoholic wagon after this stop...

View of Coit Tower from Lombard Street

 

Chapter XXIV: Changes

The only thing constant in life is change.  Or so they say.  

In case you were wondering, I've been a bit preoccupied since my last post.  You see, I've started a new chapter.  I'm in a place I never wanted to be, living a life I never planned on living.  I should preface this by saying that despite being in a place I never wanted to be, living a life I never planned on living, this new chapter has been even more incredible than I could have ever imagined.  

New Orleans, Louisiana.  A city full of flavor, literally and figuratively.  The natives are proud and patriotic.  The tourists loud and intoxicated.  The Quarter has a stench all its own, but the history is beautifully written on the centuries old brick buildings and intricate wrought iron balconies.  They tell me that now that I'm here, I'll never want to leave.  Well, I had a hard time believing them at first, but after only three months of courting this city, I'm beginning to fall in love.  

New Orleans has a few years on me, but I won't underestimate its ability to woo a Southern belle who longs to be a Yankee (don't tell my daddy I said that).  Lord knows I'm always up for an adventure, so I'm beginning this journey with a brave face, loads of curiosity and an arsenal of ambition.  Here we go! 

For those of us who prefer a picture book, the first few pages of this new chapter in the form of photographs: 

My new city.

Where dreams are formed.

Where I live.

How I escape.

First big girl work assignment in Los Angeles, CA.

First big girl promotion.

Eagles at Jazz Fest.  Happy, happy day.

When Flashing Becomes Socially Accepted

As a company known for innovative ideas and an appreciation for creators, GE stayed true to its brand image by using Instagram to find its newest employee.  The company was looking to hire a new “Instagrapher” to manage GE’s Instagram and Tumblr accounts, so it went straight to the source.  In other words, GE gave its more artistic followers the opportunity to do something the company does every day – create. 

Nearly 4,000 Instagram photos were submitted with the hashtag #GEInspiredMe and then posted to Facebook where fans voted on the finalists.  Those lucky few were then flown to a GE factory in the UK where their photography skills were put to the test. 

GE gave its followers an opportunity to apply for the position of a lifetime by using their own creativity to get them there.  The hashtag #GEInspiredMe sends the message that GE encourages personal expression and values a unique mind.  By living the expression, “a picture is worth a thousand words,” GE created a world where science and art coexist… beautifully.  I believe that smart social is always deserving of a standing ovation, but repurposing an app to take the place of a somewhat consuming task (interviewing a long line of interviewees being asked a standard list of questions), is an example of what social should be – executing a smart strategy versus the usual awful approach where people are driven by tactics.  The company has displayed its understanding that there is a time and place for social media, and when used correctly, this medium can work gloriously.  In this case, flashing became fun for everyone. 

A well-defined objective sometimes calls for an out-of-the-box solution, and with a war-worthy strategy, creativity is able to be the colorful, ingenious thing that it was born to be.

 

Beautiful Barcelona

Barcelona, my first taste of Spain.

Our first night was spent in a local pub, amidst the locals, cheering on Barcelona to a victory over Real Madrid. What a fantastic, truly authentic experience that was. To find a local place to watch the match, we kept our eyes peeled for walking red and blue stripes. After a few minutes of shameless stalking, we found our "stadium." The small pub was filled with locals, the excitement and anticipation of the match coursing through the room. Perfecto.

Seating was at a minimum, so we squeezed into a corner, mixed in with Madrid and Barcelona fans (and what a lively mix). Sangrias in hand, we're ready for the game. Three local guys sit across from us -- one that speaks English, one that speaks baby English (the basics), and another that just smiles a lot. His actual name is German, he doesn't speak German, his dad is German, but he lives in Barcelona and speaks Spanish. Okay.

I got to practice my baby Spanish with the guys, asking them their name, where they're from, and their telephone number. (In high school Spanish, I made sure to remember the important phrases.) We learned Barcelona cheers, strained to see the television through the crowd of seatless fans, and finally celebrated a victory with high fives and toasts. Coming from a non-soccer player, this was one of the most amazing sports experiences I've ever had. Soccer presents such a different environment than football, baseball, etc. It's youthful, joyful, encouraging, non-Barbaric.

Walking outside and hearing the shouts and cheers of Barcelona's fans was surreal. The plaza right outside the pub was lit up with celebration, men hanging off lampposts proudly waving team flags, the whole mass of people yelling "Barca! Barca!" What an incredible moment that I'll never forget.

Ohhh, the food in Barcelona... Tapas are a must if you're in Spain. We landed at a tapas bar called La Flauta the first night. Red shrimp, cuttlefish, sautéed mushrooms and asparagus were eaten first, followed by Cabreos (egg style) coming out second. To make sure that we didn't leave hungry, we ordered mini baguette sandwiches filled with cured meat and local cheese. Mmmm. My favorite dish was Cabreos, hands down. The dish consists of what I like to call French fry potato chips (similar to hash browns but crispier), a semi-spicy sauce, and two eggs, cooked over easy, right on top. The waiter mixed the eggs in at the table, transforming the dish into a gooey concoction that looks suspicious but tastes amazing.

My first taste of Spain, literally and figuratively, was addicting. The beauty that is Barcelona is captivating -- the Spanish culture permeates the air, creating a sweet aroma that carries with it laughter, youth, and warmth.

Next up, Madrid.

A Dramatic Comedy

We left for Barcelona this morning from Carcassonne. We took the 8:05 train to Narbonne. In Narbonne, we realized our ticket was for the 7:40 train, not the 8:05 train. We missed the direct train to Barcelona. The fact that there really was an 8:05 train to Narbonne can only mean that God has a fantastic sense of humor. And the adventure begins...

After this devastating realization, we laughed at ourselves (reluctantly), shrugged our shoulders and went with it. The shortest way to Barcelona was to go to Cerbere, then on to Port Bou Espagne, then on to Barcelona, putting us there at 3:00 pm. Our only option... Okay, we'll take it.

An hour later, we board the train to Cerbere, but just barely. We're eating our chocolate croissants in the cafe and seeing what Rick Steves has to say about Barcelona when Ashley notices that our train has been delayed 15 minutes. Considering that it's a bit of a chore to carry our luggage up and down stairs, I recommended we leave then to find the platform. As we step out of the station, Ashley asks an employee for confirmation (you learn to ask a lot of questions when traveling). He says, "No, this train doesn't go to Cerbere you stupid Americans." He said it all in French, so I'm not positive, but I imagine that's what he said. Well I take off down the platform with no real purpose, I just felt that going straight seemed like the right direction to walk in. I hear Ashley yell my name, and as I turn, I see her climbing on board the same train that Pepe Le Pew said wasn't our train, and it's leaving NOW. If you've ever been left in a strange place (accidentally) by your parents when you were little, you know the fear that started creeping up. I take off, sprinting as fast as I can, polka dotted suitcase in tow, neck pillow swinging from the strap of my backpack like it was possessed.

Are you on the edge of your seat? You should be. It was dramatic. To ease your minds, I made it. I heaved my suitcase up in sync with my step up (this train had three steps to climb.. Awesome). As I was looking up (in utter exasperation) to find the next step, I felt myself falling backwards. The heavy polka dotted bag... I reached out for Ashley, just knowing that I was going to have to wave goodbye from a horizontal position on the platform. At the last second a surge of adrenaline hit, and I propelled forward, almost knocking Ashley down. To make it more fun, the doors on board (the ones in between cars that shut automatically and can be opened by pressing a button) closed after 5 seconds. No lie, 5 seconds. You better have your crap together if you want to get through those doors. Too bad we didn't... After a while, pressing the button just became fun. My foot got locked between the doors, my suitcase fell forward, my backpack fell violently to the floor, and Ashley got knocked into the luggage storage rack thanks to me and the bump of the train. A French couple looked at us like we were disgusting girls that needed to learn some etiquette. Blasphemy.

Could our day get any more interesting? Yes.

The station at Cerbere is a ghost town. Ghost towns only have vending machines. I get an Orangina (a really tasty Italian soft drink), and Ashley gets some coffee from a machine. She's brave, that one. I remember I have edible souvenirs from England and France in my bag, so we broke those out (sorry Dad). Almost two hours later, we get ready to walk to the platform to board our train. A little side note about our luggage... Ashley has spent the past three months in England, so she has some stuff. I packed light so that she could shift some things over to mine to lighten her load. Despite our efforts at consolidating, her luggage wheels have lost their will to live, and my bag has been expanded to its max and is front heavy. (It falls over a lot.) Call us wimps if you'd like, but I've never despised stairs more in my life. It's the same feeling I get when I know I have to run 5 miles. It's necessary, but requires mental preparation. Two French men (looked to be grandson and grandfather) witnessed the entertaining show we put on every time we climb up stairs. We carry our luggage up one case at a time. One of us grabbing the front handle of the case, the other lifting the bottom. It's quite effective. Lord bless them, they both grabbed a case and put it on the train for us when it arrived. Since we only had one stop to go, we left our luggage in the middle of the conjoining cars, but I put my backpack in the luggage rack.

We land at Port Bou Espagne, and our two strong angels help us get our luggage off the train. We purchase our tickets to Barcelona, start walking to the platform, and I think, "Why do I feel so light?" I let go of my suitcase (it falls over) and sprint to the last train we were on. I left my backpack! (I guess this is what your parents felt like when they realized that you were left in that strange place.) Luckily the train was still there and empty. An employee saw me running toward the train and motioned me on board. "Pink bag?!" I say this like he will 1) Understand English and, 2) Make my bag magically appear. He seems to understand and tells me to run down to the end of the train. I have no idea why I should run to the end of the train where I know my bag is not, so I start running through the cars looking at every luggage rack on the way. No pink bag. I step off the train with sunken shoulders when the same guy motions me to walk toward the back of the train where he is. He motions me on board where I see the conductor rummaging through my bag. "Merci!" I exclaim, while thinking silently that he better give me my stuff back. Being an American, I understand the threat an abandoned backpack can be, but a pink backpack with a Smurfs pin and a megaphone key chain that says 'Cheer' might be one to cross off the list.

Long story short, we're now on a train to Barcelona. Today may have been frustrating, but we haven't laughed this much since we started our journey.

Stowaway

Traveling by train is peaceful. One is allowed time to think, gazing out at the landscape as it flashes by in glorious green. When traveling by train in a foreign country, however, the barriers permitting you from enjoying this peacefulness can be too much, but increasingly entertaining. On our journey through France for instance, we missed our train by a second (really, a second), struggled with signs printed in French (characteristic of an arrogant American, my first thought was, "Why can't they print this in English?!"), and currently, we're on board a train to Narbonne as stowaways. Okay, not really. We paid for our tickets online, but due to machines that only take credit cards with chips in them (come on), we, um, have no tickets in hand. Needless to say, I thrive on adventure, so I'm eating this up.

Our stowaway story starts with the conductor (non-English speaking conductor) asking for our tickets. Of course we had no tangible tickets, so through the gallant efforts of Ashley and her memory of the language, game-winning charade moves, as well as the use of an e-mail receipt shown on a smart phone, we managed to ward him off for a few minutes longer. Like Arnold, he'll be back.

To be continued...