Blowfish and Liquor Get It Done Quicker

So, at what point does your highly desirable and long overdue vacation become a calamity of hysterical events that you don’t mind retelling so much anymore because enough time has passed to heal the wound? At this point in time, I suppose. I took a long overdue holiday to my beloved Caribbean (Dominican Republic, Punta Cana to be exact) and settled in an overly posh and not at all affordable resort made affordable to me by a family friend I was travelling with who had extensive travel agency connections. This “friend” of mine was only about a year older than me, so it’s not like our vacation was doomed an awkward mess of generational gaps. We both came to relax, stuff our faces, drink till we fell down and dance our asses off every night at the local disco.

With that out of the way, I was ready for seven days of pure and unadulterated young beach fun. The first three days were filled with alcohol (Cuba Libre and Caipirinha’s being the weapons of mass destruction), among several accounts of severe ocean soaking, over baking and hallucinating and making dozens of happy drunk pals along the way.

“What an insanely wonderful time I’m having”, I thought to myself.
“Could things get any better?”……and they did, for some moments later that day that I had the thought. We recruited about ten drunken hooligans to play with from all over the world, all staying in our resort. We decided it was a beautiful night to throw a beach party on the beach, naturally. The ridiculously expensive resort had beds. On the beach, they were king-sized. What the hell was this all about? They obviously intended to place them there for our evening beach bed party….except the little bugs that live in those mattresses that bit us all to hell disagreed with our reasoning.

After all of us were bitten enough times to prompt a move, the “friend” that I came with and I decided we were quite ravenous and due for some food. We decided that going to a Japanese raw sushi restaurant in the Dominican Republic would be a wise decision, what with all the Japanese that live on the island and all (sarcasm). Being slightly inebriated, I decided I would throw caution to the wind and order all crazy stuff I never eat. Be adventurous, they say.

“JAPANESE BLOW FISH AQUI AQUI”

Yes sir… me over here. I want some. And I had some.

We decided to go play pool shortly thereafter with some of our wild and crazy drunk friends. Yes, we continued to drink. Yes, we got shitfaced. Fast forward to a couple of hours later and we were dead asleep in our room. Upon awakening the next morning, I felt like I was run over by several buses. It had to be the inhumane amount of alcohol consumed last night. I felt strangely dizzy and delirious. I had trouble hearing sounds properly and was exhausted beyond belief. I went out to the beach and thought a dip in the good ol’ ocean would do be justice. Along the way, I bumped into friends from last night.
“Holy shit….your face is really swollen girl. You look like you’re hogging acorns in your cheeks for winter.”
I hesitated to look in the mirror that morning. I found a mirror and sure enough…I looked like a squirrel in harvest season. It occurred to me that perhaps it was just water retention. That is, until I passed out and couldn’t breathe.

I woke the next morning in a run down Dominican hospital, all alone, with my passport and wallet on the floor next to me. Mr. Cockroach, the size of my hand, was keeping watch over me next to my bed. I let out a gut wrenching scream. Thank God I speak Spanish. The nurses came running over to me with a telephone with my mom on the other line. She was getting ready to fly over here, what with me being alone and all. Turns out, I’m allergic to Japanese blowfish. Anaphylactic shock type allergic. For the life of me, I’ll never know why it took a day to develop.

Turns out, the stupid cow that I came on this trip with decided not to accompany my lifeless, young, blonde and blue-eyed, and potential rape victim in a foreign country body to the nearest hospital, for fear of something horrid happening to her. I want to thank the kind people of DR for not raping, robbing or selling my allergy ridden body off that day. Apparently, I arrived to the hospital in the crux of style in a nice air conditioned vehicle.
I spent the entire next day hooked up to an antihistamine IV, with my hysterical mother at the other end of the phone, plotting murder for this moron that I left me to fend for myself.

I don’t know about anyone else, but I will be there no matter what the emergency. You do not abandon an unconscious person in a foreign land. You just don’t do it. It’s like kicking a puppy; it’s not the saintly way. The day I returned to the hotel, my beloved drunken friends threw a small party in my favor. And we didn’t invite the bitch. It was a helluva good time that lasted almost two days. I’ll never make creative food choices while drinking again. Lesson learned.

¿Qué desayunaste?

What did you have for breakfast? That's one of my favorite questions as I am a die hard believer in breakfast all day. It's occurred to me that no matter how much I try, I find myself impossibly stumbling to recreate those serendipitious travel morning meals. Every place that I've been to, I can safely say that breakfast has always been so memorable that as I write this, saliva continues to dribble from my mouth ( No, I'm not currently hungry).

Don't get me wrong. I travel with a tight budget. I don't like to overspend on food unless it's truly worth it. As luck would have it, my morning meals always fell into the lower end of the dollar spectrum.Class, let's begin in Italy. The country is well known to have mindblowing food regardless of it all but I have never in my life experienced a creamier, luxurious and a more soul warming cappuccino. It cost me pennies and was the most amazing cup of java I've ever inhaled. Chase the cappuccino with some fresh cornetti and brioches (find an Italian bakery and buy these stat, although they probably won't be as good as from the mothership) and I've got Adriano Celentano singing a solo to me through my stomach. All for the grand total of around 4-5 American Dollars. I hate you Starbucks.

The Caribbean breakfast is something to experience. I'm not talking about the round of the mill buffet style garbage but rather the stuff that the locals can acquire and treat you to if they see a smiling friend in your eyes. In the Dominican Republic, there is the tantalizing and brilliant Mangú. It's green plaintains cooked in a way that will break your heart and added to fried eggs with fried salami and fried cheese. It will fuck you up if you have existing cholesterol problems so beware. Mexican food I can just talk about for monthes. I love it and have mastered many authentic Mexican recipes to the tee (and am damn proud of it) . Tortillas, huevos rancheros, super spice early in the morning...heaven for me. What escapes me, however, is a ridiculously good hot chocolate. Massive and delicious Mexican mugs of hot chocolate with milk among other things (egg yolks, heavy cream, masa (corn dough), molasses, vanilla, cinnamon and a number of other spices). You've never had hot chocolate until you've had an authentic Mexican one. Trust me.

I could go on and on about this topic, but I will come to a close with the most simplest of tastes and yet the most refined. When I was living in Spain some years back, my friends and I didn't have a kitchen area to prepare breakfast. We were left with the option of eating out ( expensive) or buying groceries and attempting to cook without an existing kitchen. Every morning, we went to the market by our place and picked up a couple of very simple ingredients; Manchego cheese, Iberico cheese, Iberico ham, Serrano ham, crusty bread, Coca-Cola, boxed red wine. We would take this back and enjoy little morning tapas with the best ham and cheese on the planet, chased by morning calimochos(50% wine, 50% Coke). Nothing, and I repeat, nothing is as good to me as Spanish ham and cheese. There are too many damn bans on their ham in the US but if you are lucky enough to get it elsewhere....get it! And eat it all on behalf of me.

Wherever you are in the world, go enjoy breakfast. It's a sin not to.


photo via trails.com

Smoking Lavender in Shaky Town

Of course I had no desire whatsoever to get back on that plane to Gotham. I've fallen in love with a new apple. A shinier, healthier, slightly smaller and better tasting apple. Goddamnit San Francisco! Why'de you have to be so sexy?

Every cuisine that I tried on for size in San Fran (Japanese,Thai,Italian..everything that we've got here in Gotham) tasted so much more authentic and native. Just like any McDonald's everywhere else in the world besides America. Apart from all the culinary wonders, something else struck a chord with me. I've never seen more homeless people in my existence.

I'm not writing about the homeless problem in San Fran. I am writing about the most incredibly generous, kind and humane homeless people I have ever met. They were young and old (mostly middle-aged) and usually male. To hear some of their stories was to warm your cold and wretched Gotham heart. Because if you live here in Gotham, you sure as hell know that the homeless people aren't very tenderhearted.

We decided to walk the entire length and width of the city because it was perfect sized to do so. On our way from Union Square to Haight Ashbury, we encountered a man who seemed to be severely down on his luck. We spotted him while climbing the hills ( holy cardio).He was hard to miss because the homeless in San Fran are sometimes ridiculously stylish. He was wearing a floor length fur coat (it was the dead of summer), tie dyed pants and crazy silver bling.

As we passed him, we overheard him talking to himself, and he was pissed! From what we could decipher, he just learned that he had a son and that "son of a bitch whore shoulda told me this shit earlier!!!" He also had a giant gash over his left eye and was bleeding. Naturally, we stopped and asked if we could help him somehow. His name was Ryan and he was indeed homeless. He also seemed to be that breed of drug addict who was permenantly tripping (sounds like a dream to some but trust me, it's horrid) and he didn't go into detail about his personal life. Ryan didn't need any help from us but bummed a couple of smokes, thanked us and smiled his big toothless smile.
We bumped into him at the entrance of Golden Gate Park two hours later. He came up to us smiling his smile, with dried blood taking over his left eye and held out a handful of lavender.

"Hey! What's up man? You wanna smoke some lavender with me? This shit is amazing man. Look man, it's lavender. And you smoke it. Oh man, it's great. It's for you guys, take it. There's more where that came from. I want you to have it man"

I was touched. Ryan had nothing but lavender and he shared it with us. And he wasn't the only one. I received more gifts from the homeless on that trip than I could possibly imagine I ever would. Pins, clothes, buttons, lucky pennies and wishes for eternal prosperity and health for me and my entire family was what was bestowed upon me. There wasn't a trick to it. People love to be noticed and listened to. I stopped, spoke and treated these people like people. I wish everyone that I met on that trip plenty of health and luck in their lives. As for Ryan, I hope you get healthy enough to take part in your son's life and tell him all the crazy stories you've lived through, man.

Come Fly With Me

"Why fly? Simple. I'm not happy unless there's some room between me and the ground."- Richard Bach


On a lovely spring morning in May, like plenty of other spring mornings, I awoke with jumpy adrenaline butterflies tying an ethereal knot in my stomach. It was an ethereal one because this was to be my first day of flight. I had two hours to find a willing companion to drive me to my first flight lesson and ride in the back of a 4 seater plane. I frantically searched through my phonebook for people with balls.

I came across the name of my crush. He and I have been friends for years and I've had a thing for him for most of that time. I'm happy to report that he had balls and said that he would accompany me on what my other friends deemed a "suicide mission, kamikaze style". I jumped up and down on my bed for about ten minutes and then braided feathers in my hair. This was to be much more than a flight lesson for me but a rite of passage.

My great grandfather was one of the most highly decorated fighter pilots in World War II and a prominent figure in the sky diving world. He owned and operated his own flight and sky diving classes after the war. With his gorgeous turquoise blue eyes and shiny toothy smile, he was a handsome man. No one in my family enjoys to fly. I was definitely my great grandfather's spirit encarnate.

After having tackled sky diving two years prior and coming close to my Class A license, I had to give it up to a minor injury that was nagging me ( as well as for my poor parents who turned into chain smoking shaking humans whose life I was progressively ruining with my new found love of adrenaline) . The natural progression of my love for the sky lead me to want to fly the actual plane versus diving out of it. My phone rang its Pulp Fiction ringtone and off I went, with the butterflies fiercely creating intricate embroidery knots in my tummy.

We arrived at the gate and were met by my flight instructor. After giving me the lowdown on the equipment and making me sign several safety and insurance papers, we were ready to see my plane and begin the day. Needless to say, I wasn't exactly surprised that my vessel for the day was a 1976 Piper Warrior plane, a little old and a little rinky dinky. I wasn't expecting the latest equipment anyway, but apparently my crush/passenger was. What made matters a little iffy was when the instructor jumpstarted the propeller, he had to kick it. For my demented mind, that made this experience that much more thrilling.

The hardest part of flight is the takeoff and the landing. With my crush sitting in the back and the instructor sitting next to me, I had a nearly flawless first takeoff. It was a little unnerving because the smaller the plane is, the more you feel every bump and crevice of the wind. Upon reaching cruising altitude, I felt my breathe being swept away from me. It was heartbreakingly beautiful; the sharp green lands, the navy blue majestic Atlantic, the cotton candy clouds. I felt the passion and total stillness of the soul that my great grandfather must have felt every day of his lucky life. It was a silencing of the mind and the understanding of how insignificant you were in the grand spectrum of this world.

Most of the flight was spent in silence, with my instructor whispering flight commands in the headset. The silence was peppered with "oh"s and "wow"s and "holy shit"s. I was pleasantly surprised to learn that you actually get to FLY the plane on your first try. It wouldn't have been my cup of tea to just play the ride along game. It was now time to land; the hardest part of the flight.

My instructor told me that I had to follow his words to the utmost last grammatical point. This part of the lesson was the trickiest and also the most dangerous. My inner devil smirked. It's not that I have a death wish, it's just my need for adrenaline coupled with my natural euphoric high led me to attempt to land this plane on my own accord. Unfortunately, I was about 3 minutes into my own plan when the instructor took the controls and "re-routed" me. He laughed into the headset, said something about me being a "natural pilot" and told me that he wasn't joking when he said to follow his instructions.

The landing was a little bit bumpy because we were rushed due to oncoming traffic on the landing strip. However, we were on the ground safe and sound. I turned around and my crush, looking a little shaken, was smiling ear to ear. "That was fuckin' awesome". I know. That was to be our first date. We have since eloped and will be planning a lovely wedding party for the family folk soon.

I've realized that being a professional pilot is not something that I could financially pursue today. After speaking with several professional pilots, I have learned that their family and social lives suffer greatly because of the hours needed at the job. You are pretty much living in the sky for the majority of your life. That would be amazing except I have fallen in love and still have a family to create in the future. I will pursue this as the most magnificant hobby ever. My great grandfather and I would have been the best team. I resemble him and I know he's shared a bit of his soul with me. He would be very proud.

Cultural Confusion and other ice cream flavors

Nothing confuses me more than myself. With the entire exotic and vast world out there to see and explore, I find that the more that I look, the more confused I become.I wasn't adopted and I know who most of my family members are. I come from a mixed European lineage of both paupers and blue blood.

My problem is that I fall in love so hard with cultures and places that I find myself easily blending into their world. I start to think,dream,speak and eat in their language. I forget my sense of self and willingly suspend disbelief to become a vessel for humanism. That doesn't appear to be a problem in print, but in life it is quite a different color.

In order to function successfully in society, is it possible to walk around with a cameleon coat of cultures? I have preferred other cultures to my own ever since I was about six. I was introduced to my first best friend in America, an Ecuadorian girl, and was soon dancing merengue better than her Ecuadorian family at their family parties. My friends were a U.N. gathering of nations then and that's the way I've always preferred it.

Perhaps I'm still "finding myself" or some other cliche bullshit term for people who know who they are and are just completely comfortable living as many lives in the lifetime as possible. Whatever the case may be, I no longer feel as bothered by not wanting to be only what was determined by my birth. My horizons have expanded with ease and continue to expand without confusion.

All Hail Bourdain

As I sit here, sipping on my Chilean vino purchased oh so economically from the vendor across the boulevard, I realize that a lifestyle change is imminent. Since I am a mere virgin on this online utopia of writers, I will take a moment to introduce myself. I am a professional actress living and working in NYC. I was introduced to the world in the wonderfully dark and communist Moscow, Russia. I have lived in New York City for 3/4 of my life.

I am young but have dealt with enough tough poker hands in life to feel significantly older than my age. With that out of the way, I would like to make the commonplace vanilla statement that Anthony Bourdain may have just changed my life. As most of you may assume, if you aren't blessed with the genetic Barrymore or any other Hollywood lineage name, you will find yourself out of a job for most of your career. It won't take 20 questions to figure out where I fit in today.

I never watch television, by the way. I find that it makes me lose copious amounts of braincells faster than any Caribbean street candy. However, I stopped and hesitated at the Travel Channel (about 5 years too late) and panicked. I was watching No Reservations and I couldn't turn it off for the life of me. I blame it on his charm....charming son of a gun. We have alot in common (smoking, drinking, New Yorkers...you don't need much to feel connected to another human nowadays) and he seems to be living out my dream.

What more, as people in this absurd world, do we need? Good food, exploration, love and fascination. I intend to rethink my life and perhaps venture onto the path I was always meant for. I am an old traveler soul seeking manifestation.