Memories of Mexico: Tulum Part 1

I left for Mexico a month ago but it already feels like a lifetime ago, especially since the country is falling apart. So, until I can go back, I'm going to hold onto these memories like a lifeline. 

*Cue heavenly bells*

We landed in Cancún early, which is only a blessing if a gate is ready for you. It's hard to sit still in anticipation of the paradise that awaits mere feet outside of the tin can that I flew in. As I write this, I'm recalling Michel Peissel's Lost World of Quintana Roo, and I wonder how he would have felt about this once lawless land overrun with tourists who got there in a mere three and a half hours. 

I don't know about you, but I'm always nervous going through customs, even when I know I've done nothing wrong and have no contraband in me. My palms start to sweat a little, and I try to smile, but those muscles are weak from disuse, and I come off fairly suspicious instead. 

I flew through two custom points, but the biggest challenge was up head: pushy taxi drivers. 

Shouts of "Ay china!" and other attempts to stop me prove unfruitful for them, unnerving for me. Talk about personal space and breath mints man! My research told me that I had to catch the next bus into town, or else I'd miss my bus to Tulum. All the guides tell you to catch the ADO bus, but they neglect to tell you where! Pro tip: all the gates that say "Do Not Enter" outside of the terminal actually are in the way of the direction you are going, so you should go through them; no one is going to stop me. 

It was like I hadn't gotten my land feet back yet, or worse, left my balls in my other bag. Where was fearless Vacation Kathy?

Pro Tip: as soon as you leave customs, in the room with all the rental and tour companies, there will be ADO bus kiosk directly in front of you. Don't be like me and breeze pass it, looking for a bathroom and then forget, and spend another 10 minutes feeling lost and looking like a total traveling noob. 

I finally figured that I was at one end of the airport, and started walking towards the other side. My powers of speech and Spanish eventually came back and I dared asked one of the men with the rifles where I might find the bus. It was a bit anti-climatic when it rained on me after I got my ticket to town, but it was fine. 25 minute ride down, 2.5 hours left to go. 

The Tulum ADO bus station at 4 PM, the day before New Year's Eve, is a total zoo. Again, my powers of deduction failed me as I got in the first line I saw. Luckily, my powers of observation slowly came back, and the first thing I noticed in my line was the distinct lack of backpacks. 

I wear my pack with pride. For my two week trip, I packed all my clothes in a 40 L pack, with most of the space going to my snorkeling gear. I had 4, maybe 5 outfits, and looking back, I think I overpacked still. So when I see the line I should have been in, filled with people and their checked baggage only, I can't even begin to think what they have in there. 

I realize now that a lot of my trip was spent at various ADO stations, trying to get a ticket, then waiting for the bus that might be early and leave without me. In this case, I had an hour to kill, and a stomach to fill. Sadly, Vacation Kathy still hadn't really shown up yet. I didn't venture more than a block, where I stupidly chose a quesadilla spot, and ended up ordering a quesadilla with no cheese, due to my pills being in the bottom of my big bag. WITH NO CHEESE!

The melodic yet fast paced cadence of the Spanish announcer who rattled off Mayan villages like they were for sale startled me with each dinging of the bell, until I just stood at the conductor's side, with my ticket angled towards him, so he could see "Tulum," and motion to me that yes, this was my bus. 

My seat was partially taken over by a rotund beach ball of an abuela, who I had my first Yucatán history lesson from. My Spanish tongue floundered with disuse, but Abuela took me under her wing, and told me all about the lack of trains in the area, things to eat in Playa, and where I had to visit in Tulum. She made sure I had a place to stay for the night, and that I knew what direction I was going before she allowed us to part ways, with a hug and a kiss. 

The bus had ended up being over an hour late. I had lied to Abuela in that I didn't know where I was going. I had a rough direction to what appeared to be the edge of town, and a barely working phone to contact my AirBnB host with. I figured I'd follow my stomach, get some dinner, and then maybe figure out a cab.

Serendipitously, my host was mere blocks from me. I didn't know what I was expecting, but a white haired Mayan woman in a baby blue VW bug from the 60's pulling up was not my expectation. I learned later that I wasn't either; I had texted her in Spanish that "Soy la chinita con dos mochilas." Apparently my nickname of "little Chinese girl" does not apply in Mexico, where "chinita" means curly haired one....

At the last row of houses in the last street of the last gated community at the very edge of Tulum was my AirBnb. That was going to be interesting. Warmed by a bowl of tortilla soup with fresh avocado, then chilled by the cold shower, I tucked myself under the sheet, before promptly throwing it off me in the sweltering heat. I fell into a vague sleep, my last thought of the snowfall that had just hit the Washington DC area that afternoon... 

The Yucatan

Twelve years ago, 5 days after we graduated from high school, I forced my best friend onto a packed flight to London. Not that she didn't want to go on that trip, but more like was an overbooked flight and they offered a free roundtrip ticket in addition to getting rebooked for the next day.

I had just gotten into a stupid fight with my mom that morning as she dropped me off and I was just absolutely convinced that if I didn't get on that plane, I would never be able to.

So for 10 hours I sat with my spine pivoting at a 45 degree angle, arms so far in front of myself that my elbows touched, all so I could avoid touch the hairy, bare arms of the overweight men I was sandwiched between, instead of sitting with my friend. 

I cringe a little, thinking of it, but I don't regret it.

30 is quite literally around the corner. I'm not freaking out (too badly), because I'm almost a person that I kinda like. But I do wish I could relive my 20's, knowing what I know now. I'd still make a bunch of mistakes, but first, I'd slap my younger self, for not taking the free INTERNATIONAL flight. 

Seriously kids can be so dumb.

I reminisced with my best friend over that trip as I packed for this one. She almost forgives me for being such a green and dry wet blanket. Silly me only drank beer when it was cut with lemonade, and only wanted to go see old things inside even older buildings. At least the beer thing changed!!!

Traveling itself has changed majorly too. I'm blogging miles above the Gulf of Mexico, on a phone, that has color, and more importantly, WiFi. Gone are the days when I had to research SIM cards in addition to addresses of internet cafes; I got off the phone with Sprint an hour before I boarded, to be told not only was I set up for unlimited free calls and text, a special promotion was going on so that I could have free unlimited data!!!

The last time I was abroad, smart phones were just starting to be a thing, and my flip phone still didn't have a camera, and I definitely still used internet cafes.

The world is more connected than ever, which is wonderful and horrible all at the same time. I can assuage all fears my family has, because I'm a phone call away, and probably trackable via GPS. But... 

It's okay. I tell myself that I've watched enough spy movies and shows that the day I really want to get off the grid, I will know how.

That being said, the Yucatan isn't really off the grid anymore. A coworker lent me a copy of The Lost World of Quintana Roo to read before the trip. I didn't have time to start it, but also I thought I'd be sad that his world wouldn't be there anymore.

When I told a friend I was going to hike to temples in the jungle, she compared me to Indiana Jones. 

No.

Indy is Indy, who I didn't have any exposure to until college. No, I wanted to be Tia Carrere from Relic Hunter.

Take a second and remember the awesomeness of that show. (While you are at it, think about the selection of programming on UPN...) An ass kicking woman of Asian descent, who was also a brilliant professor? How much this affected my decision to double major in anthropology, I don't know. 

Anyways, I'm going to try to get another G and T to help with filling out custom forms.

More stories to come!

Denver: (Intentional) Layover Edition

Last summer, I was stranded in the round bubble of Terminal A at Reagan International, watching hail the size of golf balls fall from the sky as it lit up from the lively game of tag that thunder and lightening were having with each other. Our flight ended up leaving 5 hours late, ensuring that I'd miss my connection, and end up stranded in Denver, with a whole 24 hours between my new connection leg. Thankfully, Facebook saved the day, and an old college classmate was more than willing to take me in, and thus introduced me to an unexpected day in the Mile High city.

Fast forward a year and change later, I was given the option of a faster flight, or, a 6 hour layover in Denver for cheaper. The Anthony Bourdain in me chose the layover option, which I'm still debating if it affected everything that happened later in the story.

Denver International Airport sits around 30 minutes away from Union Station and Coors Field. Last time when I was stranded at midnight, there was no public transportation at all, let alone anything during the day. In April of 2016, the commuter train was completed, and for a mere $9 and 37 minutes, the A line takes you from the airport straight to Union Station.

Tickets can be bought at the kiosks in front of the train, $9 is an unlimited ride ticket valid for the whole day or until 02:30 am, which I am guessing is the last train anywhere? Conductors walk up and down the train asking to see the ticket, but never actually scan it on the train, so I was able to pay it forward when I returned to the airport, and passed it off to someone else.

I flew Frontier, which I was hesitant to do, because of the whole stranded fiasco from last time, but I thought, what could go wrong this time? (Story coming at the end). We got there early, and the captain quipped, " Well folks, we got in 30-40 minutes earlier than anticipated, so please remember that the next time we are 30-40 minutes late..."

I hightailed to the train (just follow the signs once you make it to baggage claim), which was straightforward and clean, and disembarked at Union Station, sweating in my DC winter coat. A perfectly brisk fall morning, quickly warmed up to 65 degrees as I walked a mile north of Union Station, to RiNo.

River North Art District was the perfect place for me to stretch my legs, stuff my face, and feast my eyes.

Those Rocky Mountains man...

I had singled out Osaka Ramen after finding them on a cheap eats list, touting their karaage, Japanese Fried Chicken. No pictures because I inhaled it all too quickly. Great complete meal at $7, just a plate of chicken and some spicy mayo. Wouldn't got back just for it, but if I was in the area, I'd check it out again.

Chatty Vacation Kathy came out to play, and after questioning the bartender for recommendations, I couldn't not follow them. A mere block away was the Denver Central Market, and something called a "meat cone..."

The colors and murals assaulted me before I could make it into the market. I'm a sucker for street art, and art in general.

The colors. The feels. Loved it. Not a creepy alley to walk behind at all.

The Denver Central Market was just around the corner. It was hard to tear myself away from the colors and the warm sun to go inside, but I did. I'll be an honest food snob here; it takes a lot to wow me nowadays, because the local, craft, hipster foodie movement is everywhere. So did this place wow me? No, it did not. It would not be my choice to fight for parking on a Sunday, but on a Monday when I've got a few hours to kill, yes, it was as nice as any. Especially because it had something called a "meat cone."

Culture Meat and Cheese, one of the stalls, had meat and cheese boards. My recent lactose intolerance made me cry a little on the inside, but I brightened up once I saw those magic words. For $6, a paper snow cone up was stuffed full of two types of salami and a piece of mortadella. The only thing that could have made it better is if the cone was meat, or edible. I'm thinking Parmesan tuile?

I picked up a Ham Hocker sandwich as well, wonderfully salty, cut with some pickled mustard seeds and a thyme/garlic butter, the perfect plane snack.

Sandwich and meat cone in hand, I went searching for a libation, and ended up at Curio, the only bar in the market. The recommendation was a Great Divide Rice Ale, a perfectly crisp beer for me, so that I wasn't bloated between flights. 

I spent much more on food that I needed to, but given the amount of money saved from choosing this flight over the other, totally evened out, and makes me want to come back to Denver.

The cherry on the top was the hour plus of baby cuddling I got to do. I think that's my biggest thing I'm missing in DC, no babies to cuddle. 

So, a wonderfully relaxing start to my vacation was abruptly halted at the baggage carousel at SFO, when I got my bag, and immediately noticed it to be soaking wet. My worst fears were realized as I immediately opened it, and found that pesky TSA notice, saying that my bag had been inspected. 

The incompetent agents had opened up my sealed bottle of rice wine, and did not put the stopped on properly, causing all the liquid to spill over my clothes, my hand made chocolates, and... my laptop.

Any more talk of this incident will only inflame me once more, and mar the otherwise pleasant memories of Denver. Plus, this will allow you to realize that my "adventures" are never smooth sailing. The universe doesn't like to make anything easy for me, but I'm not going to let that stop me from traveling. 

On Duck Hunting and Travel

On an overcast Friday afternoon, overlooking the Chesapeake, I watched an old friend attempt to eat his way through a mountain of steamed Maryland crab. He alternated between quiet concentration, picking out the meat with his fat fingers, and purposely riling me up, telling me where his EpiPen was located, so that I could stab him because wouldn't you know it, he's allergic to crab...

... Such an asshole. But it's now been 12 years of friendship. Few people who knew the awkward angry girl in high school know the awksome woman-child that I am today, and of those few who stayed, I want to keep them here. The downside is he knows my buttons and doesn't let me get away with my crap. Makes it hard to convincingly lie to myself when your friend is smirking at you across the way, eyebrows raised.

Harris Crab House, Grasonville, MD

It was a goodbye meal. Or at least goodbye for now. We hadn't seen each other since high school when we ended up living within 100 miles from each other this past year. Keeping in touch the last decade was always sporadic and short, yet familiar and easy, with no pretense. Some conversations were musings of what might've been, what could happen, or a favorite: how to fall off the grid completely. One that comes up time and again is the next epic adventure, and after that last meal we shared, he was setting off on a bucket list cross-country road trip, while I stood still, getting smaller in the rear view mirror, soon to be buried by the snow that is sure to come. Again, such an asshole, for leaving me behind.

So of course the topic changes to why don't I leave as well? Take off for one of the many adventures we always start to hypothetically plan. Bucket list locations like Kilimanjaro, the Silk Road, Inka Trail, Everest for him, Mars for me... It's a constant Nat Geo Adventure travel trailer in my head on loop after taking some soma, but I can't go just yet...

Mainly because I'm a type A, first generation child of immigrants Capricorn Tiger. 

And because I'm poor. The former makes me unable to function until the latter changes.

I have read every article under the sun about how to save up for travel, how to work abroad, how to become a successful travel blogger, ad nauseam. And it's all balderdash!

I don't see how I could possibly retire in my 30's with passive income so that I can travel.

I won't be selling myself so that I can see the world in style, and saving $13,000 in 7 months on a kitchen wage? Fuggedaboutit.

I live in a pit of debt that I dug myself by going to college and to culinary school. I don't regret it, nor do I blame anyone for it. There's of course a larger conversation to be had student loan debt in this country, as well as living wages, but that's not what this is about.

This is about me knowing what value I place on travel for myself, and what I plan on doing about it:

I've started to go duck hunting. Before you get your ducks in a row, you need to have ducks.

To all twenty readers who haven't gotten an update in my life, I'm taking a break from the kitchen. I left my last job at a prestigious restaurant because the costs were too high, and the wage was waaay too low. There was no time to go duck hunting.

But in my month of unemployment, I came across a duckling. Vaguely termed Culinary Operations Administrator by myself, I inadvertently fell into crafting my own freelancing niche and possible business. I meant to help someone out for a month or two on the side as I looked for the optimal job in chocolate, but now it's ballooned into some kind of animal, and I'm okay with it, so I've decided to keep on with it, and see how it goes. Ideally, I'll soon be able to telecommute from anywhere, not just in DC!

I'm still keeping my hand in with chocolate. If you would like to contribute to my Duck Hunting Travel Fund in exchanged for cocktail inspired chocolate truffles, please let me send me a request. That duckling is still searching for its footing, but like myself, I can't walk in a straight line sober, I can hardly expect my ducks to be entirely straight either. A vague single file would be great.

Ducklings, Boston

So while I'm not going to be riding off into the sunset on the next great adventure just yet, I'm on my way there. I'm closer now than I have been in the last four years, and with 30 around the corner, I'm okay with the current pace of the journey.

Philly: 24 Hour Edition, or How Much Can I Eat and Still Fit in My Pants

Hours spent in the city: 24
Miles driven: 309
State lines crossed: 5
Food Stops: 8
Alcoholic beverages: 4
Money spent: $125
Friends seen: 2

It's hard for a California girl such as myself to wrap my head around distances. An hour can be spent simply trying to get onto the Bay Bridge, or a quick trip from college home for laundry. A road trip was always measured by the amount of things in the car, and inevitably meant Los Angles, boring ping pong tournaments, and remember to pack extra batteries for my hefty cd-player with the anti-skip function, and my Linkin Park albums, obviously.

The intent was to get out of DC, take advantage of my new flexible schedule, and see maybe 2 of 6 people from culinary school for whom there is no mutual dislike (let me tell you, I met some of the most narrow and simple-minded taste buds at that place...). However, let's be real. As much as I wanted to see my friends, I really just wanted to go to the chocolate factory, and it was easier to justify that trip if I had a place to stay and a friend to eat more with. Sorry, Nikki, hope you don't mind that I used you for chocolate.

My dear friends live in South Philly, right off East Passyunk (pass-E-yunk) Avenue. Up and coming hipster place if there was ever one, filled with tightly packed rowhouses, short stoops and cramped parking spots. Great growing food scene though.

Food Stop #1: BLT at Black N Brew, 1523 E. Passyunk Ave.

12 pm. Hangry after 2.5 hours of solid driving, and my first choice, Essen, was closed, Black N Brew was picked because it was all we had. No pictures of said BLT that took way too long to prepare, and way too fast to consume. People don't seem to understand just because there are only 3 ingredients in this sandwich, doesn't mean it can't be substantial. It did bring my morning grumpiness back to a grumble and not a growl, so I won't write them off just yet. Actually, their beautiful mosaic exterior, and typical hipster/chalk wall interior did make me want to come in and bask in the sun on a sidewalk table and write my deepest inner thoughts in my journal as I contemplated life over a soy vanilla latte.

Snack #1: Chocolate. See previous post.

Food Stop #2: Spicy lamb dumplings and Italian roast pork bao, Bing Bing Dim Sum, 1648 E. Passyunk Ave. 

5:30 pm. I will not launch into a tirade about my issues with their take on my bastardization of one of my favorite culinary and cultural traditions, and just say that it was close by, the price was right, it was Happy Hour, and my fellow food professional liked frequenting the establishment. I had an accompanying forgettable New Belgium, and Nikki has a watermelon cooler of sorts. The only nice thing I can say is that the food is well seasoned. That is all.

Food Stop #3: Raw oysters, foie gras froyo, Stateside, 1536 E. Passyunk Ave. 

6 pm. Do you see what we were doing here? I had a master plan to happy hour crawl down East Passyunk, but this place felled us. Armed with the happy hour Chardonnay and an Old Fashioned, we ordered just a handful (4 each) of local Virginia oysters, and a foie gras froyo. Badly described by the waiter and the written menu, I took it as a partially frozen foie gras mousse with some stone fruit and other garnishes. What came out was... not expected. Beyond expectation for the price point ($14, listed as a snack), it was nearly beyond consumption for 2 people as well. Mainly because the chef's vision of it was to leave out any cracker/crostini/bread to help eat the mousse. Challenge accepted! But the salt content was just a little over of too well seasoned, so we had to asked for something carb-y.

We realized that by the time we finished our behemoth "snack," we were throwing in the towel. We had to, to survive the rest of the night. I was disappointed in ourselves, 4 small plates, 2 drinks each, in 1.5 hours... it's like our metabolisms were dying on us. Ugh, old age.

We restarted it by walking 3 miles to University City to our third stop. I quickly agreed to "see" Rittenhouse Square, and take in the atmosphere by the fountain to mask how horribly out of shape I was in.

Fountain, Rittenhouse Square

Food Stop #4: Salmon tartare, and steamed mussels, White Dog Cafe, 3420 Samson St. 

8:15 pm. I hope I never stop having friends in the industry, even after I leave it in the future. It's nice to get those extra little things, extra pours, dishes sent from the kitchen, your own corner at the bar. In this case, it was not I who got this treatment, it just helps if your friend is the fiancee of a sous chef. (Just fyi, dropping my name never gets anyone anywhere with anyone else, so don't bother trying to find people and say you know me. They will just spit in your food.)

Our adventure was cut short by a crazy lady with knitting needles. No, I don't mean me. Yes, I did bring my knitting to the bar, again. But it was another woman, with crazy eyes, and by her own admission, was there because she had no friends. We left a lot earlier than we wanted to, but there was no other polite way to pry her hands off Nikki, other than to quickly make for the door when she was distracted. (No, we are not that horrible, but yes, that woman was Level 4 status clinger, and we had to get out of there, after lots of polite goodbyes).

Food Stop #5: French fries, Fountain Porter, 1601 S. 10th St.

10pm. Grease and a pint. At the end of day, I'm a simple girl. Mountain of French fries, and a nice cold one. If you wanna get fancy, tater tots. I wish there were more unpretentious spots like this in DC, but sadly, this is not the town for it.

End night one. Wasn't drunk, nor stuffed beyond belief, just content to be with friends.

Food Stop #6: Dan dan noodles, pan fried Shanghai dumplings, Shang Hai 1, 123 N. 10th St.

10:15 am. It really didn't take much to convince Nikki that we should have pre-breakfast. Yes, a small snack before breakfast. Because I am a fatty. Because the pungent smells of walking through a Chinese enclave reminds me of home, and I really wanted jook and donuts. We had neither. But, not going to turn my belly from food. Consensus: I've had better versions of both dishes, and I'll never understand Shanghai dumplings and their serving sizes.

Food Stop #6: Butter cake and donuts, Reading Market Terminal, 51 N. 12th St. 

10:45 am. A total assault of the senses. A constant buzzing in my ear, the growl of my full stomach as my eyes got hungry, and the smells all the meats cooking. Nikki took me to the Flying Monkey for their famous butter cake. Butter, sugar, and flour. Repeat. Feel free, but I won't. We ended our gawking of every stall at an Amish donut spot. My trained eyes were able to pick out the shortening in the smears of flavored cream on each donut, and my suddenly dry mouth told me which ones not to pick. The apple spice cake donut was really nice though.

Meat art.

Food Stop #7: Brisket sandwich, Bubby's Brisket and Bugsy's Weiners, 103 N. 15th St.

11:30 am. I wanted a sandwich. It was an some Eater list. With a name like that, the idea just stuck. Literal hole in the wall, no frills, and all foods were probably on the brown spectrum by nature or after a hot oil treatment. Definitely would have been a guilty pleasures lunch spot if I worked downtown. I like my grease, what can I say.

#sandwichesandlandscapes

24 hours after I entered the city, I left it, with my mind already working on what we would next time. Perhaps I'll even explore the city next time, and maybe not eat (as much). Until next time, Philly.

Will Drive for Chocolate

"Okay Nikki, so here's the plan. We are going to charm our way into free chocolate today."

She doesn't bat an eye at my schemes. I'm lucky that most of my friends are happy-go-lucky enough to just go with my bulldozing methods and harebrained schemes. 

I had just driven 130 miles from DC to South Philly to be reunited with a culinary school classmate, whose professional career path has been similar to mine: haphazard goat trail leading to some end, but who knows exactly what, where and how. I had a random address to a chocolate factory in New Jersey. It's funny how random details stick out in my mind, but those have always led to the most interesting travel adventures (i.e. sunrise on Monserrat, after spending the night in a hermitage lean-to, a lifetime ago).

Michel Cluziel USA was located in West Berlin, New Jersey. The latter part of that sentence is enough for anyone normal person to go blank, if they got past the former to begin with. Michel Cluziel was a high end chocolate maker I remember seeing during my time in Paris, but as my small au pair stipend was usually blown on the more important part of the meal (wine, cheese, baguette, charcuterie, mousse de pate), dessert was usually secondary.

While not at the size or reputation of Valhrona, they are big enough to have a presence here in the states, and, to my luck, they were a mere thirty minutes outside of Philly. And when your friend is also a trained pastry fiend, there was no doubt in my mind that we would be crossing my fourth state line in as many hours to visit the Chocolatrium. 

Many hesitant turns onto random back roads of New Jersey led to a small singular building, hidden on a driveway, unnoticeable to the casual driver. A short picnic on the grassy flood barrier at the hood of my car later, we marched in, with no plan whatsoever, other than to be cute, and perhaps charm our way onto a tour. 

Tours were only for groups of 10 or more, and to be booked in advanced, but as I learned from my sister, the master trespasser with zero arrests or forcible removals to her name, it never hurts to ask, and look slightly pitiful when you do. 

We were denied the tour, but shown the store, where my Chatty Kathy personality came out. The line "I'm a pastry chef" tends to be a great conversation starter, and as our luck would have it, it was the starter and stopper. 

We were told of an immediate job opening and would we like to apply?

Seriously??? All I wanted was chocolate, but if you want to tell me about the opportunity to be a professional oompa loompa... (somehow the stars keep pointing me in this direction)

We met with the president, exchanged info, still reeling that sometimes job offers fall from the sky. 

Other customers came in and occupied the attention of our tour guide, Alan, but our patience was well rewarded. An abridged tour of the facilities showed me treasures; antique chocolate molds. 

Absolutely stunning. I want. So badly. Must. Not. Spend. Money....

Sadly, we only conned our way got to try was the Mokaya, a single origin dark chocolate from southern Mexico near Guatemala.  Full bodied, strong chocolate taste, slight red fruit sweetness.

Is it ridiculous to drive across four states to get chocolate? Only if you are not me. If you are me, it's just another Monday. 

Reflections and Projections, Hopes and Dreams, and then Stark Reality

2015 was not an easy year for me. I don't there has been one yet. Despite the constant barrage of inspirational memes and Elite Daily articles about never settling, I don't blame anyone but myself the yet unattainable "perfect" life/job/love that I've been striving for and failing at, because all my choices have been my own, for better or worse, and the only resolution one can make in the new year and every day is to have no regrets.

I tried very hard to avoid posting vague and passive aggressive status updates because there wasn't a point; those who cared already knew, and those who didn't just got annoyed. Instead I went the "1000 word" posts instead, by joining Instagram and capturing and curating my life for moments that didn't suck.

So here's a verbal recap that isn't just Instagram photos of my 2015: 

- I started the year off with one of the saddest birthdays I have had in a decade, and vowed to never be asleep that early again unless it was from having having too much fun. 

- I made a firm decision to leave Pittsburgh as soon as possible, as I was tired of being in a place were I never felt like I fit in, nor had allies to fight in the zombie apocalypse with. 

- By December, I had left a total of 3 jobs, and decided that enough was enough, and that if I can't find my place in the kitchen, well dagnammit, I'm just going to make my own.

- I was able to visit California twice in a year, something I haven't done since I left when I was 23, and had my Thomas Wolfe moment that had been building for years, but only now was I able to accept it. Still not quite ready to let go, but almost. 

And here I am in 2016, older, but no wiser, with no more grasp on my hopes and dreams than I did when I was 18 or 25, and I'm sure that 30, a mere 360 days away, will only bring an unwelcome plethora of "over the hill" jokes." But I have plans. I really do:

- A new job to start at the end of the month, in a brand new kitchen with a brand new team. I'm very excited about it, and will announce more and post our first write up once we've been reviewed.

- Volunteering has opened so many new doors for me I don't even know where to start. I've in the process of helping out with 2 community cookbooks, and will start to worm my way into a certain national museum that has an entire exhibit about food....

- I'm experimenting and slowly building the foundation and a network for an eventual business concept, but it's years down the line from now. My commitment phobia is still very much in play at the moment, and I'm kinda okay with that. 

- The above networking and volunteering has led to so many unexpected emails about opportunities and collaborations that I never thought possible, and it's helping me to get over my impostor syndrome and really own the fact that I could be in fact, awesome. 

- I had a once a month travel goal last year, that despite me thinking I failed at it, I really did manage to go somewhere nearly once a month.

On a personal level, I am as lost and confused as ever. My anchor points are all over the country and world and Skype dates and phone calls are soothing balms on my soul. Never underestimate the power of a text message, or an 4 sentence email to let someone know you are still on their radar, and that you matter.

So here is my reality: I'm living in DC for the foreseeable future. My new job shows promise and excitement, and what professionally enriching joy I cannot obtain during my work hours will be found in museums and food banks. I am very slowly building a personal network, but maintaining my global one is very high on my list. I hope to keep up with my travels, but I do have to be somewhat financially responsible.

Feel free to come visit me; I have a spare bedroom, and can almost promise you food. 

I promise myself to keep putting myself in awkward positions that will lead to interesting stories for you all. No resolutions. No regrets. And now here is a picture of me trying to climb a tree while drunk, because there should always be drunk tree climbing when in Philly.