Duluth, MN

"I can't tell the difference between negative 5 and negative 26." My brother told me that one morning. To help you illustrate the absurd between the first and second sentence, let me remind you that I'm brown; so naturally, my brother is brown. And we fellow brown bears prefer balmy winter temperatures (well, most of us). Then arre yaar, WHAT is my brother doing in -26°F temps?! Is he carbon dating ice cores in a Nordic country? Is he measuring polar ice caps? Is he tapping for oil in the polar north? Is he doing something scientific in some arctic or antarctic region of the world because most brown people do something scientific? Nope. He lives in Duluth, MN. And LOVES it.

But because I'm a vanilla brown person, I went to went visit him in July. When the sky was as clear as Lake Superior.

Culver City, CA

There was a time when people from New York City just said, "I'm from New York." The 'city' was implied and their borough never mentioned when few outside of the city knew how many there were let alone their names. Now, Brooklyn is B.I.G. (pun definitely intended). And Queens, the Bronx, and Staten Island steadily gaining some r.e.s.p.e.c.t. But wait, what about Manhattan? Well, as witnessed through my cousin eyes who came to visit from Portugal -- "It looks exactly like the movies!!" -- for me, Manhattan is the O.G. The NYC seen and awed worldwide.

What my cousin might not know is how a good number of movies are filmed in studios lots, where "NYC" looks more like NYC than the city itself at the moment. (How long before yellow cabs are extinct? Yes, I'm looking at you Uber, Lyft, Gett, and any Othr ride-share app.) But what I didn't know (not much!) until I travelled west, is how most of those studio lots are in "Culver City, where Hollywood Movies are made."

Staten Island, NY

When people complain, I listen. And once that last drop of whine wine has been poured and had, I, wanting to help, may suggest an alternative as a solution. Often it's from my catalog of experiences, so-and-so accounts, or 'why nots'. So when a New York City resident carped about lack of space, rising rents, and noise to me, I said,"What about Staten Island?" In response they gave me the look that yells, "Have you NOT been listening to me?!?"

"What?! The ferry is so fast! My cousin used to live there and loved it. And my old boss bought a Victorian there."

I thought for certain they would entertain the idea when I said that rare word in urban speech, 'bought', but the conversation ended. Though I'm sure the wine was poured elsewhere...

Springfield, MA

"Oh, you're from Boston?"
"No, no... the forgotten half of Massachusetts, the western half."

It's true, pot holes take longer to fix around these parts and public transportation is worse than L.A. for being the fourth largest city in New England. Though I've never lived in Springfield, I think I have a pretty good sense of the city because my friend and I didn't avoid it.

Way back in the day you'd have to dress up to visit Springfield, but like most manufacturing cities after WWII, it went into decline after deindustrialization:

• 1953: Closing of Indian Motorcycle (America's first motorcycle company)
• 1960's: Closing of Milton-Bradley factory (makers of Chutes & Ladders, Life, etc. board games)
• 1968: Closing of Springfield Armory (primary arsenal during Revolutionary War)

No jobs + rise of drugs in the 1970s = crime, a lot of crime. Springfield is like a U.N. Assembly of gangs, everyone is representin', and of course, why it's generally avoided. I think more so now than then, then as in before the internet blew up. My friend and I knew Springfield was sketchy, but every town or city has those parts, so let's just go? Let's! We went to house parties, shopping, dancing, and eventually, on my own for my first job, then college. Through the years I learned how much history this forgotten city has, and how little it brags about it. If I invented basketball (no lie), birthed Dr. Suess, the American motorcycle, and pulled George Washington (yeah, our country's first president) out of retirement after the American Revolution -- I'd be the loudest mouth in Boston. I would've yelled 'NO!' to the plan that would scar my waterfront with a freeway to reach Boston faster, 'NO!' to nonsensical redevelopment plans (e.g. a huge gym next to a three level Mexican restaurant -- I never got it), and 'NO!' to a casino...

Many in the community were hesitant to bring in more money when the city has a history of organized crime circling back to the local government. On the other hand though, something, anything, had to be done before things got any worse. And they have since back in my day. I just hope MGM doesn't demolish the things that make Springfield cool in my book -- signs of its rebellious, unorthodox, spirit.

Student Prince & Fort Restuarant 
(John Pynchon didn't follow norms and wanted to live in peace with the natives. Alas, he had to build a fort on this site b/c they rebelled... don't you hate it when good intentions royally fail :/ ) 

Westwood, Los Angeles, CA

Whoa, Nelly. What the hell is going on with the three-tier title for this post? Well, to knock one of my favourite hooks of the 90's, "It ain't my fault". You know how people say L.A. is a sprawling city? I didn't grasp the full breadth of its sprawlingness up until today. For 2.5 hours my research included Santa Monica, Hollywood, Venice, Beverly Hills and the like. Some of these places are separate cities and some communities within the city of Los Angeles. For a city on the laid-back coast, ya pretty complicated L.A.

But I came to learn of Westwood through a neighbourhood within its community (I know, can L.A. dissect itself once more?) named Little Persia; or, better known and made official by Google Maps as Tehrangeles*. And it's about time if you ask me. As a kid, I always wondered why America didn't have more towns like Chinatown on its maps. If we're a melting pot then I wanted to know where all the seasoning was, you know?

"There's a section of L.A. that feels like Tehran, there's even an ice cream shop that sells saffron ice cream!"
"WHAT?! Tell me more, tell me more!" To a friend as I fought the urge not to colonize our conversation with Americana (i.e. "Grease"). (Hey, it was a summer ritual for me in my teens.)

(To all the health nuts, the bright yellow hue is not from turmeric -- control yourselves)

Burlington, VT

Post-Election Addendum: ::SIGH:: I nailed the Brexit outcome so I was surprised by my surprise that evening. I was rooting for you Bernie :/ Maybe I'm an optimist because I do see hope. When my class in elementary school befriended Bill on Capitol Hill I didn't think I would ever live to see an African-American President let alone a strong Third Party candidate shortly after his second term. Maybe we're almost there*, almost to the CHANGE we all crave for in D.C., but maybe in four years. Or maybe in two, when we vote to change up Congress a bit. So for the time being let's have faith in his steep, steep, steep, learning curve in D.C. 

* Nix that, we are there. Our antiquated voting system just needs to effin' change along with D.C.


There are so many answers to the elusive "What is love?" But here's my test: as batty as the person sleeping next to you makes you feel, you have no urge to smother them with your pillow. In fact, the opposite happens. You feel your heart swelling, no, expanding -- and this is the key. If it doesn't happen you may not love the person, though you may be in love. In a slightly different version of my test, the one applied to places because we do have relationships with them, Bellingham failed over and over again. It just wasn't meant to be when I felt my lungs -- not my heart -- expanding to shout, "Ay yi yi, you probably have bananas on your kitchen counter!" To the often asked, "Did you bike here?" Here being any establishment built using reclaimed ___, selling local ___ and home-brewed ___. My cushionless ass had better things to prove than a point by enduring the pain on a mildly cushioned seat for more than 20 minutes in the rain, hail, snow, and occasional sun.

Yet, after our separation, I longed to visit Burlington for all the reasons I was in love with Bellingham: water, the earth in one's food, and connectedness. Oh, and chocolate. Lake Champlain Chocolates are some of my favourite building blocks of serotonin. When I signed up for the tour after eating my sample, I was as happy as happy can be. Taking a seat in front of the glass window separating the addicts from their dealers, I wondered why they were working in a lab rather than Willy Wonka's chocolate factory...

"Welcome to Lake Champlain factory! To our right is our factory. Since we're a chocolatier and not a bean to bar chocolate maker, I'll be providing the tour from your seats." #saywhaaaat

Cleveland, OH

How can timing be impeccable? The phrase basically implies there's only one orchestra to life on this planet, which seems silly. Still, that's not to say I don't silently revel when I'm "with the times". And if the timing is damn well triumphant, I've been known to shimmy and gloat. It's an out-of-body experience of sorts because I see how NOT with it I am, but can't. stop.

During a lull at work recently, I decided to browse The New York Times travel section, "Let's see where yuppies are headed this year." I don't know how I didn't go all up James Brown when I read "36 hours in Cleveland" HA! I was there in January -- I should be writing this column!

Princeton, NJ

"You have to get on the Dinky to get to the university." I almost laughed out loud. Had I misheard the station attendant? Nope, it was right there on the rail map, "Dinky". An Ivy League college town that makes no apologies for using Dinky in their vernacular -- we can be friends. And after walking around for fifteen minutes, our destinies were intertwined.

Somerville, MA

Friends, I have reached a milestone in my life. My name is in Urban Dictionary. Normally this wouldn't be a cause to celebrate, not when the virtual dictionary defines every idiom and name in the English language. But that's just it, I don't have an English name. To the three people who added their three lovely definitions -- VIP bottle service for all y'all.

Only another wanton deed can justify yesterday's narcissism, procrastination. I had to double check (double check? good lord) the meaning before beginning to write -- and everyone else's. To my amazement, the ten people (<-- nerd alert) I researched embodied their name in a profound way. Are names just words or something more? The data is mixed. My theory, when a name represents a place, we instinctively form attributes. What comes mind when you see a town called Hazardville on the highway? What comes to mind when you learn there's a Somerville in New England? See, you're already smiling.

Long Island City, NY

How is it I'm having such a difficult time writing about the U.S. city to visit in 2015? A city that has the largest rooftop farm in the New York City metro area. A city that doesn't list 'Ethnic' on their grocery aisle signs. A city where you can have an entire floor of art all to yourself -- how?? -- exactly.

New Cannan, CT

The best practical thing about living in a city is not having to worry about designated drivers. The worst (okay, not THE worst), is that you wake up craving chlorophyll in every which way and form because you didn't drink enough water before spinning towards sleep. New Cannan's residents have it got it good. Living an hour away from New York City by train, they can get sloshed in the city, then recuperate with a green smoothie on their green lawn the following morning. Though those days might be a hazy memory when most move here to settle down.

Charlottesville, VA

A friend once told me, "I don't need to write down my stories, they're all in mind. By remembering them, I edit them naturally." There's greatness in his method, but also a tragedy. His stories may never materialize. As much as I love lists in my daily life, I don't go by one when deciding where to visit next. I use his method and faith. Faith that somehow, without much coercion on my part, I'll materialize there. (Looks like I should impart the same faith in him.)

I had learned of Jefferson's Monticello years before my visit and had wanted to visit with a gusto that puzzled my colleague, "You do??"
"Yeah! He's like me, an artist with a day job." Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.


"Umm...the admission is $25. I don't want to pay $25 to make a dead white slave-owner richer. You should go, you've been wanting to see his home for a while."
"My god, you're totally right. No, let's try to sneak in. Worst case, we walk around the grounds."

Monticello is up there somewhere

Deming, WA

Perhaps I'm turning into one of those old farts that daydreams in nostalgia because I worry if the internet is making our thoughts less enchanting. I remember being rapt in mystery for hours by the lone home on a field in the middle of nowhere. How do they survive? Are they retired? Are they farmers? What do they do?? Now, less so. They probably work from home, commute into town for groceries, and post gorgeous pictures of pies. Wait, no, galettes. They post pictures of galettes. 

People who lived "out in the county" in Bellingham weren't that much different from those of us nearer civilization. My whole perception changed however when I attended Deming's Annual Log Show. Git-r-dun and circle skirts?? Where did these folks come from?! No doubt they were thinking the same when they saw me walk by, Now she don't look like she's from here.... No sir, but I will gladly howdy and curtsy for some more of your fresh from the river salmon barbeque. 

Interlude

Of course (of course) the moment I decide to fully commit to this blog I realize that I'm running out of places to write about -- argh! Ya'll gonna have to bear with me for a week or two while I work through my backlog of pictures.

Glen Canyon Dam, Arizona

Fort Worth, TX

I wish, I so wish, I was more obsessed with writing in this blog. So obsessed that it makes my insides feel like Julie Andrews on a hill in the Bavaria. (By the way, how awesome was Lady Gaga's tribute*?) Instead, I obsess over dumb shit like boots. For two days I research boots online like it's my j.o.b. I'll allow the first day's tomfoolery: is this cute? is that the real colour? can I walk an hour in those?? The second day, however, that was a pure obsession. I had traversed the land of That Might Be Cute and back. I had scoured sites across the pond and back. I had even ventured into the no man's land that is Bergdorf Goodman and hastily back. Now, it just boiled down to price and availability -- to no avail. Today is the third day, I wake up still slightly obsessed, note the post I'm working on and think, "I bet it would be cheaper to fly to Fort Worth, get a custom boot made there, then fly back." Tempted, very tempted.

Interlude

And it looks like I have to apologize for the silence again. I wish it was due to research, in a way though, my recent silence is research. I stepped away from writing in this blog to see how much it meant to me. Did I forget about it? Did I miss the torture (writing is not easy)? Did something else excite me? Of course I experienced all those emotions, but in the midst of the mix (awww snap, that was a good one) I realized this blog is my anchor. Come spring, this site is going to get a whole lot of action just like its author...

::crickets chirping::

Connecticut River Pioneer Valley, MA

Philadelphia, PA

Since starting this little blog, I've been reading more and more about the city walkability index or Walk Score. Devised by angel investors (red flag #1) and a think tank, the site and their products (e.g. apps) helps you (you meaning you and me, and real estate agents -- red flag #2) find a walkable place to live based on their Walk Score, Transit Score, and Bike Score. After clicking on every hyperlink (even those small wayward ones), their mission to "promote more walkable neighborhoods" seems less of a priority than their vision, "for every property listing to read: Beds: 3 Baths: 2 Walk Score: 84" (red flag #3). Three red flags and I am officially skeptical. This thing can't be that accurate when their real schtick is selling their product to real estate agents and firms, can it??

It can and it is. Borderline scary accurate. By the time I entered my fourth previous address, my exclamations were starting to sound like the Pixies (4th stanza, last line) yet again. Don't you hate it when technology makes your life slightly better? But what is better when it comes to where you live? If you lived in a city where you could walk a few blocks for your daily errands, yet had to squeeze yourself in a mass transit sardine can twice a day Monday through Friday, would that be better than the city where you walked everywhere most of the time, including times in snow, rain, heat, or the gloom of night*? My cousin and her husband prefer the latter, "You're supposed to walk in a city. Not spend half of your time and day underground in a subway!" Both of them lived in New York City before moving to Philadelphia. And separately, both of them told me, "Philadelphia is a real city. Not New York City."

Real Independence Hall

Fake Independence Hall

Santa Fe, NM

Having perpetually cold extremities forces you to think about the weather in a way the curiously glowing people don't. Kind of like how a gal with rose gold undertones might think of her perfect mate as her 35th birthday nears and finds any and every clock useless but her biological one:

My Perfect Weather: Four seasons with no season bolder than the other. Prefer semi-arid climate, but can tolerate humidity. Sunny winters earn brownie points; temperatures below 15 degrees, however -- a deal breaker.

Perfect Mate à la said gal: "You're bright, creative, out-of-the-box thinker who is driven, loyal, fun, well traveled, cultured, adventurous, loving and caring...most importantly you're not produced from a "cookie cutter". (I've also always had a thing for soccer players, but that's negotiable!)"*

There might be hope for our gal considering how in the bowels of winter I felt something I rarely feel, my toes. With my black jacket and the bright sun Georgia O'Keefe couldn't get enough of, it makes sense why I felt like a walking incubator the entire time I was in Santa Fe. And I loved it.

Washington D.C.

In roughly one month two different people jumped over the White House fence. Before you go bat shit crazy rattling off labels, let me explain why this act isn't something you or I aren't capable of. 

Politics doesn't have to be your cup of tea for D.C. to charge you right on up like a unidirectional flow of electric charge produced by batteries. (Yes, some read DC and they think of the band. Some actually read it as District of Columbia. And some socially hapless fools, think of batteries.) While the rest of the country reads, watches, or listens to the morning news as the inanimate objects which distribute it, in D.C. you are a person with a voice and don't give a damn if the only one to hear it 7 o'clock in the morning is a thing. So when you step out into the world emblazoned and happen to walk by the White House with an easily surmountable fence, that 7 o'clock rabble-rouser is yelling, "Jump over it! And ask the President what the hell is going on?!?" But, you don't. Suddenly something catches your eye...

Nashville, TN

Once upon a time, we travelled through a city called Nashville.

We walked around the Parthenon, and thought, in Nashville?!