Birthday wishes

In high school, I knew every single classmate's birthday and a fair chunk of other birthdays a few grades above or below me (granted, I only had 27 other classmates). This was during the final era before Facebook, the days before my train of thought jumped to a potential status update whenever something cool was happening around me. Remember those days?


Birthdays in a small high school were awesome. By the time senior year hit, nearly everyone knew your birthday (of course, it was a good way for underclassmen to suck up a bit). Birthdays made one feel uber-popular. My birthday, along with one of my other classmate's always happened to fall on the second week of school on the eve of Labor Day weekend. My classmate's birthday was on the 27, and for three short days he was two years older than me. Joking about it year after year never got old. As the baby of the class, I was always thrilled to finally be the same year as everyone else.


Elementary school birthdays were even cooler. Up until grade seven or eight, most people brought the class treats if it was their birthday. We had cupcakes, frosted cookies, and extra special homemade chocolate suckers late in February, courtesy of of Mrs. Roland. And then of course there were the elementary birthday parties. Guest lists were carefully chosen and highly dramticized. 


Cut in front of someone in the line for the slide on the playground? You're off the guest list. Caught gossiping? You might as well cross your own name off.


Despite all of the hullabaloo, party guests remained pretty consistent throughout the years. Except one time I got invited to an extra special birthday party... a (gasp) boy's birthday party in the third grade. This was no ordinary party, I mean I was a regular at Derek (my cousin) and Cody's parties, but this one was different: I was the only girl invited. I was one among eight or nine stinky little third grade boys.


I had a blast, we played Power Rangers and ate cake. The boys got their party favors, then my friend's mom brought me mine: a beautiful rainbow colored necklace from India (where my classmate had just moved from). I felt so special and then I felt bewildered, shortly after the party favors, I was politely sent home while the boys had a slumber party. It took me a few years to figure out why I didn't get to stay over.


Now birthdays are a little different. It's almost 6 p.m. here in Seattle and more than 100 people have sent me birthday wishes on Facebook. It feels like high school all over again. In fact, my phone stopped sending me notifications if someone wrote on my wall. 


I can't decide if Facebook has made birthdays better or worse. Nowadays if you forget someone's birthday,  you look like a total jerk because it's posted for all to see. On the other hand, Facebook increases birthday wishes by ten-fold or more. People I haven't talked to in far too long have sent me messages today and I'm excited to catch up with them, if nothing else Facebook birthdays are a good way to reengage communication.


Aside from my virtual birthday wishes, I'm grateful for the mellowness that birthday parties have assumed with age. No longer am I concerned about who to invite or uninvite to my parties, my mom doesn't need to bake three dozen cupcakes, and I'm not worried about how many "happy birthdays" I get in the hall. And thankfully, I'm past the rough stage where everyone was turning 21 and birthdays were hazardous things to endure. (Being the baby in class helped me out a bit and prevented me from attending too many crazy shindigs).


Nowadays, my friends and I are coasting through our twenties and birthdays are great excuses for a great dinner and a happy hour of drinks and ice cream. 


Cheers to being 23, and here's to hoping it's much less tumultuous but just as interesting as 22 was.


And with that, I leave you with a fantastic song that has a verse about turning 23 (cheesy? yes. But listen anyway, it's a great song). 
Favorite line: If you're gonna get made, don't be afraid of what you learned... Almost too fitting for the awkward post-college, career-building stage my friends and I are in. 





p.s. Thanks Kristen for sharing this song a few weeks ago :) 

The cliche American Dream

The bags are packed, the car is loaded, and another small town girl is lured in by big city lights. 


My story isn't unique nor is it uncommon, tomorrow morning I'm embarking on the proverbial "American dream" that millions of people have attempted for years. Do I have a job? No. Do I have a place to live? Technically yes, but it's not permanent. I'm going solely on a gut feeling, a lot of faith, and a bank account that will let me get by for a few months without a paycheck (if need be). 


This is the kind of thing people my age do all the time. The scenario is immortalized in countless films and has been written in lyrics of artists like Journey, Kenny Chesney and others. In fact, the next three days on the road with my dad would make a great movie montage that would fit into nearly any coming of age film out there. My soundtrack? Tom Petty's "American Girl."


Cliche? Maybe a little bit, but I'm doing the whole "American dream" thing, I might as well play up the stereotype.


Of all the faraway places I've gone, I've always had a return ticket -- so I've always known in the back of my mind when I'll be home again. This time my ticket is open-ended and my return is indefinite, maybe that's why I'm feeling oddly nervous about it. 


The movies always make studying for big exams and applying for jobs seem quick and semi-enjoyable, at least when they're put to good music. They showcase the determination of the main character while using brilliant editing techniques to erase the sheer number of hours spent prepping, priming, studying, and scouring job boards. Check out this clip from Legally Blonde, the   saddest looking moment is when she sighs about missing a frat party. I have a lot of friends who studied for the LSAT, and they had a lot more awful looking frazzled moments than that.


Movies make us all believe that hard work pays off, and with a few daring moves you could find yourself living "happily ever after" before you know it. Real life doesn't quite work that way, but you know that already. Problems and worries aren't resolved in a two hour plot line. And big risks don't always render big rewards.  (I can't help but hear this Matchbox 20 song in my head as I write...)


Here I am, stubborn, bullheaded and running away from the greatest economic boom my North Dakota hometown has ever seen to jump into the most toxic job market the US has experienced in decades. It's illogical and somewhat insane. I'll admit that I might be making a very stupid decision doing this. I'm either crazy or self-assured, but like most things in life reality lies somewhere in between. 


Unlike the movies, life doesn't have the benefit of foreshadowing, editing, or a soundtrack to move things along. Though it would be convenient to edit out scenes from some of the 1,200 miles I'll be covering, I'm trying to look at it as the one and only chance my dad and I have to take a cross-country roadtrip together.


Open road and empty space, heading west to the coast. A father, a daughter, and a dream.


Ohhh snap! I think I just wrote the subtitle to next month's Lifetime feature film. Here's to hoping it has a happy ending. 

The welcoming war zone

Tonight I'm feeling lazy, stressed out, and totally in denial that I will be moving to the other end of the country in two days...


In my state of denial, I've spent an inordinate amount of time in front of the TV tonight. Thankfully, the Travel Channel had an all-evening marathon of my fav, Anthony Bourdain. I watched snippets of his Ukraine episode and most of his show on Maine, but I was enthralled with his Kurdistan episode. He visited the semi-autonomous region of northern Iraq and then went into the dominantly Kurdish areas of Turkey. Because Iraq is still considered a war zone, Tony and his crew when through special training (for insurance purposes and to terrify/prepare them). Despite the scary "war zone" title Kurdistan carries, Mr. Bourdain showcased its beauty, complexity and hospitality. As always, he left me wishing I could get a passport stamp to the places he goes. 


As far as checking the episode out, you are left to the mercies of the Travel Channel re-run schedule (or Netflix). But you can check out Anthony's blog and see clips from the episode right now, if you'd like.


...and just in case you're curious and have a few minutes, here are some tourism videos (slideshows) I found on YouTube. I kind of appreciate the videos' rustic (?) feel, a lot of the photos are low quality and the clips get a little bit long, but I really dig the music.

Solo going

Hey friends! I'm back! Sorry for the brief hiatus, I was drafting a handful of posts from my hostel in Vancouver, but due to lack of sleep/very poor internet, they had to wait until I made it back home. 
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On Friday morning I sat at an eight-person table that was only half full. We sat there with our large white plates that were scattered with pieces of toast or bagel halves smothered in raspberry jam and our full glasses of orange juice. We bit, we chewed, we gazed around... and none of us spoke. 

(Since I'm a morning person, this was super painful for me. But I recognize that I am one of only 32 people on the planet who love mornings, so I'm a bit more forgiving).

We all sat alone together. 

When was the last time you were by yourself? No, not the kind of "alone" you are right now as you're sitting at your computer reading this. And no, I don't mean when you were in your car driving to work in your hometown. I'm talking about the last time you were consciously aware that you were by yourself in an unfamiliar territory. Maybe it was at a restaurant, or at a clinic, or perhaps it was an aisle of the grocery store you had never needed to go to until you found that great new recipe.

I love watching people the instant they realize that they're by themselves (and trust me, I'm usually guilty of this). Often times it's in a bar or restaurant and their friend gets up for more drinks or to go use the bathroom. The loner left at the table immediately grabs either the drink menu (for reading material) or their cellphone, to appear as if they're loaded down with social engagements.


Being alone is sometimes awkward. But more often than not, it's empowering.


Exploring Vancouver on my own was perfect. I rented a bicycle and went around the entire perimeter of Stanley Park, which is adjacent to Vancouver's downtown area and it is surrounded by water on three sides. After my ride, I treated myself to a delicious smoked salmon benedict breakfast at a place simply and appropriately named "bistro."


Eating out is one of my favorite things of traveling alone (which I think I alluded to in an earlier post). I always treat myself to one, sometimes two, fantastic meals if I'm solo. I eat slowly and deliberately, and I can order whatever the hell I feel like because I know I will be the only one footing the bill. 


But sitting inside one's own head get's exhausting after a while, so I was thankful that I had great roommates in my hostel. Friday night, an Australian girl and I sought out Chinese food. We heard about this place called "Hon's" and when we found it, there were poor quality photos of noodle dishes that were labeled in badly translated English. Perfect.


The restaurant was a large cafeteria-style room with small tables and loud, chattering Chinese people. There were massive pots of dumplings boiling and one cook was kneading and pulling noodles. It was straight off the streets of Shanghai. We ate with chopsticks (duh), I practiced my now horrible Mandarin, and my food turned out to be nothing like what I thought I had ordered. It's nice to know that Chinese menus can still get the best of me on this side of the Pacific.. the food was delicious nonetheless.


My dinner guest was my age and she is searching for her first job out of college, too. After graduating from university in 2010 (like me), she moved from her town near Brisbane, Australia, to Armenia for a six-month program. She returned home this spring, got restless, and decided to pack two suitcases and fly to Vancouver. As of now, she's living in the hostel, but each day she's out in the city searching for work, an address, and friends to help her etch out a good life in Canada. And she's doing it alone, but with good faith it will all work out.


Three years ago when I was in Paris, I went to the top of the Eiffel Tower alone. In that moment I had the most intense feeling of homesickness I've ever felt -- there I was, atop one of the world's most iconic structures overlooking one of the greatest cities, and all I wanted to do was cry. I was surrounded by families and way too many lovey-dovey couples, and I was that girl holding my arm out to take a picture of myself. That nasty, knotted feeling prompted me to call it the "Eiffel Tower Syndrome," or "ETS." I've periodically experienced ETS since then, but I can recognize and deal with the feeling better now than I could that afternoon in Paris. 


Though I appreciate the freedom of traveling alone, I would rather share it with a friend. Stories become more exciting, challenges become easier to deal with, and it's so much more fun to tag team in a bar or club... but for any of you who can't remember the last thing you did all alone, spend some time in your own head in new surroundings. Go to the park you always drive by but never stop.  Eat at that sketchy looking restaurant, odds are the prices are good and the food is even better. It's amazing the things you find out about yourself when you're the only one to rely on.


...Cheers to all my friends who are kickin' it around the globe by themselves, from Thailand to London and from Germany to Vancouver, keep rocking it. 

My dad..the hipster?

On any given street corner or in front of any [non]-Starbucks coffeehouse, kids my age are clad in wayfarers, high-rise shorts, and vintage looking hiking boots or sneakers. Men wear cut off tank-tops and deep v-necks. Women are in ultra-feminine old school dresses or high-rise shorts. Many have an architectural and androgynous haircut. 

These are the people who ooze urban cool, if only through appearance. They are to today as the grunge scene was to the 1990s and the hippie scene was in the 1960s. Today's counterculture-ites are known as "hipsters." Perhaps you've heard of them?

I'm not going to get into what a hipster's platform is, because quite frankly I don't really know. I'm pretty sure they tend to be liberal, they're into bands that few have ever heard of, and they love vintage stores as much as they do American Apparel or Urban Outfitters.

Seattle is the first place I've been where I've seen such a high concentration of hipsters. Or at least what I think are hipsters, some probably aren't, but it's hard to tell based solely on looks.

There are a few hipster trends I've picked up on though, and I find them kind of funny. 

First off: taxidermy. It's hip here. You know, like stuffed pheasants or deer heads? Nearly every country bar in the midwest is loaded with them, which doesn't make a bar cool, it just makes it normal at home. Not to mention that nearly every single house has some sort of preserved critter hanging on the wall throughout the Plains. 

But here, it's a cool thing to have. Maybe its because a pheasant or a moose head evokes a nostalgic sense of America when its strategically placed in a supper club or speakeasy-esque bar. Or perhaps hipsters find preserved animals ironic in some strange way... who knows.

Then there's beer, hipsters love the old, cheap throwback beers like PBR, Schlitz, and Hamm's, the latter two of which I've only heard of courtesy of my dad who said he used to drink it in college. But PBR has been a mainstay my entire life, I'm pretty sure that was my Grandpa Arnie's favorite beer, and it's always available at the local bars at home. I would bet that our light-up Schlitz beer sign that's hanging in our garage could be sold for a solid price to any honest-to-goodness hipster establishment in the Seattle area.

Now on to clothes, I alluded to the hipster wardrobe at the beginning, but I've come to the conclusion that [stereotypically speaking], my dad (who is the least hipster of anyone on Earth) could fit well into the look of a hipster. He only wears button up, plaid, western-style shirts -- which is the shirt of choice for both male and female hipsters alike. His jeans are typically classic fit, worn-out Wranglers -- a style that some hipsters flock to (though Levi's are the preferred choice of the rich kid hipster). My dad's boots are always dirty and sometimes worn looking, which I think qualifies him for the hipster category. 

Oh- and I can't forget about the taxidermy and antlers. My dad doesn't get into taxidermy, but like every other farmer at home, he runs into quite a few sets of antlers throughout the spring planting season, which has given our dogs endless enjoyment for chew toys. Between the Schlitz sign and our collection of antlers, my dad could become a millionaire from all the hipster kids.

I mean, of course my dad looks a hundred times more like a farmer than he does hipster. But I think it's kind of entertaining to imagine him standing on the street corner wearing a restyled version of what everyone else has on but looking as though an entire world stands between him and the hipsters.

Sensory overload

....and I'm back!


Right now I may be doing the most stereotypically "Seattle" thing ever: sitting in a coffeeshop, with large windows that face a busy street. The people watching is prime, it's almost like a movie montage: couples variety, dog walkers, nervous and giddy men carrying huge bouquets of flowers, and plenty of broody artist types who act too cool for their own good.


The word the keeps popping into my head as I explore this place is "lush." By that I don't just mean the insanely huge, beautiful green trees. Or the huge bushes of periwinkle, blush pink, and white hydrangeas, the moss and fern covered rocks, or the colors bursting from the flower markets. No, "lush" applies in so many more ways than to just the greenery in Seattle.


According to the dictionary on my computer, "lush" also refers to something that is "very rich and providing great sensory pleasure." So I'm going to break it down into my five senses:


Sight: I think I just took care of that one with the description of the nature. It's vibrant, calming, and it's everywhere. And the skies are blue! Beautifully blue! I know it's grey from time to time, but I have been blessed with outrageously great weather so far. So here are a few photos for your viewing delight:

Hearing: music is everywhere. Great music sounds from nearly every street corner down by the waterfront downtown. Banjos and fiddles with bearded crooners wailing out great bluegrass, acoustic guitar players shouting out Beatles songs, and every now and then there's even an old blues singer. The music blends in beautifully to the sounds of fish mongers in the market and espresso machines screaming out their steam from the 100s of open-windowed cafes.


Touch: this one is a little trickier to fit into the "lush" theme, but I guess all the handshakes I've had count for something. Handshakes with new acquaintances, handshakes with professionals (who have careers I hope to eventually have), handshakes with potential roommates (along with handshakes of landlords I don't want to ever give rent checks to)... Yes, I think handshakes fit well into this category. Seattle certainly attracts a lush variety of people. It's alternative, but clean-cut. It's smart, safe, edgy, active... it's a place where you can be as unconventional or traditional as you like and be able to find a crowd that loves you. Obviously every city has that element, but things appear to coexist more harmoniously here. (I can tell it's getting late... that was a very Chinese-y sentence for me to write).


Smell: growing plants, coffee, and delicious food. I want to say that I smell fish, but that would be a lie because all the fish here is so fresh that it doesn't actually smell like fish... My olfactory sense went into overdrive last night when my friend and I busted out our inner Italian donne (women) and prepared the most outrageous dinner, which I will describe in...


...Taste: I had heard of heirloom tomatoes and rumor had it they were wonderful... I had no idea how great they are in real life. Their wonky shape and color doesn't accurately portray how beautiful they are to eat. In fact, after eating them I'm convinced that their unique look only adds to their deliciousness. You know how when you bite into a perfectly ripe apple or a fresh-picked cucumber or carrot, you can taste hints of the soil it was grown in and the sunshine it soaked up? The heirlooms were the most perfect mix of sunshine and soil. Ok, so I know that sounds a little "out there," but I'm pretty sure you all know what I'm talking about.


My friend and I prepared a three course meal (plus rosemary bread and oil) of barolo risotto (we used Chianti wine instead), white onions stuffed with a mix of pancetta and tomato paste, and pasta with a rustic roasted vegetable sauce. We used those wonderful tomatoes, along with four or five other fresh veggies and roasted them in the oven until they were all melty and perfect. Of course, like any good Italian meal, we had way too much food. There are leftovers in the fridge, want to have some?


So far, Seattle has been a very rich experience and has made my senses happy. Now if only it would start making my bank account happy by finally being gainfully employed...

Sleepy near Seattle

Good morning! I writing from car 7, seat 19 of the Amtrak train from Vancouver to Seattle. I've got two seats to myself on this beautiful, nearly-cloudless morning. I'm finally making it to the scenic part of the journey, the strait leading to the ocean is on one side of me and rolling hills and forest is on the other. Up to this point, I've seen primarily industrial parks. That's what I love about traveling by train, regardless of what country you're in, trains let you see the raw and real part of the landscape that cities would prefer to hide.


Graffiti-covered concrete walls open up into large industrial parks, and if you look closely most times you can spot a makeshift camp where someone slept the night before. This morning, I saw one man picking berries off a bush near his staked spot in the industrial yard. Once we got out of the city, there were farms with big groups of migrant workers handpicking the crop. The workers' children were wrapped up in blankets and were playing near the edge of the field. The scene I just described can be played out in almost any country in the world. Railways give you a good feel of the raw, gritty underbelly of the city. 


I left for the train station by 5:40 a.m. after three hours of so-so sleep. I was on the first floor of a hostel that had a massive pub with live music on the ground floor... I had ear plugs, but it didn't do much good. I should have just stayed in the bar for more than just the pint I had earlier in evening, but I was beat and really didn't want to be a little bit drunk boarding the train this morning. So I waved my old lady card proudly and tried to go to sleep by 11. 


The handful of hours I spent walking around a bit of Vancouver were great. The city is charming and clean -- as it ought to be from the Olympics. And it was certainly easy to get around. I had dinner at a Lebanese restaurant recommended by a girl in the hostel. The restaurant was packed, but there were a few stools at the bar so I grabbed one. 


Some people think it's awkward and uncomfortable to go to a nice restaurant alone. I happen to love it. It's the most perfect opportunity to people watch and being alone forces you to pay close attention to the food. I ate tabouleh and falafel with shredded beets and pita and washed it down with the most delicious mix of Pimms, cranberry, mint and grapefruit juice. Though I made small talk with the bartender, I was mostly engrossed with my food. 


Then I grabbed a pint of beer at the aforementioned bar, chatted with some Chinese-Canadians, and then pretended to go to sleep. And now, I think is a perfect time for a little nap on the train...