Travel

I visited college friends in New York at the end of last month — my first real vacation (not tied to work or family obligations) in a year.

I had a few must-do’s but I left the weekend up to my friends, with the goal of relaxation. We walked, ate well, shopped and saw some sights — in record summer heat. I’ve lived in big cities before, but Wyoming has turned me into somewhat of a country girl. Dinner at 9 p.m.? You don’t smile and say “hi” to people you pass? Buying jewelry on the street?

I didn’t take many pictures. I was too busy living it.

A 12-mile run was on the calendar for Saturday, so I decided to do it Friday morning while everyone else had to work. I didn’t plan for 101 degree heat. I decided to go for it, carrying 2 water bottles and cash for Gatorade on my person.

I mapped a route from Brooklyn to Manhattan and back, “laminated” it with tape and pinned it to my shirt. I didn’t care I looked like a total dork; I didn’t want to get lost. But then I did, right away, by taking the wrong bridge into Manhattan. I planned to take the Brooklyn Bridge over (to avoid tourist crowds) and the Manhattan Bridge back. When I realized I was on the Manhattan Bridge, I decided to go with it and reverse the route. It was a little tricky, but I did it.

You just ran 12 miles on the hottest day of the summer, what’s next?

Eatly!

Foodie heaven on earth: Giant Italian food store with restaurants themed around a food group such as seafood or salami. All the seating was full, so my friend Monica and I saddled up to a wooden cutting board full of meat and cheese, with a side of sardines, caprese salad and soft, rustic Italian bread.

We woke up earrrrrrly to make it to the museum member hours for Savage Beauty, the Alexander McQueen exhibit. This line was nothing; when we left 1.5 hours later, the line was easily a couple hours long. Quotes from McQueen scattered throughout and the eerie music made the exhibit more than just clothes.

Sunday Funday started at the Brooklyn Flea. Holy hipsters, Batman! We cruised through vendors selling costume jewelry, records, old artwork and other crap knicknacks. Pupusas, biscuits and fruits were consumed. And the cloud cover and light breeze offered some relief from the sweaty weekend.

Josh bought an old SX-70 Polaroid camera at a garage sale the week before. Polaroid stopped making film years ago, but a handful of Polaroid employees saved the last film production plant in The Netherlands and started The Impossible Project. And one of the few places they sell film happens to be in New York. I picked up some film for him and a new-to-me Polaroid 600.

The weather cooled down Monday, so I took the subway to Central Park for an easy four mile run. Like Friday’s 12 miler, it went by quickly due to the constantly changing scenery. I ate breakfast in the park, cleaned up and walked around the Garment District and Midtown. I met a more college friends, whom I hadn’t seen in years, for dinner at Westville in Chelsea. Good food, great conversation.

And very, very early the next morning (too early), I left. Sixteen hours later, I crawled into bed for an early evening nap.

Get ready because we’re going on a journey in this post.

Yesterday I a friend sent me a post about crying in public, about how the fast-paced rhythm of the city shrouds yet magnifies our most private emotions from others. Melissa Febos hits it right on the head, describing the public train experience:

“In a place where we are so rarely alone, we find privacy in public. We all have our masks, behind which we are free to be, yes, depressed, or any other emotional state we may not want to share with 30 fellow passengers.”

and

“Public criers ask nothing; they don’t need anyone to take care of them.”

And it got me thinking of the four months I lived in Spain. Madrid taught me the cathartic experience of being personally vulnerable in the most public places. I cried many times in Spanish streets, and only once did someone ask me if I was OK.

I consider my short time in the big city the best and worst of my 20s, so far (still have a few years to go…). Freer than I’d ever been — no drama, no newspaper responsibilities, no clubs, few difficult classes — I felt lost. Without all the activities and things that cluttered my life, I didn’t know who I was.

I lived with four American girls and one Spaniard. I made friends at school. I taught English once a week. I traveled. I went out.

But I also spent a lot of time alone. Sometimes I felt lonely. I usually didn’t miss anyone. I missed the feeling of knowing what I had to do and doing those things.

I dealt with the loneliness in three ways. I left the apartment and walked to stores, to the market, to parks, to nowhere. I ate pastries and apples instead of meals. I drank a lot of cheap, red wine. The combination of these things resulted in an uncanny knowledge of the city and major muscle loss.

I often cried in the middle of my walks. Something would remind me of home. Or someone would be rude to me in a store. Or a nasty man would “compliment” me and my blond hair in the street.

And I would cry, usually while walking away from whatever sparked the waterfall.

I spent Easter 2006 like most of that semester — alone. During Holy Week, I traveled France and Italy with a friend who was little more than a classmate.

I met up with my little sister and her high school trip to Europe in Rome, which included a few people I knew for a long time. For the first time in months, I wasn’t alone. But however I’d changed into in three months fit with my past.

I returned to Madrid on Easter Sunday to an empty apartment, which I would have relished before. Instead, I took to the streets, even more empty than usual for Sundays because of the holiday.

Despite Spain’s plethora of churches and cathedrals, none were open for me to wander into. So I walked to a little park in the next neighborhood over, sat on a bench and said an Easter prayer. I didn’t cry, a first for me on major holidays away from my family.

Holidays and personal moments away from people I love have become the norm; I’m not lonely and I’m rarely alone.

Flash-forward to 2011. During this morning’s Easter sermon, the pastor said, “Something must die in order to have a resurrection.”

I didn’t realize it on that Easter Sunday in Spain, but I had a resurrection of sorts. I lost the neediness to define myself by what I did and what I could accomplish.

Not all resurrections have been that big. I had one last week after spending three days on my couch, sick as a dog. Man, it felt good to wake up without a Nyquil hangover, dress myself and leave the apartment. Hallelujah!

My birthdays tend to be fairly low-key, but I always find a way to make them special.

This year, I planned to celebrate my birthday and Mardi Gras in New Orleans. I requested days off back in August with every intention of going. The date snuck up on me and by the time I shopped for plane tickets, they were through the roof.

At the same time, my friend Cat decided to visit. So I kept two of the days and made plans to show off Casper and Wyoming and celebrate my birthday. On the actual day (March 3), we hung around Casper and did some of my favorite things: drove up the mountain, walked around my neighborhood, bought good cheeses and sipped my favorite Malbec of the moment.

On Friday, I finished a quick story (it wouldn’t be a day off if I didn’t work some) and we drove through a light snow to Lander. We planned to go snowshoeing in Sinks Canyon, but the warm, sunny day turned the snow to mush. We went anyway.

Slightly frozen Popo Agie River [March 4, 2011]

Snowshoeing in Sinks Canyon [March 4, 2011]

Melting snow = muddy unpaved roads and parking lots. New rule for Lola: No wet gravel.

Trying to get up the hill. [March 4, 2011]

We’re both resourceful, strong women, so we eventually made it out through breaking up the slush, laying grass in front of the tires and pushing hard.

Our cozy accommodations for the night made the trouble worth it: log furniture, wood-burning stove and llamas. We stayed at the Bunk House at the Lander Llama Company.

We celebrated Friday night with dinner (birthday dessert!) at Cowfish and a drink at the Lander Bar. The real celebration was planned for Saturday. My sister drove north to Fort Collins and another grad school friend, Steve, drove south from Gillette, his new home of six weeks.

Casper friends met us out for drinks and karaoke. I sang my one song (“I will survive”) and was convinced to sing a duet with Jeremy. He chose a Casper karaoke favorite, “Bring me to life” by Evanescence. I was the dude. Fun times. And fun pictures, thanks to talented photographer friends.

“WAKE ME UP!” (photo courtesy of Steve Remich)

As far as birthdays go, it was one of the best. I felt so loved and lucky to have crossed paths with such great people. It’s such a happy coincidence when worlds collide harmoniously. Casper often feels so far from, well, everything, but this weekend it felt like the center of the universe.

All the Rosie O’Donnell fans out there will get the reference. The rest of you — don’t worry about it. Worst. Movie. Ever.

I did ride the lift with my sister several times last weekend on a last-minute trip to Keystone. I met Sam in Fort Collins, we picked up our parents from the airport and drove west to the mountains. I can’t remember the last time more than three of us have skiied together — 10 years?

The plan: Ski as much as possible before Sunday night. We did alright. Night skiing on Friday, skiing from open to 2 on Saturday and from open to noon on Sunday.

I brought my board for Friday night. And I did good! Driving up to Hogadon on weekend mornings has paid off. But runs in Colorado are at least three times as long as the runs in Casper. I started to fall more toward the end as I got more and more tired.

The switch to skis felt natural, like swapping stilettos for broken-in running shoes. The snow became icy in a few spots, which was much more manageable on skis.

I’m glad I made the 5-hour trip. I didn’t get to see family during Christmas and don’t know when I’ll see them again.

Has it really been more than a week since Christmas?

Clint checks the turkey. It was done. [Dec. 25]

Christmas truly has become a season for me, beginning the day after Thanksgiving when I buy and wrap 90 percent of my gifts and ending a week into January when cards and packages stop trickling in. The weeks in between offer parties, treats and warm, fuzzy moments that make you say, “It feels like Christmas.”

The guys might kill me for writing this, but Christmas night had several of those moments. Two sports guys hosted the journalist orphans for turkey with all the fixin’s.

It’s not Christmas without oysters.

It seemed Christmas was white everywhere but this part of Wyoming. Everyone else got snow except us.

The dry weather helped me get down to Colorado and Arizona, to continue on to Missouri and Kansas. It also allowed me to return safely to a very snowy Casper.

The week away was eventful and uneventful at the same time. Arizona was all about the Insight Bowl, but Josh and I also explored Phoenix, spent time with the illustrious Ryan Gibbons, shopped used book stores, hiked through a cactus forest and visited the new Musical Instrument Museum.

Phoenix Mountains Preserve [Dec. 30, 2010]

In Missouri we both worked New Year’s Eve — I finished a 50-inch legislative preview and he compiled a “best of” photo gallery in the car. We both have a hard time not working during vacations.

Friends hosted a casual New Year’s Eve dinner of fondue and champagne before we shuffled to the Power and Light District. We only stayed long enough to watch an imitation ball drop and greedy people dive after cash confetti shot from cannons. Just like last year, we were in PJs, eating pizza before 2.

Also like last year, we spent New Year’s Day lounging on the couch, watching the Jersey Shore marathon.

Holidays don’t have to be extravagant to be celebrated. Vacation doesn’t have to be exciting to be vacation.