At least it’s not a mullet

Getting my hair cut is always an ordeal.

I’m the most low-maintenance when it comes to what’s on top of my head. Hell, my routine consists of either doing nothing and letting the mane run wild and wavy or running a straightener through it for five minutes.

But the idea that someone can snip and make me look freakish without any do-overs gets me a little crazy (oddlyenough, that’s the name of the song playing during the cut). Today I put my stupid issues aside and made an improptu visit to the Hair Cuttery for a trim. What’s great about this chain is three things, and three things only: they’re cheap, the employees seem to know how to hold scissors and you can show up without an appointment up until something like 10 pm. That’s what I did.

Without a special request for a stylist they have you sit for 5 minutes and then round someone up rodeo style. While flipping through Cosmo, I heard the description of me provided to my chosen cutter so she could locate me.

“Yeah, you have the little girl over there with the tatas.”

Wow, mama Levitz would sure be proud of that one. Once Jackie led me inside it was down to business. No small talk. Not that I wanted any. In fact I shoved a cherry lollipop in my mouth two seconds before so that I’d have free time to think while the hair massacre was occurring.

I had a strict budget and told Jackie I only wanted a wash and cut. Still, like a Girl Scout trying to unload her Thin Mints, my stylists tried to sell me on a deep conditioning treatment too.

“It’s good for fixing damage like what you have on your ends,” she said matter of factly.

Ouch. Way to kindly point out my flaws. Maybe Joan Rivers could use her as an apprentice.

“But aren’t you cutting off the ends, so it’ll be OK,” I shot back.

Silenced. Two points for me.

Jackie looked for me lots of instruction. All I know is when it comes to my trims I want enoug hair to put it back into a ponytail and I don’t want little layery pieces all over my eyes. I actually state both expectations repeatedly.

Once the 20 minutes were up and my hair was properly dried, I looked into the round mirror. Besides the overly coiffed shape that stylists always seem to do to me, I could face the reflection.

Phew!

Amigos, compatriots, mates

Ive been a bad, bad girl.

I mean, yeah, I have done a few peoples’ shares of drinking and slept about 12 hours total. But I also have neglected to blog or write anything except for the contact info for new friends. No blogging. No story proposals.

Eh. I am not super concerned and instead have resolved to give myself a free pass (hope you do too) for now — afterall Paris and Rome and Barcelona dont stop so that you can log onto the Net.

That having been said I thought I would give an apertif of the wonderful folks who have come into my world. The funny thing about traveling is that you become great friends with people in such short times and then just as quickly they leave your existences and hopefuly you are a bit better for it. Anyway, here are a few:

In Rome I met a fantastic couple on my last night from Australia named Gemma and Chris ( I later found out his last name is Brown. don’t worry, not that girlfriend beater however). They bravely quit their jobs and are hitting the globe for half a year in search of adventure. We were scheduled to go on a Pub Crawl offered by some guy name Eddie through our hostel. Turns out that Eddie is a shady character just after the 10 euros you shell out to him. You are promised an authentic Italian meal, as much of the best red wine you can drink and extremely exclusive rights to get into a stellar club. This is what you actually get — a pretty good spaghetti dinner the size of something a 6-year-old would eat after waiting more than an hour and a half, the equivalent of boxed wine and a cancellation on the club because Eddies not feeling well. Thank god I had Gemma and Chris to drink and play B.S. with and all the while put up with the shenanigans (and a sketchy fellow Aussie who spilled wine and refused to clean up and almost got kicked out of the hostel for yelling at the staff). Phew!

In Florence I was hosted by Aldo, a typical Italian womanizer who is obsessed with his speedy car. The first night was terrific as he took me to the best pizzeria in the city and introduced me to an Italian alcoholic concoction called Spritz. Then he must have gotten the hint that the California girl (as he called me) would not get into my pants and that if he tried walking around pretty much naked I would hide under the covers on the couch. That’s when he ignored me, and I was forced to check out the city on my own while he spoke in only Italian to his friend. No biggie.

That brings me to Feta, my 60-year-old boyfriend of sorts. This plump, short older gent witnessed me trying to read an Italian newspaper while sipping on cappucino and waiting for my museum appointment. His quick response was to mock this American who clearly doesnt know Italian. Then after some ribbing in broken English Feta insisted on buying me another drink. No cappucino, though, he insisted. It was time for whiskey and some advice that I never marry. Afterall, Feta told me, you can see things in people when you first meet them. And in me, apparently, he saw freedom. Well I’ll be darned.

Lastly I befriended a group of Germans in Valencia in between the fireworks and drunken debauchery that is Las Fallas. Basically I latched on to Tina and her buddies who are on a long weekend from universities throughout Spain. They took me to the greatest dance club in that Spanish city and put up with the fact that I only speak English and some Spanish compared to each of them who must speak about 18 languages apiece. I now equate Germans with hospitality.

Ok, off to try to meet more new buddies in Paris. Kisses!

Highways and byways

Whoever coined the term traveling should be hung by their underwear.

The part of the process that is tedious and timeconsuming and encourages hair pulling (both of ones self and others) is the getting there. Once at said location, that is the nirvana, the part we write about in postcards. So why in Sam hell do we call it the part we hate!

At the moment I am trying the best I can to solve some transportation puzzles of sorts. Literally I´m in some dodgy call center because it´s the only place around that has internet. Funny, I thought I was in Barcelona, the home of the 92 Olympics. But I guess world sporting event does not equate to world wide web. I need internet to book a Ryanair flight to Rome. Have I lost you yet!

Originally my plan was to head to each destination by rail in search of a Before Sunrise type of glamorous, life altering experience. Then I went online and read the prices to do that. Whoah, mama, I´m not Donald Trump. That brings me to my current dilemna of getting to Rome. I was all set to go to the airport early and take the first thing available. Then I discovered that Barcelona´s airport is 60 km away and it means having to take a bus. Flash forward to me running to make a 730 bus and missing it. You get the picture. So I´m stranded until 3 am with a huge backpack. Sounds like a bad sitcom, I suppose.

This, by the way, is not the first travel snafu in my journey. Heading from Valencia to here I missed my train and was screaming at a security guard to let me in because I had paid for my ticket but had to watch the other passengers board while they prohibited me from entering. Oh, good times.

My guess is that the process is a test. I have to be resourceful and adjust. All I have is me, my backpack and my Spanish skills. Wish me buena suerte so that I can have lunch in Italia tomorrow.

Paradise village

When I told my friends that I found a deal where, in exchange for simply talking to Spaniards in English, I would get free accommodations for a week, many theories floated around.

It’s a scam, was the general idea. “You’ll end up on the side of a road,” one compadre said with certainty. “Call me when this falls through,” another responded quite cynically.

Sorry, guys; knock on wood. But so far you were wrong. Avila, where the program is held, is an oasis of mountains and peacefulness — and lots of cows on farms. For this city girl it has been a needed luxury in what will be a spontaneous and decidely unluxurious trip.

The basic drill is that about 15 Anglos and 15 Spaniards are here, drinking great red wine, talking for hours on end and enjoying private rooms with jacuzzis. I’ve learned so many great lessons in the one and a half days that have passed at this early point in the program. For example:

Women are more sensitive to bulls. Not so much to Spanish men. (this is a quote that sadly I did not make up).

Americans truly are assumed to be Paris Hiltons in the flesh. Eye roll.

I’m much easier to understand than Australians and Brits. Apparently, though, according to Spaniard Imanol, I’m really only completely comprehensible on a conference call pretending to be a reporter. Yup, that’s right, pretending.

Jacuzzis are dangerous pieces of equipment that should not be used as washing machines.

If I don’t open my mouth I can pass for a Spaniard. If I do try to talk, the absolute second the words even form on my lips a sticker with the word “tourist” somehow appears on my forehead. It’s amazing.

Flamenco is something I MUST learn.

And lastly I have to perform comedy tomorrow. I like to think I’m at least slightly comical but — yikes — that scares me.

Ay dios mio.

Surprises around every calle

There’s something beautiful in the unexpected. At least to me.

It’s why I created this trip for myself. More than anything, I wanted suspense and new experiences and unplanned spans of days where you get lost in conversation and places.

Today I got a slice of those desires. Waking up with no phone contact and scant internet connection I wasn’t really sure where I was headed. All I knew was I would be waking up early to get a head start on Madrid. Well, that didn’t happen when a group of three girls stumbled into my hostel at 4, turning on lights, mumbling “lo sientos” and — the only facet I really cared about — accidentally unplugging my alarm. That meant I woke up hours later than hoped, raced down the stairs to make the tail end of free breakfast croissants and took a 30-second shower to get to a tour an acquaintance invited me to.

That’s the hectic part of the story. The wonderful part is I met my first international friends on this journey. First there were Tersea and Lisel from Germany at breakfast who engaged in a long conversation with me about languages and schooling and orange juice. You know, the important stuff. Then, during the tour, I befriended a Japanese girl and guy  named Yuta (like the state, I stupidly pointed out) and Yukaka who were eager to rehearse their English on me, as we ate jamon sandwiches and guzzled beer in between posing for pictures at palaces.

Connecting to these great folks — even momentarily — put a grin on my face and made any rushing worthwhile.

Later on that night, I had planned to go out on the town with an American friend living in Spain’s capital. Indie rock or dancing at gay clubs were promised so that I could get the local’s perspective and get hammered. Well, that didn’t happen nor did we make it into the free entry to the Prado Museum.

Here’s what did ensue: Miriam, Marc and I slipped into a tiny tapas joint to refuel and take advantage of a 5 euro deal involving patatas, cerveza and — we thought — calamari. Pure, fried goodness! As we readied to head out I asked, in my best Spanish, the name of a drink Miriam said I HAD to try which incorporated lemon lime something-or-other with wine.

Before we knew it our server Santiago brought us some to try gratis. Only he didn’t stop there. Santiago served round after round. And the nearby chef, who was chain-smoking cigarettes while his sous chef handled the comida, also took a liking  to us. I guess that’s why he brought us extra plates of ham and — when Marc inquired about  the calamari and suggested that the breading was overpowering — squid freshly sauteed in a way that was not even on the menu.

Santiago assured us that he wanted to make us feel welcome and that he had left a previous restaurant job because the staff was rude to tourists who were only trying their best at speaking Spanish, as we were. Despite their kindness, after hours and piles of tinto veranos had piled up, the three of us worried about whether we had the euros to cover the bill.

That’s when Santiago brought us a check that left off all of the additional food and drink and came to a mere 15 euros. We tried to give him extra money as a thank you. But he refused.

“Today’s my birthday,” he explained. “In Spain for our birthday we include other people and share it with them. I wanted to share with you.”

Ah, the unexpected. The end of the evening also was, well, unplanned. Arnell, our friendly chef friend, took us to more bars nearby. It was a nice gesture, only not so nice when he fell over his stool in sloppy drunken elegance and then awkwardly called Marc out of the pub for a private drink at a different locale without the ladies.

Oh well, it was still a beautiful day.

Great and exciting things

 

leaving on a jet plane. supposed to be back April 1.

At this time tomorrow I will be in Espana. Iy yi yi. How great it is to say that.

In case you don’t know, for the next four weeks I’m backpacking around western Europe. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for, gosh, practically a decade. But then life got in the way. No vacation time at work. New job. College. In January I decided no more excuses.

Here’s my plan, if you want to call my smattering of ideas of places to hit a plan.

I begin in Madrid staying at a hostel and hopefully meeting up with a friend of a friend as well as my roommate. Then for five days I embark on the uh, luxurious, and organized leg of the trip — Vaughantown. The program began seven years ago and basically creates an English-only village in Avila where  Spanish business elite can come and immerse themselves en ingles. Program organizers are always in search of native English speakers who make it their job to rigorously speak and listen to these Spaniards. For our troubles we get free room and board, food, entertainment, the works. Fairly sweet wouldn’t you say?

I heard about the arrangement during the holidays and finally got in for one of the March sessions. Once I did I thought to myself, “Why stop at a week in Spain?” I’m not. From there, I’ll make my way to Valencia, Barcelona, Rome, Florence and Paris. At each stopping point I’ll get 3, 4 or 5 days, and I plan to make them count.

So we’ll see what happens. No matter what, I know it’ll be an adventure and one that excites me to my core.

Bitter beer face

You know that wretched feeling when you’re out enjoying a cocktail or leisurely chatting and noshing with friends and your server abruptly drops the check and runs? “Wait, I’m having more,” you either  mutter back or indicate with your pissed-off eyes.

I know I’ve done it to tables. At least, though, when I have it’s been late in the evening and I’ve been so desperate to catch the midnight Metro that I level with the customers and explain that they can stay; I just have to vamoose.

That’s apparently not how they roll at Gordon Biersch. Now don’t take this as a tongue-lashing about another D.C. brewery. To be honest, their seasonal Amber may be better than our standard one, and their second “happy hour” of the night from 10 to closing is, in my mind, a stroke of genius since it gives special treatment to late-night workers. However, I have to say that I am baffled by their practice of constantly slapping a check down on the table whenever a new round of something is ordered.

My friend Kamil and I went to Gordon Biersch last night after our shift. We had each ordered a beer while seated at  the bar when the bartender placed a cup in front of us with a paper check.

Uh, ok. We playfully ripped it up. I mean we came for a few drinks, lady, not to be shoved out the door after seven sips of our first beverages. Then it happened again afer we ordered our second beers and food was literally on the way.

“What the?” we both said, practically in unison.

So I asked the bartender why she was constantly trying to close us out more than an hour before closing. Her explanation was that the flow of checks was a policy the waitstaff had to follow. Apparently it was the managers’ way of checking that servers and bartenders were making everyone pay for everything they asked to consume. Oh and then she added this ditty: “Yeah, we try to keep the checks updated so they are the actual right checks at that time, but that’s not always the case.”

Wait, what? First off, what an enormous waste of paper, especially when the checks are possibly only correct! And secondly, how does that ensure that no staff members are hooking up their buddies? Who’s to say that our bartender couldn’t pour three shots of Jack Daniels, chug ‘em down with us, clear away the glasses and keep the shots off the paper trail?

If anyone can explain this twisted logic to me, there’s a Gordon Biersch Amber in it for you…or a Cap City one.

Ah, the joys of being a woman

In 30 years I can only hope that I’ll be half as adorable as my mom.

When Linda (I don’t actually call her this) and I spoke this morning she boasted about “good news she was meaning to tell me and (my sister) Mindi.” My first thought was some type of mother-daughter trip, but we’re not really the spa together type. What the update ended up boiling down to is that, at least for the foreseeable future, my boobs are in no danger of going anywhere.

Confused? Here’s a little background: When I was in college my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. Fortunately she handled treatment incredibly well and has been cancer free for some time now. She only sees her oncologist once a year to ensure that everything checks out, and — knock on wood — so far so good.

My mom has also, in the process of her experience, become an expert on anything that is even remotely close to a risk factor for breast cancer. Some are scientifically unproven wive’s tales. But I guess there really is an established gene that predisposes Ashkenazi Jews to higher rates. At her most recent appointment my mom was being tested to see if she has said gene.

“Turns out I don’t,” she boastfully told me today.

If a mother is not so lucky, her daughters often endure genetic counseling and then in numerous cases have a breast or ovaries removed as a precaution.

“You don’t have to,” Linda continued. “Isn’t that good news?”

“Well, yes. But it’s so much good news as not bad news since I didn’t even know that was a possibility,” I told her, laughing. “I wasn’t exactly on pins and needles about this.”

“Yeah, well the doctor said a lot of times patients won’t even tell their daughters because it doesn’t change anything,” she explained.

My mom, though, knows that  the journalist in me needs to know even the stupidest pieces of news. How cute.

What a drag

I have found the cure to ongoing tension and fighting with my little sis, Mindi.

Scrambled eggs, sushi rolls and most of all sassy drag queen performances.

Mindi and I spent almost three hours at Perry’s this morning, where every Sunday a pack of drag queens perform to hungry, eager, outgoing brunch patrons as they sip on Mimosas and Bloody Marys. And, to put it simply (and probably ridiculously) it did two sisters good. This was the second time we have experienced a Perry’s Sunday. And just like last time it was a lovefest.

Literally up until walking into Perry’s we were at each other’s throats or silently angry with each other. Then we stepped in and the energy changed. I’m not kidding. You simply can’t be mad while stuffing a dollar bill down a drag queen’s bra. It’s physically impossible. As we sat at the bar, the sun peaked its head out of the clouds overpowering the snow that had fallen earlier.

“Thank god. The sun is coming out,” I said, doing my best Annie impression.

“Sweetie, you know why, don’t you?” a girl sitting beside me chirped back. “It’s the drag queens.”

I could not agree more.

There’s just something about seeing these untraditional ladies strut their stuff and stroke the uncomfortable few straight men onhand that equates with joy. Our favorite, Gigi, has the thickest figure of the drag queens (not that she is not fabulous in her very individual way) and tends to wear the least clothing. Pasties just barely covering her nippes. Small silver skirts over her bootie and showcasing a lower back butterfly tattoo. Oh honey! Her routines are of the Britney Spears variety. Fun, flirty pop.

Then there’s the eldest drag queen, the mother hen who also serves as MC and mouthes ditties like “Fever.” Her mission is to get as many audience members as possible to say “Big black dick” into a mike, to embarrass the reluctant birthday girls and to make inappropriate cracks about Jesus and Barack Obama. Today she was very successful.

Mindi and I left Perry’s full of yummy food and with smiling mugs. Then I accidentally brushed my sister’s leg with my pocketbook as we walked down Calvert, and we were back to our normal reality of bickering.

Drag queens, why can’t you be around forever?

Out of touch

There was an accident at work yesterday which broke my streak of going 6 months without dropping trays, drinks, food or any inanimate objects.

I will forever contend that Shawn the bartender (Don’t you enjoy how I wrote that as if he’s Joe the Plumber) was at fault. There I was minding my own business with two tall glasses of ice water on my tray neatly sitting atop the bar. Everything was hunky dory until Shawn’s muttering of “watch out” or “let me through” to signal he wanted out of the bar area but not to have to limbo his tall frame out.

I started to lift said tray. As I did he lifted the bar exit door panel thingy – but he did so just a few seconds too soon. The glasses went flying and ice and water covered me.

Now I realize that you might think you’re seeing a pattern of me falling or being covered. That’s just not true, Matlock. The spill would have been a small deal. However my cell was in my apron. It may as well have gone through a car wash for how drenched it emerged from the incident.

Since then it’s been touch and go. With the phone, I mean. First it let me send and receive texts and not function as, well, a phone. Then it allowed me to pick up calls, only to not be able to hear the person on the other end. This little discovery resulted in a one-sided phone conversation with my dad where I screamed into the phone. “I can’t hear you. My phone got wet at work. I’m assuming you can hear me. Everything’s fine. Did you get that? Everything’s fine. I just can’t hear you.” Then I hung up to try to dry the SIM card in rice as directed by co-workers.

Poor Paul is probably still wondering where I am.

Today the pathetic cell has gone dark. I’m en route to T Mobile for some professional help.

Here’s my desperate plea. Pray for the senseless victim here, my phone. I’m lost without it.