Thoughts on travelling with ease

My view of D.C. at NFA.

I went to D.C. over the weekend, but I barely got to see any of the city at all. Don't worry, you don't need my advice on what to see--just Google it.  We're so super proud of our Abe Lincoln statues here in America. And I hear the zoo is good, but zoos make me sad. 

I was attending the National Flute Association's annual convention, which involves long days of sitting in over-air conditioned hotels with crappy acoustics and rashly paying too much for coffee in the lobby when you run into friends between concerts. The only tour of the city I got was on the Metro between my (much cheaper) hotel and the Rockefeller-style hotel hosting the convention, and the best meal I ate was at a long lost friend's apartment the night before I caught my flight home.

While I always try to carve out a little "tourist" time when travelling for work (like I managed to do recently before my concert in L.A.), sometimes it doesn't work out that way, and then the adventure comes in the form of the journey itself. And there is a sport to travelling, no matter how you plan to fill your time when you get there. So I thought I'd spend this blog post sharing the habits I always try to live by when preparing to travel. 

Pack your meals for the plane. You can see evidence of my sandwich-making, above. There are several reasons to pack your food like a cheap Midwesterner, among them include being able to eat when you want (even if the plane is still sitting on the tarmac), eating what you want (instead of pretending those honey-roasted peanuts are hitting the spot again), and of course, saving some money.  Those $14 sandwiches in the airport are never very tasty, which merely adds insult to injury.

• Breakfast: a bagel with cream cheese and some thinly sliced fruit or veggies smacked together like a sandwich.
• Lunch/dinner: a sandwich or wrap filled with hummus or guacamole and copious veggies, or spring rolls made with leftovers and drizzled inside with a little hoisin sauce + handful of nuts.

Pack snacks for when your sandwiches run out. It's going to happen, and you can't keep cream cheese cold for that long. In a pinch, nuts, dried fruits, granola-ish bars (I like Kind STRONG--the roasted jalapeno is amazing--and Larabars, personally), and some tea bags and instant coffee (I appreciate Starbucks most when all I have at my disposal is those Via pouches) will keep you caffeinated, proteinated, and full enough to make it to the next ramen shop.  You can easily make instant oatmeal with a coffee pot in your hotel room if there's no breakfast provided, so throw some of those in, too. Why pig out on a boring, huge breakfast when you could save room for an amazing chi-chi dinner later?

Make plans to use public transportation whenever possible. This is still not possible across most of the U.S., but if you are headed to a city with some kind of Metro system, Google it, map out your trips, and get comfortable with it before you head to the airport.  It's a cheap, environmentally friendly way to see a city, and it might be the most comprehensive tour you'll get.  Ride the bus through neighborhoods you'd never find out existed in travel guides; sail past the city and take in every building of the skyline on the train without ever having to look away to avoid hitting a car; study all the details about the people who live in the city, from neighborhood to neighborhood, like average age of the passengers, friendliness level, standard costumes, etc. You'll also contribute to ridership stats, which is how cities continue to receive funding to keep those amazing services going, and isn't figuring out a train timetable less stressful than navigating rush hour traffic in uncharted territory?

Utilize your smart phone. Your phone is your GPS, your directory, your television, and so much more when you're on the road. Make sure you've got as many charging options as possible--car charger if you're driving, wall charger, and solar charger or external battery pack for times when you are nowhere near an outlet. Bookmark sites pertaining to the place you'll be visiting on your browser, like a city's official visitor information or restaurants you know you want to visit. There are also great apps that I regularly use when I'm away from home; my top picks are:

• Southwest/United/whatever airline you are flying.  So much easier to check in and get updated info about your flight. 
• Hotels.com / Air Bnb / whatever you are using for housing. 
• Gas Buddy helps me search for the cheapest gas in the my area wherever I am, if I'm stuck driving. 
• Yelp is my favorite review site for finding out about local restaurants.
• Open Table allows you to make reservations, read menus, and read reviews from diners.  It's not as comprehensive as Yelp, but once you've found a place on Yelp that looks interesting, it's worth checking to see if you can make a reservation on Open Table, as you'll collect reward points that will eventually lead to a gift certificate. l
• The Metro app for the city you're visiting will be perfect for getting to know the system quickly, and you can just remove it wen you're home. 
• Google Wallet, which I'm just getting into, really is a handy way to avoid carrying cash or cards that can get stolen, dropped, etc.
• Tourist Eye by Lonely Planet (I know, how very 90s of me) allows you to find out what's in the area and it somehow magically works offline. 
• Google maps isn't even an app, is it?  I have to use this constantly, as I have no sense of direction. 
• Kindle, because I like to read before bed.

PS--Here's a cute little news segment on the flute dorkfest (I say this lovingly) that brought me to D.C.

If it doesn't squeak, is it still a cheese curd? Taking in the sights in Wisconsin's capitol city...

I recently had the good fortune of travelling to Wisconsin's capital city for some concerts in May, and I did indeed eat my proverbial heart out.  Non-Midwesterners may scoff at the idea of looking for fun and good food in Madison, but those from the Great Lakes region know it's a great college town with fresh produce stands all over in the summer, not to mention the locally made artisan cheeses and ice creams.  It's worth the drive if you're already in the Chicago or Milwaukee areas, and if you're in those areas to visit family this summer, it's a great short-term escape from Grandma's guilt trips and casseroles.

The view from Lake Mendota on UW-Madison's campus. 

Travel:
The cheapest way to get there is to fly in to Chicago at O'Hare or Midway (O'Hare is slightly closer to the Wisconsin border) and take the shuttle up to Madison.  Coach USA runs a bus with stops at both airports and the Amtrack terminal (union Station) in the heart of downtown Chicago, dropping you near two stations with multiple "L"  and Metra lines, if you decide to go that route.  They run an on-time (or early) ship and it's $58 round-trip/ $29 one-way.

[By the way, I'm not going to waste a lot of time saying nasty things about airlines in this post; I've done enough of that already.  But I would just like to warn you, in case you didn't know, that Spirit Airlines charges $35 per carry-on.  I did not know this when I booked my tickets through Priceline, and if I had, I wouldn't have thought they were the cheapest deal.  So don't forget to check baggage fee policies with the company before booking through an aggregate sight, kiddies!]

Activities:
Mostly I practiced and performed, but I can give you a few tips.  Frank Lloyd Wright spent many years in the area, so if  you're into that sort of thing, check out his handiwork near campus at the First Unitarian Church, which he built in 1951.  Monona Terrace Convention Center was not built while FLW was alive, but he did draw up the plans, and it's also where they record Michael Feldman's NPR show, Whad'Ya Know?, every Saturday.  There is a fee to be in the audience, but the free coffee and doughnuts are pretty tasty.

Monona Terrace

Olbrich Botanical Gardens are free to the public from dawn until dusk and contain the only Thai Pavilion in North America.  It is beautiful, and the gardens are really stunning (plus they're a fun way to learn what grows in this part of the country).

Did you know that University of Wisconsin has a big, honkin' LAKE right on campus?  For a reasonable fee, you can rent a sail boat from the boat house on campus and act all fancy.  Or you can just wander along the mostly wooded trail that rings the lake and enjoy the many Gothic-inspired buildings on the heart of campus for free.  If I had attended this school, I don't think I would have done much homework.

This is the student union building at UW-Madison!
There's a good ice cream shop in here, too. 

Eating:
This is the most important activity when visiting a town, isn't it?  It tells you so much about whether or not that town deserves to exist (the town where I reside, for instance, probably does not).

The Dane County Farmer's Market is the largest producer-only farmer's market in the US.  Wander around the charming downtown area every Wednesday and Saturday in the summer and eat your weight in fresh cheese curds and other artisanal cheeses, homemade salsas, samples of locally raised meat, and so much more.  There are food stands, too, so you can get a more balanced diet if you want.  This is actually a great place to go for lunch.

If you don't make it to a farmer's market, Brennan's Market is your next best choice. These sort of overgrown roadside stands are all over town, and they carry loads of local produce, wine, beer, and some groceries, along with a deli counter and another lifetime's worth of Wisconsin cheese (and yes, you can eat your weight in free samples here, too).  Local cheese, locally made wine, and a big loaf of crusty bread can all be purchased here and brought to any one of the several lakes in town for a perfect picnic lunch.

Lao Laan-Xang at 2098 Atwood Ave. offers beautiful Laotian food in a slightly gentrified Capitol-area neighborhood and a reasonable price.  There's a little outdoor seating, but it goes fast during Madison's short summer.

Across the street, get your dessert at Monty's Blue Plate Diner (that is seriously what we did).  They actually have a terrific-looking menu, with tons of egg dishes and healthier, often vegetarian versions of diner classics, reminiscent of Sweet Melissa's in Laramie or the Chicago Diner.  But I only went for the homemade pie, which was glorious in every way.

There is a lot more to do in this diverse, education-rich, politically active town, I'm sure.  In the short time I spent there, I was overwhelmed by how much fun I had every single day.  Madison is a great place to hang for a weekend as a 20-something, 30-something, or as a whole family.  In mid-May, the weather was near-perfect every day, and there were plenty of places to go biking and running (in fact, you can rent bikes from the city for sight-seeing).  I highly recommend a visit.

Bah, Humbach

I can't believe I haven't shared this story with you yet, but there are some vague references to it in upcoming recipes, so study up!  (The unabridged version can be found in my book of essays, Driving a Rental Car in Heels ...and Other Adventures of a Traveling Musician).

Just after I graduated from college, I headed off to southern Germany for three months to participate in
an opera festival.  I never completely understood the circumstances of this festival; the singers were a
mixture of students in supporting roles and up-and-coming "stars" in the lead roles.  The orchestra, which
had been whittled down from full size to chamber, comprised students from my alma mater and a couple
others.  I auditioned on campus for some very serious German people whom I never saw again, and one
month later the letter came in the mail that I would be spending my post-graduation summer in Bavaria.  I
felt just like the ivy-leaguers of yore who did those post graduation European trips, only I'd be working it
off in my first real, paying gig!  How cool was that?  How cool, indeed...

The flight was a blur of pure agony, waiting in lines for what seemed like an eternity, a six hour
plane ride sitting next to a graduate voice student who fancied herself the supreme diva, if not in talent,
then certainly in demeanor, and a very cranky German stewardess who guarded the water and orange
juice as if it was her own personal supply for the entire of the flight.  When we arrived at the airport in
Munich, we were herded through customs in a daze, exuberantly hugged by a very tall gentleman we
would come to call our boss, and herded again into a few vans for a 90 minute drive through the Bavarian
countryside to the charming hamlet of Humbach.  I passed out soon after taking my seat between a
sweaty, morbidly obese tenor and a wiry, foul-mouthed violinist.  I came to, crammed into a kitchen with
many long, narrow tables set up picnic-style. Seriously, I don't remember how I got there.  Did someone
carry me?  I just hoped it wasn't that sweaty guy, who was already starting to give me meaningful glances
from across the room.

We were seated amidst big crusty loaves of bread, plentiful carafes of red wine, and piles of
plump gray sausages while listening to a rousing welcome from our previous airport greeter (and boss),
Marco.  I skipped the sausages and loaded up on carbs and booze (a habit I would repeat daily for the next
three months in Germany, where vegetarians are tolerated but not welcome), tried to focus my vision on a
single object (any would do) and concentrated on what sounded like directions and pertinent information.
I failed miserably at the last two tasks, but the cellist took me by the arm and filled me in while leading
me back (egad!) to the van.  And then it was on to my new summer home, a quaint little bed and breakfast
located along a picturesque pond on the edge of the Black Forrest.

We met our haus frau, whose English was horrid, but she managed to gesture toward things
enough to communicate that she would take our sheets and towels for cleaning and exchanging.  What we
didn't understand at the time was that she was telling us this would only occur once per month.  I looked
out the window to the pond.  Guests (the ones who were actually paying) lay out on the little rickety
docks with picnic baskets nearby, catching some sun in these pre-cancer paranoid days.  They all seemed
pretty old and wrinkly, and the women didn't look particularly enticing in their white two-pieces.  Come
to think of it, why were they all wearing white two-piece suits?. . .  It was their underwear.  These
grandmothers were sunbathing in their skivvies, not a care in the world.  Welcome to Germany.
At dinner we met the leading ladies and men of the two operas we would perform.  They were
definitely older and had the aura of seasoned performers, at least to my 21-year-old sensibilities.  I would
later learn that they were mostly Canadians who couldn't find work in North American companies
because the competition was too stiff, and they had singing problems or acting problems that were
hanging them up, not to mention their drinking problems.

Dinner was, of course, more grilled meats, which in Germany are rarely identifiable slabs cut
from single animals, but rather ground up bits from various animals and body parts reconstituted into
palatable shapes.  There were some mayonnaise-based salads, some over-cooked green beans, and lots of
bread and beer.  I felt like I hadn't left the Midwest, except that I couldn't understand a word anyone was
saying.  It was disconcerting when middle aged men seemed to be laughing and pointing in my general
direction, but otherwise it was really quite freeing.  I was like a child, a dazed child who relies on the
kindness of strangers and trips through the day oblivious to the complexities around her.  It was a bit
magical, especially in my jetlagged state.  The multiple steins of beer didn’t hurt the situation, either.  

Rehearsals, we learned at the end of the night, would commence in the morning (why give
directions to a bunch of drunks?  I mean, really) – so, 8am for the orchestra, 10am for the singers so as
not to strain their voices.  We would break for lunch, which we could make in the theater with the
groceries we kept there once we got to go grocery shopping, rehearse again, separately, in the afternoon,
have dinner in the theater (needed groceries again for that), and then we’d put things together at night.
We would work this way for three weeks, at which time we would then open the theater for 10
performances.  Once we began performing the show, we would have more free time; mornings off to
recover from hangovers, rehearsal in the afternoon, dinner and the show for the first week, then just
shows.  So, slave labor to start would eventually give way to some great opportunities to slip away and
enjoy the area. But first, we had to get through these three weeks.

There were drivers assigned to our various homes who would pick us up at designated times for
rehearsals, performances, and errands.  These drivers were all power-hungry idiots.  Actually, ours was
not power-hungry, just an idiot.  He was the nineteen-year-old boyfriend of my whiniest, most grating
housemate, and therefore had to obey her every whim before taking care of basic responsibilities like, oh I
don't know, taking me to rehearsal.  And because I was the only instrumentalist in my house, stranded
amongst a sea of singers, my schedule was different from everyone else in my area and often caused
much confusion.  The first morning, at 7:45am, I started to panic and began randomly calling drivers'
numbers.  I was still out here!  Was anyone coming to get me???  I shouldn't have worried.  Brett
appeared eventually--at 7:58.  Brett was not good at estimating how much time it took to get from point A
to point B, so we were, despite some very dicey moments on those narrow, winding mountain roads, five
minutes late.  When I arrived, the conductor looked at me sternly and said something severe-sounding in
German.  I had no German skills so I sheepishly apologized in English and explained that my driver was
very late picking me up.  He said, in pinched English, "Ach, don't be such a tattle-tale, vill you?  Ees OK."
Alright, then.


Rehearsal went pretty well. The problem came when we broke for lunch.  Recall that we would
be allowed to use the kitchen when we had food to prepare, but we hadn't been given the opportunity to
get groceries, the nearest full-service store being 30 minutes away.   Now we had exactly one hour before
we had to be back in our seats for the next rehearsal, and there was no food to eat.  Well, actually, the
fridge was loaded with food--some of the more enterprising singers had gone shopping before their 10am
rehearsal while we were slaving away in the pit.  But we all knew we'd be starting some kind of war if we
took their food and promised to replace it later.  So we did what any enterprising musicians would do—
we found a bottle of tequila and a bottle of red wine tucked away in the pantry and we pounded that stuff
like it was liquid gold.  Afternoon rehearsal was a bit like an out-of-body experience, but our stomachs
stopped growling.

**************
Our little adventures were really the highlight of the gig.  Once the show began, we went to Vienna,
where we spent two days locked out of our rental car before we had managed to get out of the expensive
inner ring of the city for the night.  So, two of us checked in to the swankiest hotel I have ever laid eyes
on to this day, and the other four snuck up the stairs when no one was looking, all sharing two
complimentary toothbrushes and towels.  We had the time of our lives.  We saw naked people wandering
around the city park (we found this in Munich, too--interesting that the saggy-breasted in central Europe
are so comfortable with themselves) and had some tasty coffee.  In Venice, a vendor on the piazza gave
me a pair of lovely earrings because I reminded her of her sister, and in Milan we lived the highlife in a
time when the American dollar traded very favorably against the Italian lyre.  In Salzburg we ate our
weight in beautiful, chocolaty Mozartkugel (alright, that was just me) and enjoyed amazing free concerts
at the Mozarteum.  It slowly began to dawn on me that we were living in a rather posh little vacation area
of Bavaria and that we were actually cheap labor and entertainment for rich business people and tourists.
I was foreign labor without a work permit!

The next two months were a haze of rehearsals, performances, trips, and booze, but I do recall
that our last night in Germany was rather exciting.  The local news channel had come to broadcast clips
from the show and do some interviews with the cast in a special feature about the festival.  Of course, the
old drones down in the pit weren't asked any questions--the boob-popping singers' costumes proved far
more enticing--but I'm pretty sure half of my left ear made it on screen.  After the show, there were lavish
bouquets of flowers with cards for each of us along with mini bottles of champagne, which we
unceremoniously slammed as soon as we could figure out how to open them.  We were cheap dates after
not eating for so many hours, and only after we began stumbling around did it become apparent that the
theater had been reorganized to make room for dancing on the floor, with a lot of well-dressed, middle
aged people standing around pumping our boss, Marco's, arm.  For the next several hours (who knows
how long, really?), we young gals were introduced to the wealthy-looking men while the male leads were
cloistered over near their yuppie wives, trying to remain standing upright (there was a lot more wine and
beer available after the champagne) and refusing or accepting offers to dance or sing at the piano.  I'm not
implying that Marco was trying to pimp us out, but these people's names did appear on the programs as
donors.

***************

I don't recall how I got home all that clearly.  I remember drinking a lot of tequila while crammed in to
my friend's guest room across the pond later that night, and I vaguely recall being rather crabby and
dehydrated the next day at the airport. I can say that I learned these things:  Tequila is very cheap in
Germany. . .  Those charming, authentic cuckoo clocks?—they’re not worth shipping home; they're made
in China. . . . .  And don't be such a tattle-tale, vill you?  Ees OK.

Not amused.

Guide to edible airport food

I do a moderate amount of traveling, and I rarely bother to pack snacks anymore, although it is in my Midwestern blood to carry sandwiches everywhere and generally be a cheapskate.  It's just not worth the frisking at security, and those guards are never attractive.  Never.

Here's what I've found so far that's edible.  Feel free to comment and your faves, too!


Top picks at DIA (Denver International Airport):

Boulder Beer Tap house   Jeppesen Terminal West, Level 5  One of Colorado’s premiere microbrewery (and the first in the state, back in 1979), Boulder Beer serves up some tasty staples like lagers and porters, and a special collection for connoisseurs, like Hazed and Infused (a hoppy, bitter ale).  The food’s good, too.

Lounge 5280 Wine Bar  B Gates  This stylish, contemporary bar seems like it could be in LoDo, and the wine list really is top-notch.  What’s really special, here, though, are the signature cocktails using fresh herbs and fruit juices.  Ask your bartender to recommend appetizers that will compliment your drink--they’re great at pairings here.

Mesa Verde Smoking Lounge A Gates  I hate cigarette smoke, but their Mexican-inspired dishes are terrific.  Ask to sit on the "patio" and you can avoid the lung cancer.  For a hearty brunch before a long day of travel, try the chilaquiles and a cup of coffee for as satisfying of a meal as you might get at your favorite neighborhood joint.




New Belgium Hub  B Gates  Famed Fort Collins brewery New Belgium has finally set up shop at DIA.  Get a sandwich and sample some of the beers that have earned them cult status in the West.

Paradise Bakery and Café  B and C Gates  Of all the coffee shops in DIA, this is my favorite, because the baked treats are sooo good.  The muffins are a real treat.  The breads they use in the sandwiches are homemade, as are their soups; it’s a great little deli experience in the middle of the airport.  Oh, and the coffee is fantastic.

Rock Bottom Brewery  C Gates  Just like the locations around the Denver area, this chain has a good selection of beers from around the world and a great burger to fill you up for the plane ride.

***************************************

MSP (Minneapolis St. Paul International Airport):

California Pizza Kitchen  Concourse F  These guys really do bake up a great pizza.  The crust is buttery, crunchy on the outside and fluffy inside, and just the right thickness to hold up to the generously portioned fresh ingredients they use.  Get the chicken and roasted garlic--it’s fresh roasted garlic and high quality white meat with a light white sauce and sweet red onions.

Caribou Coffee  Concourses A, E, F, G, Terminal 2-Humphrey  The local favorite really does serve the best cup of coffee in town (including MSP), and their sandwiches and salads are just fine.

Great River Market and Deli  Concourse G  I’m not usually too keen on the fast-food sandwiches (boring and dry), but this menu really does boast some great ingredients and tasty, fresh-baked bread.  For a comforting breakfast that will last you all day, get the Hashbrown Casserole.

Itasca Grill  Concourse A  Like the popular restaurant in the Minneapolis area, the airport location serves up some artful breakfast/ brunch dishes like cinnamon vanilla French toast, an enormous breakfast burrito, and a bevy of omelets.  For lunch, the turkey apple wood bacon ciabatta is divine, as is the lime-infused grilled chicken and brie sandwich.

Maui Tacos  Concourse C Great fish and fresh salsas top fresh-made corn or flour tortillas for a healthy, flavorful meal I never imagined I could get in an airport.

Northern Lights Grill  Concourse D  This restaurant celebrates local cuisine, from simply cooked wild rice soup to broiled walleye and good old-fashioned Midwestern pot roast.  A great wine list offers something to compliment each dish, and the atmosphere, if you turn yourself the right way, makes you forget about the airport chaos beyond.

Rock Bottom Brewery  Concourse C  As stated above, this chain has a good selection of beers from around the world and a great burger to fill you up for the plane ride.  Good place to bring kids (childless beware: people bring their kids here!).

Skol Café and Bar  Concourse A  This bar is beautiful (That's it to the right)!  Scandinavian design accents the Northern European-inspired snacks and drink available.  Do like the locals do and stick to the vodka--it’s incredibly high quality and a perfectly clean palate cleanser with the smoked salmon toasts.



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Sea-Tac (Seattle-Tacoma International Airport)

Anthony’s  Central Terminal  Like their locations around Washington and Oregon, Anthony’s in Sea-Tac specializes in fresh Puget Sound delicacies like oysters on the half shell. Alaskan King Salmon, and their signature blackberry cobbler made with fresh, local berries.  Local microbrews and wines complete a menu that will give you one last great dining experience before your trip home.

Bigfoot Food and Spirits  North Satellite  This popular Seattle chain is little more than a sports bar: BBQ sandwiches, big burgers, and beers. Along with a few brunch selections and an ample dessert menu.  But it’s all really tasty, reasonably priced (for an airport), and will fill you up for a long time.  Great comfort food.

Ivar’s Seafood Bar  Central Terminal  An iconic name in Seattle, Ivar’s serves up beautiful, perfect fish & chips, as well as just about any other local seafood you can imagine craving.  The northwest chowders are fantastic, and their grilled prawns, halibut, and salmon are as dreamy a meal as you’ll find anywhere in Seattle.  Clams, calamari, and scallops make a tasty snack, too.




Maki of Japan  Central Terminal  Well-made sushi and authentic noodle dishes with pork are your best bet here, and the price is right: 8-piece sushi rolls start at just $4.95.

Mountain Bar Room  Concourse C  The burgers and beer are fine here, but this place is best for breakfast.  Belgian waffles and a “Big Cheese” ham and cheese omelet are more special than they sound.  Anything can be prepared to take on the plane if you request it when you order.

Pallino Pastaria  Central Terminal  The wait can be a bit long for this fast-food stand, but it’s worth it.  Perfectly-cooked pasta is topped with your choice of  freshly made sauces for a meal that would put Olive Garden to shame.  The personal pizzas come in a wide variety of flavor combinations, and many of them can be made into sandwiches, as well.

Seattle Tap Room  Concourse B  This is beautifully prepared gastro-pub fare.  The beer-braised bratwurst plate and meatloaf are both terrific, and the beers on tap represent local breweries from throughout the Northwest (and occasionally the Rockies).

Vino Volo  Central Terminal  This tiny space offers high-end wines poured by the glass and sold as full bottles to take home (they’ll also ship for you).  Not sure what you like?  Get a taste flight and chat up the server--they are well-trained in matching you to your perfect mate.

Coffee:  You’ll have to pick your team here, just like you have to in Seattle-proper.  Seattle’s Best, Starbucks, and Tully’s the three local giants, are all equally represented here.  Good luck.  (I choose Tully’s.)

I Went to the O.C. and I Didn’t Even Get a Lousy T-Shirt

Nor did I get any exercise. These people really love their cars! I stayed in Costa Mesa, exactly two miles (but one town) away from my concert. The weather was nearly perfect for walking, but there generally were not sidewalks. Well, sometimes sidewalks would exist along one side of one street, but then they would dead end at a pile of dirt and broken glass. Occasionally a sidewalk would take me all the way to a busy intersection, but with no crosswalk and light to defend me, I lost the courage to attempt to cross. And often sidewalks would end in very stern-looking signs that said NO PEDESTRIANS ALLOWED. I got the feeling that pedestrians were not welcome.


All of the areas I experienced in Orange County were situated off of the busy freeway; even town streets acted and felt like an interstate road. I could drive for five minutes on I-405 and see three different town signs with no other clue that I had changed city limits except for the slightly different color scheme of the strip malls. But this highway-loving culture doesn’t love you if you don’t own a car, so there is also virtually no public transportation available. And so, to travel the two miles to my gig, I had to take a taxi. If you are from California and you are reading this, that probably seems normal and you are asking, “Why have you written two paragraphs about this very commonplace situation?” But I assure you, the majority of the country thinks you’re weird.

Oh, and you people are beautiful. Not a chubby, awkward, or overly hairy one in the bunch. I would enter a restaurant with my wild, wavy mop of mousy brown hair (and yes, those silver highlights are natural, thank you very much) and people would look around to see whose driver had arrived for them. Although you clearly must be spending thousands of dollars to look like that, since you must have a gym membership to get any exercise. And I refuse to believe that I am the only one with chin hair and eyebrow hair growing down onto my eyelids. Yes, I am sure that’s perfectly normal.

But while you may be the Mecca of cars here in Southern California, the flying thing doesn’t seem to have quite gotten figured out. With all of the fabulously rich people in this area, I expected a functional, adult-sized airport. What I got was the John Wayne Orange County Airport. Perhaps there was another one that was better, but I certainly wasn’t going to pay cab fare for the 40 mile drive from LAX.

The airport is a long hallway of sorts with a small collection of ticketing counters and a weird little space for security tacked onto the front of the building like an embarrassing sports bra-induced uniboob. I was flying a slightly smaller airline, and so when I arrived no one was working the counter. There was a sign saying that a representative would show up 90 minutes before the next flight. There was also no self check-in kiosk anywhere, but surely, I thought, there was another flight before mine going out, so I’d just check back shortly and it would be fine. (I’ll save you the shock: there was no other flight going out before mine.)

My plan, post-hotel check-out, was to get to the airport early (where else did I have to go—on a walk?), grab an overpriced lunch, and wait. Or maybe shop—isn’t it about time I started collecting cheesy souvenirs from my trips? Maybe something classy like spoons?

Sadly, all of the (four + Starbucks) eateries were on the other side of security, that magical land impossible to penetrate without a boarding pass. So I wandered along the narrow corridor that made up the non-secure side and found a few benches. Well, it’s a small airport, so I can tell you that I found exactly six benches. Not surprisingly, they were all filled, as several (all but one) airline counters were taking a noontime siesta at 10am. So, I found a cozy spot on the concrete floor and curled up with my magazine, Food + Wine. Big mistake, because I was a HUNGRY HIPPO! HUNGRY HUNGRY!!!! Even the airport food was starting to smell good to me from my sparse side of the hall.

The desk finally opened exactly 90 minutes before my flight. I obtained my ticket and stumbled the three feet to the quaint little security line. I figured this could go one of two ways: small airport filled with tourists = not so much action, ∴ laid back security. OR, rather few people to secure + lots-o-time before shift ends = overly fussy security. Guess which one it was?

I willingly admit that I invite aggravation by trying to stuff everything I need into a carry-on rather than spending $250,000 to check a bag. So, I have tweezers in my carry-on (with eyebrows like these, I’m doing SoCal a favor). I have deodorant in there. Is that legal? One never knows from one airport to the next, or from one day to the next, what is necessary to keep us safe from terrorists. But I did not expect to get stopped for a tampon—that was a first for me. Really, guys? Were you not taught to identify these in your hour of training? Have you never lived with a woman before? Actually, from the looks of these three, that was a possibility; at the very least, I will venture to guess that they hadn’t gotten laid in a very, very long time.

This would have mortified me a decade ago, but I am now 36 and I could care less if people know I am currently in the process of shedding my uterine lining. So, after explaining an abridged version of the Birds and the Bees for my middle-aged interrogator and repacking my bag because he seemed rather baffled by it (and how did all of my dirty underwear end up strewn along the table, anyway?), I struck out to the Other Side in search of FOOD.

Here are your options, should you wish to visit, when you are spending time in the John Wayne airport: McDonald’s, something called Creative Croissants (and they didn’t look too creative, folks), the “Sports Page Pub”, a Wolfgang Puck’s Express kiosk (wrapped sandwiches and boxed salads that cost more because they say Wolfgang Puck), and another something called “Oasis Bar and Grill” where there are four booths and the salads start at $14. So, I paid $9 for a little cup of salad. But it was a designer salad.

For your shopping pleasure, you may choose from a vast array of two Hudson News stands, a nameless magazine/ newspaper kiosk, and South Coast News, a Hudson News with neck pillows and slippers. So much for my new spoon collection, but I will say, these people like their reading material.

Special edition: I don't like to travel near kids

Quiz: does this picture make you want to a) comfort and snuggle or b) run screaming?

This is where I prove undeniably what a horrible person I am. Besides the bad service and hectic seating, I have another pet peeve on airplanes: small children.

I have already named names in this blog (and some of you were pretty pissed about it), so I’ll just start out by saying that, on my recent flight cross-country, I thoroughly enjoyed every aspect of my trip with Frontier Airlines.

But when it comes to your seating arrangements, all you can do is roll the dice and hope you get someone good as your seatmate. I prefer the elderly, sullen twentysomethings with iPods, and middle-aged women. I do not prefer small children. I know, their eyes and ears are too big for their heads (cute), their snarled hair permanently, adorably, looks post-nap, and they say the darndest things, but I do not want to sit next to them. And until society gets honest about the necessity of boarding kennels for all children under the age of 12 (am I really the only one who’s thought of this?), you’re always going to run that risk. I had not had the pleasure of a seat kicker, arm pincher, or screamer in my personal space for a very long time, so of course it I had to pay my dues.

I do not know this child’s name because I kept mp3 player turned way up for the entire flight; I will call her Sparkle Toes. I will call her that because she had pink rhinestone-encrusted shoes which felt very bad when pressed into my thigh. Sparkle Toes was seated next to me, and on the other side was her clearly inconvenienced, bleach-haired surfer-wannabe dad. His lack of attention got worse as the flight continued and Sparkle Toes got more and more wiggly, as if he had been forced at knife point to donate sperm and then was gallingly asked to look after said creation. Well I don’t know, maybe he was. Who am I to say?

The first thing I learned about children from Sparkle Toes is that they have a decided lack of a sense of personal space. As an adult, I always make an effort not to rub body parts with strangers because, as much as I would love this (not really), I understand that it might make others a bit uncomfortable. Now, I know that level of awareness might be too much to ask from a 3 or 4 year old—I imagine that’s where the parent comes in. In my utopia, accompanying sperm donor stays awake, watches said wondrous creation, and says things like, “Sparkle Toes, precious child, please stop moving that strange lady’s arm rest while she is resting her arm on it and trying to write.” Or, if you prefer, “Sparkle Toes, magical fruit of my loins, please do not stand on your seat and play with that lady’s dangly earrings. I know that they are very shiny and inviting, but they are attached to a stranger’s earlobe, and you must first ask consent to behave like this.” Finally, how about “Sparkle Toes, dearest darling light of my life, please remove your bare feet from that woman’s tray while she is trying to eat her Combos.”

Rather, when these things happened (and they did), Sperm Donor sighed, placed his early mid-life crisis head on his hand, and turned toward the little t.v. screen in front of him.

Now as a childless asshole, I don’t want to fall into the trap of assuming I know how to parent. I have been told that it’s annoying to actual parents. But this is my theory: toddler monkeys must be taught how to act by adult monkeys, and constant monitoring is necessary in this project. It’s a continuation of my theory on my neighbors’ pit bulls: if they run around and try to kill you every chance they get, it’s not necessarily the poor dog’s fault, but the owner who has not kept up with his responsibilities in training his dog accordingly.

I think it all just sounds exhausting, so I have chickens instead.