What a Difference a Year Makes...

I’ve heard the saying ‘what a difference a year makes for,’ well, years.  It always sounded so cliché, so trite.  It’s a year, people.  A mere 365 days.  How much can actually happen? 

A year here and a year there had blurred together into nine years in publicity at HarperCollins Publishers.  A starter studio in Manhattan turned into a ten-year holding tank.  A year ‘round the world become five years filled with the best moments of my life, as well as a lot of head-banging as I tried to pen the next great memoir about an American abroad.  Year, schmear. 

Then, the oddest thing: my year actually happened. 

Circa January 2010, I was lamenting the state of my life with daily visits to the ice cream freezer at my local Food Emporium. I had no boyfriend to speak of (well, besides Ben and his best bud, Jerry), no job, no desire to keep working on my book, and if I’m being honest, little desire to get out of bed every morning.  I’d bagged the New York City Marathon to witness the birth of my nephew—one of the best decisions I’ve ever made—but in the months afterwards, I had let that discipline wane.  I usually lived my life with an emphasis on the highs.  So, when my lows blew through town, they were usually really, really low.  I was depressed when my friend Darryl called one random afternoon.  (She might or might not have been equally depressed.)

“Wanna climb Kilimanjaro with me?” she asked.  “It’s for charity.”

“Sure,” I responded, not really thinking about the fact that a) I’d never really camped for more than a night, and b) I was a mess of a girl with no drive, ambition, or feeling whatsoever.  Yet, I was agreeing to tackle the world’s highest freestanding African mountain.  I reasoned it was something to look forward to.  Besides, Darryl often had big ideas.  I wouldn’t really wind up scaling a mountain.  In Africa, no less.

 “You sure?” she responded incredulously. 

“Yeah, why not? I’ve got nothing else going on…”

That phone call was the turning point.  It was followed by another phone call from Flying Kites, the organization in Kenya that was organizing the climb.  They were looking to expand their reach to New York City, and throw a fundraiser to highlight their children and their cause in Njabini, and they needed help in making those dreams into realities.  I signed up.  I had nothing else going on, remember?

All of a sudden, I had a lot going on.  And it felt great.  I was creating an event in New York City that had to deliver—this tapped my publicity bone.  I was working with new people and new organizations on a daily basis—this reaffirmed my social abilities.  I was attempting to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro over the summer—this would put me back on the road, and challenge my body.  It was all for the good of a charity in Africa—this put it all into perspective.

April 20^th—the night of the Flying Kites fundraiser—rolled around. For the first time in almost 5 years, I was on a work high.  The night was a wild success in terms of money raised, then the great-event-afterglow set in.  I needed to get back in the game. It was time to figure out how to mix my passion (travel) with my skills (networking, and I hoped, writing).  A hard few months logged with Flying Kites, and a challenging summer upcoming, I decided I needed a break.  I’d never been to the Riviera Maya in Mexico, and my dad had a timeshare property.  Why not? 

Still holding tight to my promise to keep my rediscovered confidence in focus, I threw my hat into the ring as a freelance writer.  I had tons of contacts from my book publishing days, I would tap them to make travel editor introductions, and pitch some stories—Mexico and Africa, for starters.  Newsday bit immediately.  Mexico!  I would get to publish a cover story on Riviera Maya.  A year ago, that story ran, and with it a fire had ignited within me.  Travel writing, huh?  I can do this, I told myself.  An excerpt from my book for Women’s Adventure, a piece on Uruguay for the Miami Herald, and then an assignment on Dubai for the Wall Street Journal followed.  I was on top of the world.  I signed up for Twitter, created a new Facebook page for my work, and began to go after more editors and snag bigger jobs.

Cut to today.  Fifteen print pieces, over a hundred online pieces, and a solid resume.  A trip to Africa, and a Kilimanjaro climb, and a year of traveling and writing—the two things I set out to conquer as my career.  I’ve just begun to branch out into the culinary world, doing reviews, and covering the intersection between travel and food, attended the James Beard Awards (!), am exploring intellectual travel reality production, and reconsidering my book.  I can finally embrace the cliché: what a difference a year makes.

Of course, I’m never satisfied with just minor success, so I can’t help but wonder what next year holds.  (Or do you only get one?) My own travel column. International bestseller. Television pilot. A townhouse in the West Village.  A pied-a-terre in Buenos Aires.  Prince Charming (rocking a laid-back travel vibe). The happily ever after…

What?  A girl can dream, can’t she?

Maize, Blue and Beard

When I received word that I’d been cleared to attend the 2011 James Beard Awards, I had to sit down and compose myself.  Like the rest of you, I’ve been overspending my paychecks on good food and wine for the past fifteen years in the name of quality culinary experiences. For the better part of the 90’s, I studied the NYC Zagat Survey with the due diligence of a medical student studying for the MCAT. In the early 2000’s, I wined and dined my media clients based on the latest opening deemed fashionable by New York Magazine. I fancied myself a bon vivant, and quickly became the go-to girl in my social circles for advice, reservation, and night out suggestions on anything and everything food.  I obliged. Please, I relished the role.

In 2005, I took that act on the road, and began munching my way around the globe, slowly uncovering the world’s culinary canvases over the course of a few years—India, Vietnam, Peru, Thailand, Mexico, Spain, Zanzibar, Puerto Rico, France.  That’s when it hit me: I was a total novice.  New York had nothing on the world.  Returning to the States, some of my best meals taken from carts on nondescript streets that snaked along the Mekong Delta or no-name cafes that fronted tiny European village towns, I realized that a whole new food experience existed for me in my home city.

Fresh from the global table, I found myself craving some hard-to-find flavor palettes. I wanted a Pad Thai from Bangkok’s Khao San Road, a dosa from the tiny storefront outside of the Sunder Nagar community in New Delhi, a Brazilian feijoada, or just-caught green mussels from a pub in Wellington, New Zealand where I mistaken for Meadow Soprano (yes, really).  I couldn’t count on the latest trendy spot to deliver these delicacies or the emotional connections that accompanied them. I had to dig deeper. That’s when I began to really scratch the surface. Not only did I discover new restaurants, I discovered ethnic treasures, I discovered “joints,” and I discovered the responsible chefs. Promptly, I fell in love with many of them.

I just recently started to write about food, and more importantly, the interplay between food and travel.  When I found out that the theme at this year’s Beard Foundation Awards was “The Ultimate Melting Pot,” as cliché as that might be (especially since the awards take place in New York City), I just couldn’t help but smile.  Clichés aside, it makes sense. 

Still, I’m just a bystander to all of this James Beard noise.  So, while I know all of the players by sight, (or Food Network shows), for the most part, nobody knows me. Of course, this works in my favor. I won’t get lambasted like my old friend Alan Richman, or worshipped like Sam Sifton.  Well, yet.  Solely dependent on my taste buds, I’m still undeterred by popular vote (or $100,000 furnished by the makers of Glad). But what I do know is what I like to eat and drink, and I most certainly have a list of favorites. I was thrilled to find that many faces and places I adored were on the list of James Beard Award nominees. Heck, some I’ve even interviewed or reviewed.  Maybe, just maybe, I did know people, after all.

For the first time as a food writer, I donned a little black cocktail dress and my best Louis Vuitton stilettos, and with a tattered notebook sticking out of my evening bag and my iPhone charger as sexy accessories, I spent the better part of the day taking furious notes on the sights and sounds of this highly anticipated affair. I noticed that many of my fellow journalists brought their laptops to save them from the finger cramping and rapidly deteriorating visibility on their smart phone screen (hastened by beverages, of course), but felt confident with my note-taking decision.  I mean, really, what would I do with my laptop at the after-parties? 

I bypassed the green carpet of personalities, too shy to actually command a culinary passerby with the dexterity of an E! News reporter, and slipped into the press room at fabled Avery Fisher Hall.  The Meatball Shop (another review favorite) was catering the affair—succulent spicy meatballs, pillowy parmesan polenta—and as the show began, I took a look at my surroundings. Then, I caught my breath.  In the house was Drew Nieporent, Andrew Zimmern, Bobby Flay, Daniel Boulud, Dan Barber, Michelle Bernstein, Emeril, Floyd Cardoz, Tom Keller, Jean-Georges Vongerichten, Michael White, Ted Allen, Anne Burrell, Bobby Flay, Jose Garces, Duff Goldman, Marcus Samuelsson, Gabrielle Hamilton, Gail Simmons, Tom Colicchio, Ming Tsai, and Traci Des Jardins, to name but a few.  Talk about name-dropping.  Gulp.

Though the music was cheesy, the introductions poorly scripted, and the speeches less than Oscar-polished, the James Beard Awards had me at hello. Overall, New York restaurateur Danny Meyer stole the night with a total of three Beards—outstanding restaurant award 
went to Eleven Madison Park, Angela Pinkerton for pastry chef at the same, and The Modern nabbed outstanding wine service award under the direction of Belinda Chang. But tying it all together for me was the Great Lakes region best chef winner (this includes Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, and Ohio contenders). Drumroll, please…  Alex Young 
of University of Michigan favorite Zingerman's Roadhouse got the love. Standing up there, representing the Maize and the Blue, my maize and blue, he thanked the Foundation "for recognizing mac 'n cheese and fried chicken." And while I know I ate well in college (I gained way over fifteen pounds), I didn’t know that I ate that well.  Serving as a benchmark for how far I had come since my days in Michigan, both in food and in writing, it was the win that resonated most for me.

While the James Beard Avery Fisher Hall gala was touted as the main event, the 2011 book, broadcast and journalism awards were announced a few nights prior. Being a writer, I think it’s equally important to tip my notebook to those winners, winners I can only hope to emulate one day.  They include Amanda Hesser's Essential New York Times Cook Book, the LA Weekly's Jonathan Gold, Top Chef: Season 7, Twitter handle Ruth Bourdain in the new humor category, 60 Minutes' José Andrés segment with Anderson Cooper, Jordan Mackay and Rajat Parr’s book Secrets of the Sommeliers: How to Think and Drink Like the World's Top Wine Professionals, Benjamin Wallace’s New York magazine profile of Keith McNally, Grub Street New York, and the San Francisco Chronicle's food section. 

What a night, what an honor.  Man, I hope I get the nod again next year…

If you want to check out my Huffington Post coverage of the James Beard Awards, you can access that post here. Also check out my reviews of James Beard Award winners on my Examiner.com Restaurant Column and articles on The Huffington Post:

Geoffrey Zakarian’s The National (Best Design)

Jean-Georges Vongerichten’s ABC Kitchen (Best New Restaurant)

Rajat Parr and Jordan Mackay’s Secret’s of the Sommeliers (Best Book)

Spit, Don't Swallow!

I know, I know...

It's been a long time since I've given my Marie's World blog any love. I've been running around countries and cities trying to make a living, but that's a whole other blog. Which I will write. Soon. No, really, I promise. For now, I'm going to stay current and share some of my recent history, rather than the missing three months of entries I have yet to write. So, here goes...

What a whirlwind weekend! A travel and food writer, I’ve been focused on far-off destinations and exotic locales, barely stopping to check out what was happening in my own backyard. Luckily, Leslie Sbrocco and the Thirsty Girl gang were quick to remind me that the New York Wine Expo was taking place at the Javitz Center this past weekend. As a New York Thirsty Girl, I just had to attend. 

Leslie has been informing my drinking palate over the past year, and Kristen, her gorgeous partner in crime, had taken me on a whirlwind tour of Napa and Sonoma during fall harvest. In my continued wine education, the New York Wine Expo was just the thing I needed to keep pushing me in a more savvy direction. It was a perfect one-two hit, as the New York Times Travel Show, the other event on my weekend’s appointment calendar, was taking place next door! Wine plus travel; what could be better?

I arrived on Friday night primed for some tasting. Leslie was hosting a seminar Taste Wine Like a Pro: Learn the Secrets of Tasting Through a Blind Tasting when I arrived, captivating the audience with her easy, fun-loving approach to the enjoyment of wine and tasting. After collecting my tasting glass, I headed off. Over 700 wines, almost 200 winemakers—how would I get through it all?  Confession: it wasn’t that hard. Through Leslie and Thirsty Girl I’ve learned that committing to wine is a pleasure, not a chore.

With exhibitors from some of my favorite regions in Spain, Portugal, Argentina, and the Rhône Valley, I stopped in for some familiar sips of Tempranillos, Alentejo reds, Malbecs, and Côtes du Rhônes. I was thrilled to stumbled across the Graham’s & Dow’s Port table, one of my favorite indulgences from Portugal. In sampling these favored regions, I discovered a few new additions to my regular rotation. 

In Spain, I enjoyed the Zagarrón Sandogal Ciranza Selección, an especially lush Tempranillo, and Las Reñas from Dos Familias Importers, cheap and easy everyday reds. In Argentina, I swooned over the Vinorum Bradsen Gran Reserva, a 100% Malbec affair. In the Rhône Valley, I discovered the Côtes du Rhône, Familie Quiot--Château du Trignon and the Côtes du Rhône, Ogier, “Les Moirets.” Both were light and fruity, not too tannic. Hands down, these two were my favorite new wines of the night.

Chatting with the various distributors, I learned about Ice Cider from Vermont (too sweet), Jam Jar sweet Shiraz from South Africa (way too sweet), sparkling Shiraz from Australia (delicious), and a new Pinot from Napa’s Fulcrum Wines. I also turned onto wine regions in places I didn’t know were making wine—The Finger Lakes in New York, Santorini, Greece, and Brazil—and wondered how to work these lesser publicized wine destinations into my work as a travel writer.

At the end of the night, I jumped over to the Thirsty Girl booth to say goodnight to Leslie and company. There, a couple of old favorites like the Ravenswood Zinfandel (Sonoma) and the Matua Valley Sauvignon Blanc (New Zealand) begged favor before a hint of bubbles sent me back onto the well-traveled New York City road. Now I admit, I didn’t always spit, so I was a bit wobbly for wear, but I came out of it in one piece and with a fair amount more knowledge about one of my favorite topics...wine!

FIFA on the FDR

A wonderful thing happened on the way up the FDR…

Once upon a sleep evading night circa 2 or 3 AM, I made a whole bunch of workout mixes on my iPod.  Thing is, I usually don’t make it down to Dance Mix 5 or Dance Mix 6 during my workouts (as marathons also evade me lately) but on today’s run, I skipped right down to Dance Mix 5 and hit play.  The first song was “Wavin’ Flag” and there, amidst the commuter traffic and smog on the FDR, I was back in the rolling hills of East Africa during the frenzy of World Cup.

I returned from Africa three months ago and I can recall it vividly, but whenever I come back from a big trip, the pace of New York City grabs a hold of my bra straps and woos me with new cultural offerings at the MoMA and the Whitney, a slew of marquee names appearing on Broadway, the best chefs in the world opening signature restaurants, a host of my favorite authors passing through for talks, Central Park runs as the leaves turn, and my darling nephew on the cusp of actually, gulp, walking.  Oh, and there’s that small burden of trying to make a living.

Lately, I’ve been in a vortex of travel pieces, travel blogs, travel pitches, travel itself, and when time permits, the occasional dinner with friends.  Africa became a thing of a distant past.  Which.  Really.  Sucks.  On each return, I promise myself that I will reflect on the life-changing nature of my nomadic life in regular interval; I will stay in close touch with my new travel friends; I will keep the countries I love as close to my heart as I keep the people I love.  And I try.  I really do.

Enter today’s run. 

“Wavin’ Flag” was just the tip of the iceberg, recalling the regularly scheduled Coca-Cola commercials that ran to the World Cup’s anthem—commercials that I grew to love.  “Game On” sent me down a dreamlike road of memories and songs and I found myself back in Tanzania watching Ghana beat the United States (what a fucking game!) and the Zanzibar lounge where the guy next to us rooting for Ghana in the next round was from Astoria!  The aroma of the East River began to melt away, replaced by the salty ocean air outside Forty Thieves, the dive beach bar in Mombasa where Darryl and I watched the Netherlands rock Uruguay and Spain crush Germany with a few really dull Swedes. 

Lyrics to the songs that I knew just three months ago returned, and had I more confidence in my singing ability, I might’ve belted out a little “Waka Waka” right there as I hit the dog park.  With Shakira my running partner, my pace had picked up and I recalled my urgency about catching the finals in the very swanky bar of Nairobi’s Stanley Hotel with new Kenyan friend Brian Jones.  Surrounded by world citizens of all walks, rather than Giants fans of one state, I watched Spain coast to victory while text messaging with Edu and Chris, Barcelona-living friends who sent along pictures of the dancing going on in their streets. 

Talk about one world and one culture—summer of 2010 was all about identifying with those things.  South Africa set the globe afire a few short months ago, and I’ve been so busy trying to make a living, thinking about things like fall boots and maintenance on my apartment, that I clearly needed a reminder about global citizenship, the astonishing beauty of Africa’s open meadows, and the friendship of the people we met along the way. 

If just for 45 minutes on the FDR this morning, I was back in East Africa, living the dream, playing out my role of world citizen dutifully.  Then, Lady Gaga popped my bubble as a garbage truck honked in passing.  But for a moment, it was all about the waving world flag. 

Check it out:

The Official FIFA World Cup 2010 Album:

http://www.listenupalbum.com/

Meet, Plan, Go!

When I first met with Sherry Ott and Michaela Potter of Briefcase to Backpack earlier this year, they were toying with the idea of hosting a night in San Francisco and New York that explored career breaks and travel sabbaticals for the masses.  The events would be open to the public and the discussion would attempt to answer the burning questions of regular folks who were contemplating travel breaks of their own.  They would rely on those that had made similar travel choices in their lives to fill out the panels, hoping to put sabbaticals on target for national discussion.  A former publicist, the idea started my PR juices flowing.  “It’s going to be huge,” I told the ladies.

Fast forward.  Present day.  Clearly, there’s a growing travel momentum out there.  The population is restless; a listless economy has left people unmotivated.  I understand the feeling.  I struggled with it for a long time, and when I finally left to travel in 2005, I got more than a few wayward glances.  Questions were hurled at me with amazing speed.  “You’re leaving your job?”  “What will you do with your apartment?”  “Who are you going to hang out with in Asia?”  “Aren’t you scared to be alone?”  My friends and family were both excited and curious, but they were also nervous for me.  I was doing something they would never do.

Nowadays, many of my friends have since left their corporate jobs – whether by choice or by economy – to answer the call I heard in 2005.  Get out of here!  Hit the road!  Explore the world!  Take some time off!  And the best part is, they’re heeding it.  Because of such widespread interest, Meet, Plan, Go mushroomed into a 13-city event, including 1400+ people across the country.  The dialogue took place in public spaces, on Facebook, on Twitter, and continues today. 

I was part of the New York City panel, a diverse group of seven travel soldiers.  One lost his job due to the economy; another traveled with her two girlfriends, another with her husband.  One of our panelists made a documentary about the art of backpacking, all of the panelists have travel blogs; I sell my travel stories as a freelance travel journalist.

I had never been on a panel before, but as I quickly realized, Meet, Plan, Go was an apt introduction.  Our panel was talking about our passion – travel – and how to help others join our nomadic team.  Dream material, I tell ya.  For two nights, Professor Thom’s, a sports bar in the East Village, was 100 people deep in travel contemplation until sometime after 10 PM.  Everyone stuck around past the requisite Q&A, peppering our experts with questions and considerations.  At the end of each night, I was on a travel high.  “You have to do it again,” I told Sherry and Michaela at the end of night two.  I truly hope we get the opportunity.

Since, I’ve received many emails from those in attendance, and those who have found me online.  Their gratitude for Meet, Plan, Go is bountiful, and their fascination with our travel choices resonates deeply.  I’ve tried to answer all their emails, hoping to inspire another courageous soul to take the leap.  As we said over and over again at Meet, Plan, Go…there’s no such thing as travel regret.

*For more information about Meet, Plan, Go (and their Travel Boot Camp which begins in January) visit the website at www.meetplango.com.  To learn more about career sabbaticals and travel breaks, visit Briefcase to Backpack at www.briefcasetobackpack.com or Three Month Visa at www.threemonthvisa.com.

Bring On Africa!

I’ve done this already.  Multiple times.  And yet, the mixed feelings inevitably come.  Kenya, Tanzania, and Mount Kilimanjaro loom large on my horizon, but I’m torn on leaving a very settled New York existence for the pleasures and perils of a travel-break. 

Most of you know my story: a rising publicist within the matrix of the HarperCollins Publishers machine, I left my job in 2005.  No disillusionment with cranky authors, no falling out with top brass, no desire to continue my upward climb.  I just…quit.  Looking back, the urgency and growth that I had long associated with my position had fallen off.  I owned my New York City apartment; I dabbled with the same boy for half a decade.  Change cramped my style, but it was time.  On the cusp of 31, unattached, and unchallenged, I decided to delve into a new experiment: traveling the world.  Solo.

The lack of corporate identity faded to black, replaced by worries about proper hiking boots and rain ponchos, durable yet lightweight wheelie luggage and international visas.  A holy immunization hell awaited me.  Ecuador would be the first stop on what came to be a two-plus year adventure, but in that solitary moment of booking a ticket to Quito, I wondered what I would wear on the plane.  These became my preoccupations.  Night sweats ensued.  The big question loomed: was I prepared?

A month on the road showed me that preparation only goes so far, and you’re never completely ready for life’s many challenges.  I grew to love greeting the dawn each day—often in a new city—with a wealth of possibility at my fingertips.  Shockingly, I embraced living out of a suitcase.  The contents of that well-chosen wheelie bag became the only constant; everything else around me fluctuated like the wind. Spontaneity became my new best friend.  Unpredictability, my new boyfriend.  Oh, how I thrived.

More than two years have passed since I returned to New York as headquarters of my new life.  In that time, I’ve struggled with re-entry.  Redefining the location of your old life in relation to your new one takes work and, at the time, I wasn’t ready to go back to work.  I wallowed.  I did; probably way too much and for way too long, but it takes a while to process two years, five continents, and thirty-something countries in a studio apartment that doesn’t have the best natural light. 

Eventually, though, the sun came out.  Hiding behind bedcovers until 2 PM started to feel silly, and I slowly began to rebuild.  A manuscript here, a freelance travel article there; working with various global charities reinvigorated my soul and drove my passion.  Voila!  New York regained a bit of its rose-colored glow.

This winter, when the opportunity to spend the summer in Africa presented itself, it seemed a no-brainer.  For charity, no less: where do I sign?  But now, five days out, coming full circle in career and confidence, I’m mixed on leaving.  Again.  Thankfully, I have hindsight on my side, and my trip to East Africa ties into my budding role as a travel writer and a responsible tourist.  I always think I’m immune to anxiety on the eve of extended holiday, and my nerves take me by complete surprise when they surface.  Plus, with each new adventure, they change their spots.  Today, they take the form of: Will I be able to summit Kilimanjaro?  My first joint trip in years, will my travel partners and I get along?  Will I have enough time to cover my assignments and bask in the continent I’ve dreamed of exploring?  And, of course, do I have the right hiking boots? 

Luckily, I know the answers will sort themselves out.  They always do.  That’s the beauty of taking a break from real life for a solid dose of a travel life. 

Bring on Africa!

*This blog was adapted from a piece I wrote for a website called Briefcase to Backpack (www.briefcasetobackpack.com).  Check them out!

Follow the Yellow Brick Road...

It’s almost midnight. December 26th, 2006. I’m leaving for Sydney, Australia in one, yes one, day and…I have absolutely nothing to wear. Sydney is chic, as is Melbourne. The Outback is rugged, New Zealand is hike-centered, the islands of the South Pacific and the Great Barrier Reef are all linen and lycra, flowy skirts and skimpy swimwear. I’ve forgotten how to pack; my list isn’t helping. I don’t know what to bring. I’m overwhelmed, I haven’t done this in a while. Clothes are strewn all over my floor, shoes are no longer neatly tucked in their shoe-rack homes, and I’ve decided that I use way too many products. Frocks that fit perfectly in South America, yeah…not so much. (I guess I won’t bring THREE bagel sandwiches of varied assortment on the 24-hour plane ride to Sydney). That cute go-to skirt from Vietnam, yeah…not so cute. (I guess I’ll remember the term “impulse buy” this time out). New York has seeped back into my blood. I’ve been here too long. I’m stressing over the pack, not the trip. Good and bad. Just pack and go, Marie. Pack and go.

So, it’s been a while since we’ve done this. The blog dance. I’ll have to reacquaint myself with it, though I’m looking forward. Since we left off in Paris with my mom and sister, I’ve spent 4 months in New York trying to sort myself out. It took a while, I’ll admit. The other home stays were all short-lived. I had weddings and commitments, other people’s stuff—things that deflected attention from “being home.” Being home, for real, was tough. I’d gotten used to the travel schtick, the life it entailed, being on the move, waking each day to a new sunrise over a different horizon. I fell in love with the constantly rotating cast of characters; I adored the challenges of each new cultural situation. New York, I felt, hadn’t changed. I yearned to be back out there, in the world, on the road. There’s so much to see, why see the same thing every day?

However, part of this year was the desire to try my hand at not just traveling, but writing. Not this, the off-the-cuff blogging. A real sit down attempt at actually creating a piece of narrative about my adventures. Me-speak sure; but with great scenery, completely honest stories (good and bad) and a genuine respect for punctuation and vocabulary. I had to spend some time doing that. I felt it part of the process; it was equally important. So, after tending to bone spurs from walking the world in flip-flops (another lesson), readjusting to Eastern Standard Time and getting out of bed when I had really didn’t have anything pressing to do (for those who know me well, always a struggle), I took some woe-is-me (if world travelers can actually partake in woe) isolation time. I wrote off everyone I knew and spent a few solitary weeks in the Hamptons at the house of the very generous Millers; it was only then that I FINALLY started to write. Like traveling, I became obsessed.

Back in the city, I would venture to the gym in the AM, waving hi to Rosenberg and her trainer on Mondays and Thursdays, then hit Gotham Coffee House on 68th Street and settle into (after hovering for a vacancy) one of the two bay window seats in the joint and write all day. Usually about 6-7 hours (yes, that includes "screwing around online" time), surrounded by my journals, my guidebooks, my photos, my blogs, and my ruled notebooks of each country’s details. Gotham became my office; people popped by to say hi; Cathy and Hayden (who work there) knew me by name and put my daily soup in a to-go container instead of a fancy ceramic bowl because they knew it took up too much room on my “desk.” Everyone asked a million questions about my coffee shop days:
"They just let you sit there all day, like it's your cubicle?" Yes, though I never had a cubicle.
"Do you put money in the communal tip jar?" Yep.
"What if you don't get a seat?" I wait. Someone is always leaving.
"Do you make friends with other daily patrons?" Some. "Which ones? What's mingling criteria?" It varies.
"Do you go outside to make phone calls?" I rarely answer while I'm there, but yes.
"Are there some people who you can't stand, who have bad coffee shop manners?" Oh yes...
But, these are all stories for another day, as coffee shop culture is a whole other blog.....

After about five recounted country experiences and two hundred pages of writing that I’m insanely proud of, I realized it was turning summer in Australia. Temptation. Big time. Torn between sticking around New York (ducking old-college-acquaintance-turned-Mommy-run-ins on the Upper East Side) and finishing my book at the coffee shop OR heading off to Australia to complete the trip I planned 14 months ago, learning to incorporate writing into my life wherever I happen to be, I opted for the latter. I leave in a day. I’m overjoyed to be continuing my journey, thrilled to see travel friends from along the way, and eager to put both passions that the year has brought me together into one grand adventure. The South Pacific awaits.

But, for this moment, so does my closet.
More soon from the Land of Oz…

~M

"Marie Elena...Como Estas?"

After a month plus of New York City, wherein I came to find that manicuring, lunching, gyming and gossiping with people you run into who ALSO don’t work on the Upper East Side wasn’t doing it for me, I decided to head back out for a quick June trip. Itchy feet, right, Sar? I debated on the possible wheres over and over again in my head; it needed to be somewhere close because I needed to be home over July 4th, it needed to be stimulating both culturally and intellectually (Belize just left a bad taste in my mouth), and it needed to be Latin (b/c as you all know, I’m pretty Latin obsessed these days). So, after settling on Panama and Colombia, I found myself back in touch with Ecuadorian legend, Jose Luis, and after much prompting, decided to make a quick first stop in Ecuador for five days to see him and the Galapagos friends who helped me start this whole adventure eight months ago.

I was able to book my flights on miles, thrilled that they only space left open on the flights were in first class. So after a night without sleep, I headed onto my five hour flight to Panama where I was completely ready to doze for the duration. But, alas, the first class mantra on Copa Airlines (Panama based) isn’t at all what one might expect. That being, leave the passengers alone, keep the noise to a minimum, and do not encourage inter-passenger friendships. Yeah well, I guess I have to remember that the Latinos are a bit different. First of all, the stewardesses (stewardi?) had a practical convention in the galley of first class. They were rat-tat-chatting like a Telemundo soap opera about the misdeeds of their muchachos the entire trip. Dish your dirt in the coach galley, senoritas. Not here, chicas, not here. Add to that, a rapper (who I cannot place) who had his ‘wo-man’ (as he referred to her) sit in the row in front of him with his child who screamed and cried the whole time, giving the rapper-I-can’t-place the pass to lean over the seats every few minutes (did I mention he was as big as a house and when he moved, the whole plane moved?) to try to get the wo-man to quiet the kid. Why are children allowed in first class, mind you? All people traveling with kids, the rich and rap moguls included, should NOT be allowed to purchase a first class ticket. It should be coach all the way. You have a kid, you’re in coach. I mean, fancy boutique hotels in fabulous places don’t allow children under 12, why not first class on the airlines. I didn’t sleep a wink, I was irritated the whole time

Now, the upside to my first class Copa ticket was the VIP lounge in Panama where I got to spend my 10 HOUR layover to Quito, happily ensconced in their overstuffed chairs, using their internet to plan my next legs, watching the World Cup, eating their muffins (AM) and crackers and cheese (PM), and loading up on their excellent Panamanian coffee. Had I not had the first class ticket, I would’ve been stuck in either the crappy “Lo Siento Por La Construccion” war zone of a terminal or spent the day schlepping around Panama, possibly a Canal Zone tour, lugging my overstuffed backpack and sweating my ass off in an outfit suitable for the 60 degree Quito climate, rather than the 99 degree Panama climate. Yeah. All of this would NOT make for a pretty sight when greeting Jose Luis upon exit from the plane. Thank god for Copa first class. Funny how fast it all changes, right?

Arriving in Quito, I found myself smiling out the window. This was where my whole trip began last year. Here was where it all started. I remember feeling unsure, apprehensive, elated and anxious at the same time when the plane touched down last October. I remember my first hours in Quito, in my little hotel room in a strange South American city, sleeping off the anxiety of what I had embarked upon. My phone rang while I feigned slumber, it was Cohen calling, making sure I landed alright, wishing me luck and love one last time. The relief of seeing a familiar number, name at that moment had me immediately emotional. I remember staring at the stucco ceiling for hours afterward, paralyzed by the decision I had made, semi-scared to leave the cocoon of the room, Quito beckoned but I had absolutely no idea what to do with it. I remember wondering how I’d make each day count, how I would achieve a sense of place, culture and education in each new surrounding, how I would be received by people, both natives and other travelers, how I would survive feeling lonely. And yet, by the time I arrived in the Galapagos, I had realized I would succeed in my adventures, I would make new friends, I would accomplish all I set out to do.

Ecuador holds a special place in my heart for that reason. It was in Ecuador, in Galapagos specifically, that I started my trip. I made friends who I am so excited to see this week, who are excited to see me. Over the past eight months, we’ve been in touch, we’ve kept up. They helped me understand how strong I was, how anything is possible once you set your mind to it. They embraced me in a way that I hadn’t expected, especially that early in the game, and helped set the tone for the future travels. Sometimes it’s that initial tone that can make or break a situation. And, I truly feel that my first experience in Ecuador helped me to experience the rest of the world. All of the fears I had that first day in Quito never resurfaced, and it’s been smooth sailing since. So, now, landing in Quito, I’m ecstatic. It’s just fitting to be starting the second half of my travels back here. It feels right. Going through customs, getting my baggage, walking out of the doorway to a sea of Ecuadorian faces greeting their loved ones. And there, off to the right, pokes a familiar face from the beginning, eyes welcoming me back to Quito….

“Marie Elena... Como estas?”