Not only do I dislike cold weather, I adore warm weather.
As I prepped for this trip, I kept looking for sunny havens. In a nod to my earlier ‘anal retentive’ travel prep post, I had written out average February highs/lows for over almost 20 locations. However, as the travel days drew closer, I saw there was a cold spell in Europe and those averages were a wistful dream. I put on my big girl pantaloons and came to terms with a ‘non-cold vacation’ rather than a warm vacation. Plus, I did get that glorious sunshine day in Lisbon where I burnt my nose and cheeks sipping Vinho Verde at Praca do Comercio. (Not that anybody reading was feeling sorry for me and my non-cold vacation.)
Here in Lagos, on the southern edge of Portugal, I’m non-cold (at 50-degrees) but also non-dry. The rain reminds me of Miami. Enormous droplets that feel like they might actually be splashes from the ocean rather than drips from the sky. I was able to view a little bit of the old town before the rain set in. The winding, steep, cobblestoned streets took on an even more charming sheen in the rain.
Many of the tourists here in the off-season are retirees and the streets were littered with slightly hunched couples clasping on to one another after decades of walking together. I stopped in a shop and purchased a hat to serve as my rain deterrent. It only encouraged the water to organize and flow stronger, so I stood for a while under an awning with several other soaked tourists.
A church was nearby so I braved the rain to see if it was open. I paused at the entrance as a few young folks (who looked slightly homeless but were most likely privileged gap-year students staying at a nearby hostel) started saying something to me. It took a moment for me to place the language as English, hence recognizable. “Before you go in, please say hello to our friend.” They pointed at a small bag. I assumed they were panhandling for money and gave my standard, “Whaaaa? I don’t understand, I’m just walking.” gesture. They said again, “Please say hello to our friend Henry, the cockroach.” At that moment I realized they weren’t pointing to the bag but to the large red cockroach in front of the bag. (!!!) Typically my reaction would have been one of surprise or shock or disgust. But, for some unknown reason, I said in a voice typically reserved for toddlers, “Hola, Henry the cockroach.” and proceeded into the church. Apparently, Portuguese Josie doesn’t mind insects.
The church was lovely. Though, truthfully, I’ve yet to find a European church that wasn’t. When I exited (yes, Henry was still there) the rain had not let up. I considered getting a beer under an awning to wait it out, but then, I remembered the Airbnb owner had gifted me with a bottle of Portuguese wine. Why pay for wine when you have free wine at home? Especially when that home also has a heater, a laundry machine for my sopping wet clothes, and a computer for my blogging. “Taxi!”
Given the rain has yet to let up, I’m quite pleased with my decision on this non-cold, non-dry day.
I am exceptionally grateful for the opportunity to travel. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. However, travel is definitely the worst part of travel. Re-packing luggage, lugging it somewhere to stand in slow-moving lines, to eventually get on a form of transportation with some degree of discomfort because it’s a plane/train/bus/car seat and not a couch. Even if it were a couch, it would be surrounded by strangers agitated by having just done the same pack-lug-wait dance.
Maybe other travelers don’t share my opinion. I suspect I am more easily annoyed because my natural tendency is to seek efficiency. It drives me crazy to see people’s time wasted unnecessarily. Additionally, I’m frugal. I will agonize between two options based on a three-dollar difference. My sister once said to me, “Josie, you are a yogi. You trust in God. Yet, you waste so much time being crippled by choice.” I didn’t like hearing it at the time but it has served me well when I remember it. Bottom line, I want to make the best decision possible given my options, and want that for random strangers too. So, when I’m standing in a security checkpoint determining which line to choose, you can imagine how my mind starts grinding.
The Barcelona airport, however, has a genius security line system. As in America, there are the bins atop a conveyor belt. However, in Barcelona, that conveyor belt is U-shaped and much longer. It allows you to slowly de-pack and de-clothe while you’re walking your bin toward the scanner. Smart, right?
Even with this clever system, there was a line before the conveyor belt. I chose mine (with the appropriate degree of mental anguish) and regretted my decision as we approached the belt, thanks to the couple directly in front of me. The woman was half-way down the “U” while her partner was de-packing and de-clothing there at the starting point. Why have a genius system of preparing while you proceed if this bozo is going to disregard it and stand still? I waited patiently until I just couldn’t any longer. I reasoned that sometimes people jump in line if they only have a few items, and since that description fit me, I stepped around him (but behind his travel partner) and put my three loose items into a single bin. The couple started talking to each other and chortling. The man was trying to catch my eye with his semi-passive aggressive comments. I chose to ignore him, again, until I just couldn’t any longer. At this point, I opted for the ‘unaware foreigner’ act and said, “Oh! Sorry. Inglés?”
Then, in English, he said, “there is a line, you should be behind me.” I dropped character and said, “Ah. I assumed you would have moved along the line. I’ll just keep standing with everyone behind you.” I grabbed my bin and returned to my position. Two seconds later, lo and behold, he rolled his bins down to catch up with the woman. They continued making comments that I’m sure were targeted at me but I decided to chalk up my poor behavior to a decent blog anecdote. Also, I think I was right. (I’m sure that will not surprise anybody.)
I’ve stayed in enough Airbnbs that odds were good for me to get a lemon at some point.
I landed in Lisbon around 8pm and secured my taxi. The pleasant Lisboan dropped me off — in a dimly lit, cobblestoned street that is probably charming by day but felt very dingy and alley-like at night. I was supposed to meet a guy at the apartment to receive my key. There was no one. I messaged my contact letting them know I had arrived, reminded myself I was 10 minutes early, and did my best to just relax. Several minutes passed with no response. I had noticed a little cafe up the street and was hungry so messaged my contact, “I will be at the Qualhora cafe. Please respond when you are here.”
I finally heard back when I was equidistant between the cafe and the apartment. “Let me check.” I was relieved the person was responding but it wasn’t a very helpful message. I stood another five minutes in front of a random door unsure whether to head to the cafe or go back to the apartment. Feeling vulnerable with my luggage on a dark street, I decided the cafe was the better choice. I ordered some veggie soup and a beer. My choice was validated when the Airbnb contact messaged that they were sending a woman to let me in and she was 20 minutes away.
I finally met the woman at the apartment and received my key. She told me she didn’t speak English so we pantomimed, “How do I turn on the heater?” and “Where is the laundry machine soap?” and “Enjoy your stay!” with each other. The apartment was very cute but freezing. It also felt damp. It was late and since I had just had soup and a beer, I leveraged that warmth and buzz, cranked up the heater (it was in Celsius and 30 was the max so it’s what I chose), and forced myself asleep. Of course, several hours later, I woke up in a sweaty bed. Turns out 30-degrees Celsius is 86-degrees Fahrenheit. I adjusted the thermostat and fell back asleep.
The next morning I went to a coffee shop to research where I should head next. I had (thankfully) only booked two nights in this particular Airbnb. I decided on Lagos, a shoreside town in southern Portugal. My web search told me the train required a transfer at a station notorious for being delayed. Bus it is! I was able to book my tickets online and felt pretty darn good about myself. I got ready to pick my Lagos Airbnb when I recognized the dates didn’t match with the bus dates. Crud, I had booked a bus ticket for today not for tomorrow. Ugh.
The waiter at the coffee shop was very friendly and spoke a decent amount of English. I explained to him what I had done, showed him the confirmation email, and asked if he knew whether I would be able to change my ticket. He noticed a customer service number, grabbed his mobile, and called on my behalf. They said they couldn’t change it over the phone but if I went to the station I might be able to do so. I felt less darn good about myself.
Fortunately, the bus station was easy to find via the metro. I told myself it was fortuitous that I was going to the bus station a day early so I’d be better prepared for tomorrow. (I’ve been called a Pollyanna.) The ticket agent was able to change my ticket. Hallelujah. However, I had also purchased a return ticket for a day earlier than I had intended. If I was investing 8 hours on a bus (round trip), I wanted to spend as much time in Lagos as possible. She couldn’t change future tickets and told me to go to “line 12.” I assumed that perhaps someone there could help me — but “line 12” was just a bus pulling out of its stall. I looked around, figuring I must have misunderstood. I saw an office door across the way, knocked, and was greeted by a lovely woman who re-issued my ticket. Hallelujah squared.
Now, with my new dates secured, I was able to book my Airbnb for Lagos. Given my experience in Lisbon, I made sure to select one with the ‘self-check-in’ feature. Which, turned out to not be necessary because the host offered to pick me up from the bus station in Lagos and drop me off at the apartment. Finally, I could actually feel good about myself! And, I could go off to explore sunny Lisbon.
The Barcelona airport has an outside Starbucks post-security. Pretty cool to see the sky while waiting for your flight.
Ah, Burger King Spain. Brought back memories from my Crispin Porter days!
The beer I chose to order rather than standing outside on the street.
Apropos sign while I was waiting for my Airbnb host to show.
Street art in Lisbon.
I’m “since 1980” too!
The original “fast food” — workers enjoying their espressos and sandwiches while they stand.
Small church up the street from my apartment.
Hello, little flower. You’ve chosen an excellent place to live.
Lake in Saint George park.
I so love seeing naughty dogs in the water.
And, of course, their frustrated owners.
Back on your leash, you go!
“What you lookin’ at?”
Electric scooters are all the rage in college towns, so, is Lisbon a college town? I dunno, I’m just on vacation, here.
This photo doesn’t do it justice, but the escalator goes up, then flat, then up, again. It was so cool!
“I’m here! Another country from my travel bucket list!”
I didn’t get gelato but couldn’t help myself from snapping my neighbors’ order.
I did, however, get a pizza. Because, I’m me.
Lisbon has tuk-tuks like in India but they’re decorated with super-cute designs.
Lisbon caviar shop.
This street reminded me of Havana.
The Se Cathedral
Did you spot the moon?
A streetside reminder that God is everpresent.
Time for Thai! (At least I’m drinking a Portuguese wine.)
On the bus from Lisbon to Lagos.
Bye, Lisbon!
Portuguese countryside and mesmerizing clouds.
So many goats and cows and sheep!
Wine countries are my favorite countries. 🙂
Arrival in Lagos! I’m staying a few blocks from the marina.
Pasta Primavera with Portuguese wine
“Issued by: Mr. Bean” made me laugh out loud. I certainly would have noticed if Rowan Atkinson were my waiter.
After my terrific Sagrada Familia visit (please see the previous post), I was eager to head to Montserrat. It’s about 90 minutes outside of Barcelona by way of the train. I did some quick route research and saw that from my metro stop to where I needed to go would require several transfers. Although my luggage is ‘light’ in comparison to what one might expect for a month-long journey, I was willing to pay the ten euro for a taxi.
Barcelona doesn’t have Uber or Lyft but they do have ‘myTaxi’ so I download it, register, and am off to Plaza Espanaya for my train. The driver drops me off right by an elevator. Sweet. I take it down and see folks streaming left to the escalator, so fall in line. Hello again, street. Whoops. I take the elevator once more and this time turn right to enter the station.
The next elevator I encounter is out of order so I start fiddling with my bag to convert it from a ‘roller’ into a duffel. Suddenly, I hear a woman screaming at the bottom of the stairs. I look at the escalator and there’s a stroller on its side with a woman grabbing at it, frantically. A worker is struggling to hit the emergency stop and the escalator is still moving. I notice a big, red emergency button, so I drop my bag and run over to slam it.
Remember I mentioned the out of service elevator? Because of that, the woman had used the escalator. However, she had a plastic bag hanging from the foot of the stroller which got sucked into the escalator and pulled the whole cart forward. Once it quit moving, the woman was able to reach in and unstrap what looked like a brand new baby. I would be shocked if he was more than 2 months old. I’m sure that moment will live in her memory forever. Gah. Being a parent must be harrowing. But, with mom and baby okay, I had a train to catch. (Em-pa-thy.)
I had arrived plenty early for the 12:36pm train which meant I was late if I wanted to try and catch the 11:36am train. A ticket agent helped me make the right selection but then my credit card doesn’t go through. He tells me to hurry, the train leaves in three minutes. I use a different card. It also doesn’t go through but now I learn it’s because I don’t have a pin for my chip. He says I need to use cash. (Two minutes.) I put in a 50 euro note and he says, “Your change will be in coins.” Great. I grab my coins like a casino winner of old and race through the turnstile, down another set of stairs, and to the train. My second foot is crossing the threshold as the train horn sounds. Made it.
From Barcelona, the train takes you to a transfer station for the ‘Cremallera’ which is a ‘rack’ train that takes you to Montserrat. At this transfer station, you can also to take the ‘aeri’ cable car to Montserrat. While I don’t have a fear of heights, I do not enjoy the sensation of swinging through the air on a string. Montserrat translates to ‘saw mountain’ and the landscape lives up to its name. “Saw mountain cable car.” No, thank you.
Anyway, Montserrat is home to a Benedictine Abbey that houses a shrine to the Virgin of Montserrat, the patron saint of Catalonia. It’s frequented by daytrippers but I am spending the night which should allow me more time to explore the abbey, attend evening mass, and hike. I am the only person with luggage and, in my head, it makes me feel somehow more committed. (The reality is that I’m only here because Norwegian Air had a cheap flight from London to Barcelona and I’d seen some Facebook posts recently about a magnificent church atop a mountain. But, yes, super committed.) The Cremallera made its way up to 4,055 feet. My ears were popping from the altitude and my eyes were popping from the views.
My original plan had been to arrive early to Plaza Espanaya (for the 12:36pm train, remember) and enjoy a leisurely lunch before the ride to Montserrat. Since I had made the impromptu decision to nix that plan and instead rush to the earliest train, I arrived at Montserrat with a healthy appetite. Normally, I’d grab a simple sandwich for lunch but my hunger made me prioritize proximity and my hotel had a fancy-looking restaurant. I’m glad for my choice because it was a cool little spot (with delicious vegetarian paella). You can see in the photo that the restaurant looks like a cave. The stone ceiling is from the old stables. I thought to myself about how those poor horses had to climb to the top of the mountain. When I hiked the Grand Canyon, I saw mules on the pathway carrying supplies, including things like M&Ms and beer. I wonder what 16th-century-indulgences the horses of Montserrat carried.
I’d fed my belly so now it was time to feed my soul. I sat in the quiet, dark abbey and marveled at the lanterns, paintings, and the piece de resistance: the shrine. It is situated on a level above the altar which gives the appearance of Mary looking down over the altar and congregation. It also means the tourists are ushered through the side of the church, ostensibly protecting the church itself from chatter. Even still, there was the “shhhh” from the security guard whenever people started talking loudly. I always laugh at how the “shhhh” is equally distracting.
Although it’s chilly on the mountain, I decide I’m made of tough stuff and take the funicular of Saint Joan to an even higher point. According to Wikipedia, it is the steepest funicular in Spain and I’m not surprised. (Once my vlogger aspirations are fulfilled you’ll be able to check out the video. Until then, I suspect the photos may be a pretty good indicator.) Rather than going roundtrip on the funicular, I opt to hike 30 minutes back down to the abbey. At the start of the trail, I notice a sign saying that something is closed and to use the red trail instead. I have no idea if my trail is closed or if my trail is the red trail. But, I see a couple other folks walking the same direction so I press onward (after a classic Josie pic in front of the sign).
The trail offers incredible views and the steep grade makes me glad to be heading down rather than up. The 30-minute journey is lengthened thanks to plentiful rocky spots for rest and reflection. I can understand why the monks are so meditative, their backyard is heaven. After the hike, I’m anxious to attend the rosary and vespers in the abbey. However, as the clock is nearing 7pm, I am consumed by the exhaustion of jetlag and a 14,000-step day. I stay for the rosary then head back to my hotel. I get the chance to talk with my Mom and Dad (shout out to T-Mobile WiFi calling), drink a glass of wine, heat my leftover paella on the radiator (shout out to creative thinking?) and sleep hard.
The next morning I wake up at 1030am. The previous day I had woken at 6:45am. I’ve clearly not yet acclimated to my new time zone. I visit the Abbey and am astounded at the amount of activity. All those day-tripping-tourists are creating lines everywhere. I’m grateful for the opportunity to have seen it more intimately the previous day. I attend mass and then head out on a different trail than yesterday. The path is lined with artwork dedicated to the various Mary apparitions like the Virgin of Montserrat. Again, there are plentiful spots to sit and pray. It’s a true spiritual walk. The time comes to conclude my stay in Montserrat so I gather my luggage and return to the Cremallera.
As we descend the mountain, I’m still in a reflective mood.
I recognize travel is not for everyone. Folks sometimes compliment me and say, “Josie, your pictures and stories make me feel like I was there.” It’s actually my favorite compliment to receive, which I greedily accept because it means I’m serving my blog’s purpose — enabling non-travelers to see the world. However, in support of my other blog goal, to inspire people to go wander, I must admit that this blog smells like cake. (Go with me.) This particular blog/cake called Montserrat smells glorious. Enjoy the pictures and my stories; inhale deeply. But, to watch the train snake down the mountain and marvel at the majesty of human ingenuity juxtaposed with the grandeur of God’s topography? That is to taste the Montserrat cake. And, trust me, its smell is nothing compared to its flavor.
Ol’ Saw Mountain
‘Aeri’ Cable Car
Those tourists look REALLY excited
The shrine to Our Lady of Montserrat
Candle Alley was one of the coolest things I’ve seen.
Yes. Good call. Someone was thinking.
This is inappropriate but doesn’t it look like the mountain is giving us the middle finger?? It does, right?
That is a woman and her dog. To each their own.
This made me laugh out loud. “Getting here is no picnic.”
Funicular to Sant Joan.
Up and up we go.
At one point a funicular coming down was on the other side of that little rail exchange. What the what?
You have arrived at Sant Joan.
Hey, engineers, thanks for making this funicular functional!
The aforementioned ‘classic Josie’ picture.
My selfie stick is super sneaky and lets me take those, “Oh, you’re taking a photo of me?” pictures of myself.
Getting just a little bit cold up on the mountain.
Cairn spotting!
These footsteps make me appreciate the challenge of paving this trail.
Just keep going, Josie.
I couldn’t figure out if this was a dry well or burial pit or what…
…then I saw a tombstone and decided to quit asking questions and move along.
This tree has grown through the stone barricade.
That’s the Montserrat Abbey in the distance. Getting closer.
St. Francis statue in front of the Montserrat mountains.
I have to respectfully disagree with the graffiti artist given the hour I just spent marveling at Spain’s beauty.
I believe this monument is called “The nerve of the free.”
This hollowed-out art style was prevalent. I couldn’t decide if it was pretty or creepy.
No indecision, here. That is gorgeous.
Returning to the Abbey in the evening.
Is it possible that Montserrat is more beautiful at night?
I noticed the sign on the door says “Department of Communications” — maybe they’re hiring!
When you have leftovers but no microwave you employ creative thinking skills.
Creative, yes. Effective, not so much.
Every morning, God’s graces renew.
Woah! There was NO line yesterday when I viewed the shrine!
Another example of the hollowed-out art style. Or maybe it’s ‘hallowed’ — get it?
This entire thing is made of marble. It was exquisite.
I couldn’t find it written anywhere but I assume these are Eucharistic lanterns from churches across the world. I also assume there is a more technical name that “Eucharist lantern.”
Of everything in the Abbey, I thought this painting was most beautiful.
I drink local based on the country I’m visiting but I over-index on my Italian food consumption regardless of the country. I walked around the charming neighborhood of my hotel in Barcelona looking for tapas or paella or something Spanish. However, I found lots of Iberian ham.
Definitely Spanish but not vegetarian Spanish. So, I found myself in a cozy Italian restaurant called Bocca di Bonifacio. The waiter had a delightful air that said, “I don’t care about you, but also, would fall all over myself to get you anything you request.” The music was terrific. Ray Charles. “How my heart is going sad, so sad and lonely. Because I’m so far, so far from my folks back home.” The menu explained its name: the restaurant is at the corner of Sardenya and Corsega streets. The name is taken from the straights between Sardinia and Corsica where sailors allegedly fear its powerful currents and winds. I immediately loved the restaurant even more because one my favorite friends, Gaby (and her husband Rudi (who is also pretty high on the ‘awesome friends list’)) and I visited Corsica together in 2014. (I am not sure you are supposed to do a parenthetical reference within a parenthetical reference but I just did.)
Now, some people would say, “Josie, why did you fly to Spain? You could be listening to Ray Charles at any quaint Italian restaurant in almost any American city.” To that, I say, “You’re right. But I AM in Spain. And I’m having a delightful time. If you would like to eat Spanish food in Spain, do it! And blog about it so I can read about YOUR delightful trip to Spain. Now, excuse me while I order lasagna.” Okay, I didn’t order lasagna. I ordered the bufala di mozzarella, smoked tomato, buttered focaccia, and charred artichoke. Holy cheese. I couldn’t allow myself to finish it but I enjoyed every last bite my stomach could hold.
It’s amazing to me how my ambition and motivation skyrocket when I step into another country. “I’m going to be a writer!” “A teacher!” “An actress!” I’m always a dreamer but, when abroad, I am also a believer. I’ve decided I’m going to take advantage of this trait and invest in making my dreams (or at least some of them) a reality. To that end, please follow me on Instagram, Facebook, YouTube, and Twitter with the @wanderwithjosie handle. (“Look ma, I’m a social media influencer! Huh? What? It’s not that easy? Oh, okay.”)
I manage to stay awake until 9pm and then allow the jetlag to take over. In the morning, I head for the Sagrada Familia. This is actually why I’m staying in Barcelona. Originally, I had planned to do two nights in Montserrat and bypass Barcelona entirely. It is a polarizing city — people often have a strong preference for Barcelona or Madrid. I am a Madrid gal, myself. Barcelona is coastal, it’s artsy, it’s frivolous and flamboyant. Essentially, Barcelona is San Francisco while Madrid is Chicago. (I imagine if I WERE a social media influencer with thousands of followers, this post would incite all sorts of outrage from Barcelonans, Madridians, San Franciscans, and Chicagoans alike. It’s obviously a generalization but it serves my point.) I thought Barcelona was nice but not a city I was called to re-visit. However, I never went inside the Sagrada Familia. It’s the church of the sacred family that Gaudi designed around 1882 and has been under construction since that time. Its completion is planned for 2026 and folks are acting as if that’s tomorrow. To be fair, 7 years is brief considering the overall 144-year construction timeline.
I booked my ticket online to visit the Sagrada Familia at 10am. I reasoned, several days ago, that even with jet lag, I’d be up early enough to make that work. Cut to me waking up at 6:45am. Like, fully, wide awake. I head to the Sagrada Familia and ask the entrance guard if I can enter early — at 9am. He says (in Catalan, Castillian Spanish, Spanish-Spanish, maybe Polish, but mostly English), “Yes. But only ten minutes early.” There goes my plan to do the church early so I can catch the train to Montserrat early (intentional foreshadowing of the following post). I wander around the gift shop a bit and look at some of the Sagrada Familia books. I figure, maybe if I look at enough of the ‘stuff’ in books I won’t take so long inside. Cool, it’s 9:15.
Related to my earlier statement about ambition, I decided to break out my selfie stick and record some footage for my burgeoning vlog (video blog). 9:25
I notice a drove of tourists taking photos of the Sagrada Familia from across a pond. I check it out and find a peaceful (other than the hundreds of tourists) seating area to look at the church. At first, I am elbowing along with the others to get my greenscreen-esque shot. I’m pleased. 9:30
I sit on a bench because I am still 20 minutes away from being allowed entry. Thankfully, I am six hours ahead of my friends and family so checking Facebook or emails is fairly unfruitful. Especially since I already checked them at 6:45, when I was awake. So, I sit there. And I look at what’s in front of me — an incredible building with immense detail. I notice grapes. Yep, literally. I find out later that the grapes are a sign of fruitful harvest. I notice the “IHS” above the carving of the holy family. I notice various words carved in the stones. I think to myself, “Wow. This is really a spectacular church!”
However, all around me, there are hordes of selfies being snapped. Again, I cast no judgment. I was one of them only five minutes prior. But it reminded me of my experiences at Iguazu Falls and Pompei. I was annoyed by all the teeny-boppers waltzing up to snap a duck-lipped photo, then pivoting and walking away, whereas I stood and ‘felt’ the experience. (Yes, I have a superiority complex. No need to diagnose me, I know.) So, there I was, ‘feeling’ the Sagrada Familia. I couldn’t wait to share my epiphany so I took out the selfie stick and recorded more vlog footage. (Uh-huh, I get the irony.) 9:50
After all this preamble, I’m going to trust in the adage that a picture is worth a thousand words and let you glimpse inside the church through my photos. (And eventually through my vlog!) I will use just a few words to say that it was absolutely incredible. It was the brightest, most stained-glass-kissed church I’d ever seen. It was ancient and modern, all at once. Sacred yet superficial. Awe-inspiring in its excessive extravagance with a ‘don’t take me too seriously’ wink.
Suffice it to say, I’m glad I returned to Barcelona so that I could peek inside such a marvelous structure and be reminded that, to see what you came for, you have to actually sit down and look.
Hurray for the convertible roll-y bag to backpack!
I made it!
Even Barcelona’s lamps are artsy.
This is not a modern art museum but a hospital.
I love the palm tree shadow.
That palm tree on the left got its hair cut too short.
Random park I happened upon with a copper, um, thing.
Scenes from an Italian restaurant (in Barcelona).
Cheesy magnificence.
Happy Valentine’s Day to me!
It really does look like a green screen, doesn’t it?
But I’m really truly really here.
When you stop to look, you see all sorts of things.
Indications of a fruitful harvest.
Can you spot the “Gloria” below the fruit?
I’m in! And they gave me a phone, well, an audio guide.
The entry doors. Throughout, nature comes alive. Watch for pillars that look like tree trunks.
Who runs the world? Girls!
Radiant beyond measure.
I kept thinking I saw my name. Turns out it was “Jesus” which, you know, is just a few letters off. D’oh.
The model for 2026
Or maybe this is the model for 2026. I don’t really remember.
Under construction
One last look back.
One last Italian meal… not of the trip, just in Spain.
So, the journey begins. I had a wonderful time visiting with Courtney in Denver. We ate at a Middle Eastern restaurant to whet my appetite for the pending Morocco visit. It was luxurious to arrive at the airport in the afternoon for a direct flight to Europe. I say “luxurious” even though I was flying in the economy class of a budget airline. That said, I was very pleased with my Norwegian Air experience. I thoroughly enjoyed the gate agent announcing the various stages of boarding. “We are now boarding group A. If you are holding a group A boarding pass, this is your time to board. Please don’t miss your moment.” What a fantastic statement for life, in general. “This is your time. Don’t miss your moment.” On the plane, I secured a window seat with a vacant middle seat. The gal in the aisle seat leaned over and said, “I am mostly going to sleep on this flight. But, don’t worry, I’ll get up at least once an hour to use the bathroom.” Although her statement proved to be false, I immediately liked my row-mate. I can’t say the same about the person occupying the seat in front of me, even though he was an adorable little boy from Australia. His accent was charming as he would whine about his younger brother to his mom. “Ma-hmmmy! Tell him to stoooohp.” However, if you know me IRL (which means “in real life” — I didn’t know that until my super-hip niece taught me the lingo). Anyway, if you know me, you know I’m short. Because of that, sitting for long periods of time where my feet only sort of touch the ground can be uncomfortable. That’s why I often sit cross-legged. Luckily, in a plane, there’s a convenient spot to prop your foot — on the hinge of the armrest in front of you. I do this on literally every flight and have never had an issue. My little Aussie friend was far more aware of his surroundings than most seat occupants, though. At first, he would just touch my foot and then move on to something else. I decided that was fine. Then, he started pushing down on my foot and really applying pressure. (As much pressure as a 4-year-old can exert.) Whenever he would do this, I would put my foot down (literally, I would lower it). But, absentmindedly, a few minutes later I’d be resting my foot on the back edge of his armrest. I get that it’s an “armrest,” not a “footrest” so would yield every time I remembered. Since I’m old and forgetful though, at one point I heard him lilt, “Ma-hmmy, her feeehet!” Perhaps fortunately, the mother had tuned him out completely so I did not have a mid-flight altercation.
Remember my previous post about being indecisive on where to go post-London? Because I had booked my Barcelona trip separately from my London trip, although both were on Norwegian Air, I had to go through immigration, collect my bags, and check back in for my Barcelona flight. I had given myself plenty of buffer time between flights and all went smoothly. At one point, in London, I needed to use the restroom. I was standing in line, well, actually standing in the queue (because, you know, Queen’s English). The last stall was propped open with a trashcan (aka rubbish bin). The line was short enough that I just waited rather than braving the questionable stall. However, while I was in my stall, I heard a woman say, in a beautiful British accent, “Is anybody out there? Can you see my foot? I’m stuck in this stall. The door is locked, can you please go get somebody as my flight departs soon?” If we had been in America, I suspect those sentences may have been ridden with more profanity. The bathroom attendant arrived quickly which allowed me to hear this exchange: “What are you doing in that stall? I put a bin by the door so nobody would use it!” Derisively, “Why would you do that? That doesn’t mean the lock is broken. You should have used a sign.” Sheesh. Later, I had to use the restroom again (it was a 4-hour layover). While in line (queue), a woman in one of the stalls says, “Oh! Somebody left their passport in here. Please, ask if anybody out there is missing their passport!” What is up with people conversing with those outside the stall?!? Nobody is missing their passport and when she comes out she says there is a boarding pass with it so she’ll take it to that airline. A few minutes later, while I am doing my business (thank you very much), I heard a frantic woman saying, “Where is my passport!?!? I just left it in this stall. Where could it have gone?”
Nobody responds. I realize I must be the only one that witnessed the whole situation. So, becoming one of ‘those’ people, from my stall, I say, “Ma’am, I think the woman who found it is taking it to your airline.” She responds, “Why would she do that?!? Why isn’t it here, where I left it?!?” I assume these are rhetorical questions so don’t engage further. She’s gone when I come out. I don’t care how badly I may have needed to use the restroom, I wasn’t going again in London.
Up next, Barcelona! (And, hopefully, this is my last post about bathrooms.)
Heading out from St. Louis! My passport cover says: “Not all those who wander are lost.” And yet, finding yourself, is a direct result of travel.
Overnight layover in Denver. Thanks for the hospitality, Courtney and Chris!
Last minute travel research courtesy of Courtney’s book collection.
“Welp. Here goes nothing.”
London layover breakfast at dinner time.
Magical spices. I seriously considered pocketing this spice packet but there was no cover and it would have spilled everywhere. I mean, because stealing is unethical.
Most of my travel blogs are written while I’m traveling. (Probably not a surprise.) This one, however, is written as I’m about to travel.
July 2018 was pretty rough. I called off my engagement and one of the first people I spoke with was my good friend, Carolyn. (Avid followers will remember her cameo in the “From Rory and Lane to Lorelai and Sookie” Puerto Rico post.) She was in the midst of acquiring her yoga teacher certification and told me she’d booked a week-long March yoga retreat in Morocco as her congratulations gift to herself. (Side note, I need to up my self-reward game.) As soon as she told me about it, I knew I was meant to join her and would need something positive to look toward in the following months. I booked the next day.
Given my employment uncertainty (also in July, I found out our company was being acquired and that I’d likely be out of a job at some undefined future point) and my housing situation (yeah, I also sold the condo as part of our breakup), I waited to book the outbound portion of my trip. I eventually decided I should take advantage of my (f)unemployment and spend a whole month abroad before the Moroccan retreat. I found a cheap flight to London (from Denver, which is not where I live, but only a minor detail) and booked it. I was leaving February 12th. Cool. But because I don’t live in Denver and because winter is a cruel trickster, I decided to fly out a day early and stay with my amazing friend and mentor. The only issue? I’m not planning a trip to London. London is just my jumping off point for wherever I want to go in Europe. Which is, um, where am I going on this trip?
I’ve been scenario modeling itinerary after itinerary. (This lack of a job thing means my analytical brain is starving for intellectual stimulation.) So, I’ve researched ad nauseam. At one point I was going to travel to Greece, then it was Malta, then Sicily. I looked into Gibraltar and Málaga. Carolyn and I are to meet up in Porto, Portugal on February 28th, so I know Lisbon will be part of the journey. At one point in Lake Worth, with my mom, we watched a cute movie with Shirley MacLaine and Jessica Lange, “Wild Oats.” They visit the Canary Islands and the water looked beautiful. I realize the islands are in the same area as my hunt so I include them on the list. I throw in Ibiza and the Azores for good measure. Note: Before this travel research I wouldn’t have been able to pick out any of these places on a map.
Finally, I decided to scrap my meticulous planning and just go with my gut. I had recently seen a Facebook post about Montserrat near Barcelona. It looked breathtaking and so I book a flight from London to Barcelona to take the train to Montserrat and spend two nights. Great. I have the first two nights of a 15-night window planned. (To this, my mom says I make her head whirl. Yes, mine, too.)
This is a logistics-laden post and possibly not very enjoyable to read. I also recognize my travel prep tends toward anal retentive. However, I share it to highlight the parts of travel that don’t usually make it to the memories reel. The memories are the experiences you soak up while you’re in these marvelous places. And, truth be told, I could have picked any one of those destinations and gained terrific memories. In the process of my research, I became a bit more knowledgable about geography and identified some new possibilities for future trips.
You know the adage, it’s not the destination, it’s the journey? Turns out even picking the destination is part of the journey.
Stay tuned for a fresh batch of blog posts coming your way, soon!
Winter and I don’t get along. Perhaps it’s the years I spent living in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and then Green Bay. Or, conversely, maybe it’s the 3 years I spent living in Miami. Either way, it is best for my mental state if I am in a warm state.
Several years ago, my mom and I went to Perdido Key in the Florida panhandle to snowbird. We had a delightful time but learned that’s not far enough south to find Josie-level warmth in the winter. This year, we decided on southern Florida. I used the Southwest low fare calendar and literally typed in “St. Louis to Tampa,” “St. Louis to Orlando,” “St. Louis to Fort Lauderdale,” until I found the cheapest fare — St. Louis to Palm Beach. Next, we compared a few vacation rentals and settled on an adorable cottage in a community called Lake Worth, just south of Palm Beach. Brilliant.
And it has been brilliant.
Lake Worth is an artist’s haven and known for their cottages. They speckle the neighborhoods with their charming front porches, bright Florida hues, and consuming tropical gardens. A coffee table book provides an inside look and details the history of the local gems. I couldn’t help myself but look up a few on Zillow and seriously question if, maybe, I should be a cottage owner. I haven’t definitively decided against it.
While here, family and friends at home faced the worst snowstorm in years. My parent’s house had over 14 inches, keeping my dad barricaded (thankfully, with heat, power, and food) for multiple days. We’d swap selfies of us in front of palm trees with snowmen and overburdened tree branches. As I write this now, I am aware that another arctic blast is supposed to hit right after we return. The high on Sunday will be 12 degrees. The high! Sunday is also the Chiefs playoff game against the Patriots. Here’s hoping for some good football to keep us warm.
Mom and I had been scouting bars to watch the Chiefs – Colts matchup (last week) from the moment we arrived in town. Rhum Shack had cheap food (40% off on Saturday, dang!) but the wrong sports vibe. The raw bar had decent-looking food but smelled too much like seafood. Igot’s martiki bar didn’t serve food (but wins for cute name). At last, we found Lilo’s Street Food and Bar. Happy hour two-for-one drink specials and killer food deals. Yes, I am bargain crazy.
Beforehand, mom had asked me, “What do you do at a bar for 3 hours?” Don’t mistake the question, she is the more fervent Chiefs fan and absolutely planned to be in front of a TV for the whole game. But she’s accustomed to the comforts of watching a game from her armchair. When we first arrived at the bar, we were the only ones watching TV. The accommodating bartender changed the station for us and even turned up the volume for us to hear the commentary. Three hours later we’d become affectionately known as part of the “Miller Lite Girls Corner” with several of our new acquaintances high-fiving us over the Chiefs’ Divisional win. THAT is what you do at a bar for 3 hours.
While we had been at Lilo’s watching the game, I realized the TV ratio was misadjusted. The bartender tried, I tried, the manager tried, I tried again but none of us could get the picture to display properly. The slight pixelation didn’t seem to bother anyone else and we reasoned that we were winning with it blurry so perhaps should leave well enough alone. Well. A couple days later, mom and I were sitting at a bar across the street from Lilo’s. FedEx pulled up and carried out a 55” TV in a box, apparently being shipped back. Now, I can’t imagine this had anything to do with us but I like to think I helped alert the manager to a defective television and should consider a future career as a caped consumer advocate. I guess the cape part is negotiable.
The bar we were sitting at (across from Lilo’s) had two bar stools that faced out the open window to the street. Hence the FedEx view. We felt like VIP ladies looking out at Lake Worth downtown. While I was at the bar ordering our drinks, a man asked where we were from. He mentioned he used to live in Northern Michigan and I told him we had lived in Marquette. He had gone to college there around the same years. Small world. A little while later the bartender came up to us and said, “the gentleman at the bar wants to buy your next round.” What he really did was buy the opportunity to come sit with us at the VIP perch. He told us that we had actually taken some regulars’ seats and he was getting a kick out of watching them fumble for where to sit, instead. He said they’re two old guys that resemble the cranky muppets sitting in their balcony seats commenting on the world. It made me think of mass when the ‘non-regulars’ take a pew that all the ‘regulars’ recognize as so-and-so’s pew. Side note, I actually love when that happens to me at mass because it gives me a new perspective. Anyway, we enjoyed our second beer, thanked the local for the hospitality, and gave up our perch to the muppets.
Midway through the trip, we rented a car. It was lovely to explore Lake Worth on foot and my step count got a nice boost. But with a car, we were able to venture north and visit Palm Beach. On the Lyft ride to pick up the car we asked what sights the driver recommended. He mentioned Mar-a-Lago (yes, President Trump’s Mar-a-Lago). The driver said, “I’m not sure if he’s still here though, I didn’t notice Air Force One when I drove by the airport.” My mom responded, “No, I think based on his tweets he’s back in the White House.” I thought to myself it’s a weird day for national security when a random guy in Florida and my mom can figure out the president’s whereabouts. Strange. But we did drive by Mar-a-Lago and all its opulence. We walked along Worth Avenue and window shopped at Ferragamo, Gucci, Saks, etc. The only store we stopped in was called the Mouse’s Cupboard. It was a charitable resell-it shop. Perhaps it’s a sign of the Palm Beach times but it was hopping.
We ate breakfast at a charming diner that also felt out of place for Palm Beach. The woman next to us looked like an ad for Lilly Pulitzer sporting the designer’s visor, top, skirt, handbag, and tennis bag. That’s a lot of bright flowers. We overheard her on the phone inviting someone to an event. She told them, “I just have to give a quick 20-minute speech and then we can enjoy the evening. Let me know if you want the mahi-mahi or the steak.” I desperately wanted to ask her the topic of the speech but decided to let her enjoy her non-fat decaf latte in peace.
On our last day, I decided to make the most of soaking up the sun by going for a run in Bryant Park by the water and then doing a slow flow yoga class. It was absolutely magical to twist and see the water, to go upside down and see palm trees, to have my feet feel the slightest bump from the uneven earth. It was heavenly, which is a fitting description because while I was at the park my mom learned that my cousin had passed away the night before. The loss is heartwrenching (especially because she was not even 50, their family lost her father only 4 months prior, and it was so sudden). I was grateful we had happened to see her only a few weeks earlier. She had a verve for life and a strong spirit so we decided Suzanne would want us to celebrate her life and we toasted her at our favorite restaurant recalling fun memories.
Today, we are heading home as planned. The weather forecast is still harrowing but I have a new perspective about what’s worth complaining about and what’s not. It has been a terrific trip punctuated with a somber reminder to embrace life, to be kind, and to appreciate what we’re given.
Hello, I am writing to you from Austin, this week. I have two different friends from California that now call Texas home and I’m privileged to get to guest-bed-hop between the two.
First up is my friend Holly. She is a mom to three adorable kiddos with her husband, Joel. They also have two super-cute brindle pitties that, back in California, made me reevaluate my childhood fear of the breed. Ten years later, they’re now more of a brindle gray but they’re still sweet. One of them whines more than I remember but Holly says she thinks that as he’s gone deaf in his old age he can’t hear himself, so is extra loud. I found that explanation reasonable and exceptionally charming.
Most folks come to Austin for the music scene. And, I’m right there with them with tickets to Austin City Limits (ACL) on Sunday. However, I suspect the Austin YMCA Barre Class is not usually on the top ten list of visitors. But, they’re missing out.
I was very clear with Holly that I wanted her to do what she’d normally do and just let me tag along. So, we picked up the kids from school, we visited a park with friends, we played magnets before dinner, we brushed our teeth and read books before bed. We gabbed with neighbors in the street while the kids swapped bicycles. We brainstormed the perfect toy to bring for “sight” day and “smell” day at school. I got to be a fly on the wall of an awesome little family. Perhaps it’s because I have been trained by 14 nieces and nephews or perhaps it’s due to my own child-like personality, but the kids have taken to me. It’s totally undeserved but totally, totally appreciated.
As I mentioned earlier, my ACL tickets are for Sunday and I’ve been most excited to see Arctic Monkeys. However, one of Holly’s friends offered her two free tickets to see Paul McCartney. (!!!!!!) What a showman. And I don’t just mean ‘at his age’ but seriously, the man rocks. My only regret is that, at one point, we were right up by the front of the stage. We walked back for me to get a beer so ended up watching the show farther back. Maybe I need to reflect on my priorities?
Anyway, after the show, we waited 45 minutes for an Uber that kept saying “8 minutes away.” Clearly, the Uber-designated pick-up and drop-off spot was not the ideal approach. I noted it for Sunday and slept soundly that night knowing I had been in the presence of a living legend. I’m sure Paul did too, having known we were in the audience. 😉
The weather in Austin is incredible and lured me out for a run one morning. I was craving a latte so Holly suggested I visit SummerMoon, a trailer in the parking lot of a church, surrounded (at this season) by a pumpkin patch. This charming place is what Instagram dreams are made of — and the coffee was superb, too. The barista told me they make their own condensed milk that’s super sweet. Later, Holly told me she had heard it’s just melted ice cream. Whatever it is, it’s delicious. However, I could only bring myself to order the quarter-moon latte which is ¼ of the good stuff and ¾ non-fat milk. The result was a drink that had “¼ Josie” written on my cup. There was something that pleased me so much about that. Maybe it’s because I was feeling more 100% myself than I had in a long time. Or, it was the combination of runner’s high and melted ice cream?
Up next, was my dear friend, Jen. She and I met at St. Augustine’s church in Oakland. She thinks deeply and speaks straight from her heart with great compassion. I always feel like I talk differently for awhile after a visit with her. In the same way that some folks pick up accents (aka: me) I feel like I pick up Jen’s gentle inquiry techniques and gracious sharing of observations and insights. I’d say it’s from her training at Harvard Divinity School or the Berkeley Graduate Theological Union but I suspect its an innate character trait. And I love it.
On Sunday morning I went to Mass at a local parish in the heart of University of Texas campus. There were motorized scooters everywhere. I hadn’t yet tried one but given my delayed departure, the muggier than expected weather, and the distance left to walk, I decided to sign up and scoot to church.
It was great!
Well, it was actually sort of nerve-wracking to go 15 mph sans helmet next to cars and buses. Not to mention the other scooter drivers that were potentially as inexperienced as me. Maybe it’s because I was heading to Mass, I was granted safety and mostly enjoyed the experience. After mass, I unlocked another and headed back to Jen’s. However, later that day when we left, I felt a tinge of guilt nobody had yet booked the scooter and it sat in front of her apartment all day. But, the next day it was gone so I guess the system is working.
That afternoon was ACL and, informed by my Friday night lessons, we opted for Lyft and a different entrance. We arrived at the festival without much challenge. The fairgrounds were packed and while we had a great time, Arctic Monkeys didn’t perform many of the classics I love. Oh, well. Still a fun experience with great company.
The next morning, the weather changed dramatically. Jen and I had been in summer attire for the concert. But less than 12 hours later, Austin was experiencing torrential rain (that even caused flooding in some of the northern low-lying areas) and, get this, 50 degrees. I had not signed up for that chilly nonsense. But, I had a lunch date and the restaurant was only a 3-minute walk away. Too bad my motorized scooter was no longer out front.
I arrived wet and trembling to Trudy’s Tex-Mex and indulged in a large lunch, ostensibly as an act of warmth. I was meeting up with another old friend, Shannon. We had worked together in Miami during my days at the legendary advertising agency, Crispin Porter + Bogusky. Both of us regard our time there as a master class in advertising. It was fun reminiscing, however, we were early 20-somethings then and are late 30-somethings now. That meant we also spent part of our lunch talking about kids, housing prices in Austin, and mentoring our junior counterparts. Weird. We also discussed the infamous “Mexican Martini” that was on happy hour at Trudy’s. She explained it’s basically a martini with tequila or a margarita with olive juice. Sold and sold. Except that we aren’t on Mad Men and she needed to get back to work after lunch.
I am a firm believer that a trip should never be ‘complete.’ There should always be at least one activity or experience left undone. It’s what ensures the wanderlust bug remains alive and well, luring you to return. The Mexican Martini is my unchecked box on the Austin To Do list, meaning Holly and Jen may have their guest bedrooms occupied again, soon.
When I started this journey in San Juan, I wasn’t sure what I was seeking nor what I needed. I hardly even knew how to answer people when they asked, “Why Puerto Rico?” Now, 30 days later, I still don’t have a ‘good’ answer to any of those questions but I’m not sure that I care. I feel quite confident I found what I was seeking, got what I needed, and have no doubt Puerto Rico was the perfect place to find my way back home to me.
It was divine timing that I had so much alone space before the back-to-back visit of Carolyn and my mamacita. After the deep cleanse on my spirit, I doused my soul’s house with joy and laughter.
I have to give my mom props for coming. First, because she hates flying by herself. Second, because the day before she was to get on the plane, weather forecasts were saying that Hurricane Isaac had a decent likelihood of smacking the island. Not to mention the fearsome reports of Florence up north. I told her that I understood if she wanted to sit out the trip. Her response? “Well. If a hurricane hits I am going to be worried about you so I might as well be worried next to you.” Yep, that must be where I get it from.
As I’ve mentioned already, Carolyn and I are chatterboxes. I also have a reputation for increasing my decibel level in direct proportion to my level of happiness. So, perhaps we shouldn’t have been surprised when a neighbor politely opened his balcony door at midnight to yell down to our balcony, “Ladies, it’s a work night. Please, and thank you.” Ah, the number of times we heard the same message from our parents in high school. It was a fitting way to close out my time with Carolyn and transition into my Mom’s arrival.
At this point, Hurricane Isaac had shifted south and we felt confident the storm would not directly impact us. However, the waves didn’t get the memo. They were fierce and successive and beautiful — from afar. We bobbed in the pool and soaked up the sun. I think I/we went through 3 large spray canisters of sunscreen during this trip. Yet, my tan is still pretty impressive given my usual ghostly hue.
Mom is my number one blog fan — Aunt Jean and Craig, you follow close behind. As she and I discussed my renewed interest in writing, she kept saying, “You have a book in you, Josie. Not only your blog but a real book.” While my heart says she is right, my head is scared to write. I hope I channel the ‘steel balls’ necklace my waitress in Vieques wears and face my fears head-on.
With each of my visitors also came a visit to Old San Juan. And yet, each time felt new and different. It is such a charming area with its narrow, winding, blue-cobblestoned streets, its hills, and the bright pops of color behind classic rod iron balconies. My mom joined me at Taverna Lupelo, a place that I hadn’t found in a tour book but rather had walked past on my very first visit and always felt drawn to return. I am so pleased I followed my gut; I loved it.
They had quirky artwork including a 3-D elephant head with a beer bottle held by its trunk. There was the gnome wallpaper. They also had coasters from KC’s brewery, Boulevard, like a little postcard from home. We wanted a snack so ordered their Queso Frito — fried cheese. I am not sure what kind of cheese it was but it was heavenly. The outer texture reminded me so much of a toasted marshmallow. I am convinced there was somebody in the kitchen hand-toasting each cheese cube. Plus, it was served with a guava dipping sauce. Basically a stringy, marmalade-y, jammy, deliciousness. I kick myself for not having gone into the bar the very first time I walked by and proceeding to eat fried cheese with guava dip every day for the rest of the trip.
Sun, sea, sand (in moderation), solitude, running in the rain, speaking Spanish, entertaining visitors. Falling back in love with myself. Falling forward into writing. Spending hours on my balcony watching the world go by.
I wouldn’t trade my solo journey in Puerto Rico for anything. Likewise, I wouldn’t trade my time with Carolyn in Puerto Rico for anything. I’m a shrewd negotiator so can pull off two zero-sum requirements at once.
Carolyn arrived on Friday and we spent an entire bottle of wine just scratching the surface of catching up. We became friends almost immediately upon me moving to Green Bay in high school. She was my assigned buddy but forgot to pick me up at the office. I always harbored a suspicion she remained friends with me purely from that original guilt, which I’m totally okay with because it resulted in one of the most meaningful relationships in my life.
She is amazing and we are celebrating 21 years of friendship, this year. We met when I was 16. Now, at 37, I have lived more of my life having known Carolyn than not. I credit Carolyn with my first introduction to yoga, to massages, and even to opening my eyes to travel — eventually. In college I genuinely didn’t get why she was so compelled to do study abroad; the wanderlust bug hadn’t yet bitten me.
Now, after 3 weeks alone in Puerto Rico, I had finally processed enough of my ‘stuff’ to bare my soul fully and completely. And, I found myself in the company of somebody compassionate and fierce enough to listen intently and truly hear me. I found validation that my feelings and actions were reasonable and justified. My mind and soul slept soundly.
God, thank you for Carolyn.
We have never been short for words when together — whether in high school or now. Then, it was swing choir, drama club, and boys. Now, it’s corporate strategy, yoga philosophy, and boys. We’re now Lorelai and Sookie. Our pleasantly incessant chatter has had some amazing backdrops.
There was brunch by the ocean, when the jaw-dropping view was eclipsed by a scene straight from a comedic summer blockbuster. A woman running along the beach had her dog off-leash when said dog decided to waltz up the stairs from the beach to the pool and then gingerly traipse across the infinity pool ledge. By this point, the owner had also climbed the stairs and was calling for her dog to ‘come’ — in reality, she may have been using choice Spanish curse words but I believe the intent was ‘here, doggy.’ The dog instead ran off, evading the pool boy and the owner and somehow made it back to the pool ledge. Recognizing its captured status, it decided to take a new path — through the pool. Eventually, Fido’s Pool Party came to a close and the owner exited. I noticed the pool boy swiftly closed the beach to pool area gate to avoid further shenanigans.
There was also the sand and sea at the Marriott beach chairs. After each dip in the ocean, Carolyn and I have the equivalent of a therapy session to understand how the other experienced their time in the water. Carolyn uses words like, “Freedom,” “Happiness,” Wheeeee.” I explain that every moment is like the slo-mo effect that happens in a car crash. There is a constant inner monologue talking me off the cliff of consuming concern, “Josie, just breathe out and the water can’t get in. You are fine. This wave will pass. You are strong.” In my defense, there is a rip tide warning in effect and the waves are larger than they’ve been all trip. To Carolyn’s credit, every time I’m in the ocean her eyes are on me and she’s reaffirming that I am, indeed, doing fine. And, I think I’ve finally made peace with the sand.
Friends by the Ocean!
Fig-filled plantain
Carolyn’s fish
Goat cheese ravioli
We wanted to believe these were mariachis serenading us but I think it may have been for the new restaurant downstairs.
Wander with Josie 