Nem Nems, Coca Cola, and Cabo Wabo

I would like to start this entry with a little ode I wrote (to the tune of "Where Have all the Flowers Gone"):

Where have all the Elvi gone?

Long time passing . . .

Where have all the Elvi gone . . .

Long time ago . . .

Where have all the Elvi gone . . .

Cher replaced them every one!

I miss their lacquered hair--

And bell-bottoms everywhere . . .

"Thank you, thank you. I'll be here all night."

(I did see three more Elvi on Sunday, but still, a total of 5? A mere 5 Elvi? Sad, sad, sad! I expected to see Elvi on every corner in every carnation--young Elvis, fat Elvis, gospel Elvis . . . )

On Sunday, the party was breaking up. Amber and Chris headed back home (driving) shortly after breakfast, and they were dropping Missy off at the airport on the way. They very kindly brought Amy and me to the strip, where we met Becky. A short tour of MGM took us through the lions (not exciting--they were obsessed with eating and simply gnawed on chunks of some unrecognizable meat), but we quickly tired of MGM. We took a brief detour to New York, New York, but it seemed rather unremarkable to me, from the fake storefronts in the small "street" area (most of which were simply fronts there for decoration), to the "ok" lunch we had at the Irish pub in New York, New York. (The food was decent, but the service was so slow I swear I could have milked the goat and processed and pasteurized the cheese for my goat cheese salad faster than it took them to bring our food out. Or take our order. Or bring us drinks. It wasn't even that busy!)

However, things picked up after lunch. We took a trip to the M&M's store, which is the perfect place to go with a friend like Amy who also thrills to the brightly colored, fluffy, and whimsical like I do. Four floors of candy-coated fun? Yes, please! We skipped across to the Coca Cola store after that, where we checked out all kinds of Coca Cola kitsch from the years.

Sadly, Amy had to fly home in the mid afternoon, but Becky and I had one more night in Vegas. We went back to our room at the Hard Rock Hotel (which, if you're a fan of rock, is a really cool place to stay, and totally affordable, thanks to Twitter Tuesday's $20 deal!) and crashed for a bit, but made our way back to the Strip for dinner. Thanks to a fabulous concierge at the Bellagio (whose name may be Jay, Jon, Joe, Jose, or Kevin--we sadly didn't catch his name, which is a shame because he was refreshingly honest and 100% on target with his dinner recommendation), we made our way to Dragon Noodle Co. in the Monte Carlo. We got to take the tram, which to me resembled the monorail at Walt Disney World.

After dinner, we weren't ready to retire for the evening. We watched two fountain shows at the Bellagio, and then decided to pop into a place called Cabo Wabo. Maria, our bartender, made some mighty strong drinks for us. They were tasty, but wow. Maria likes to share the rum. Becky and I made a few friends while sitting at the bar--"fatherly sports guy" (who liked talking football and baseball with Becky and was generally a nice, and slightly tipsy, gentleman) and "velvet jacket" (who, as described, wore a deep red velvet jacket; he was nice too, but his nasal voice bugged me a bit. I also was careful to keep some guards up--I got the sense that he would start hitting on us if given the go-ahead, and we weren't remotely interested in more than passing conversation with him). It turns out that Cabo Wabo also has live band karaoke! Several folks went up to take the stage. The first guy apparently was from Minnesota (we didn't know him, though), and he and his buddy performed a nice rendition of "Sweet Home Alabama." Unfortunately, a string of tuneless (and quite drunk) men followed. I felt bad for the house band--they seemed really cool. Highlight of the evening? One Ms. Becky performing "Piano Man." She was aided by our friend Tequila (and Tequila and Tequila and Tequila), but she did a nice job. It was really fun, and I thought it was really cool that she got up on stage and actually did it. (I must learn more pop/rock standards so I can do the same. I wanted to perform, but I don't know actual lyrics to pop songs well enough to get on stage and perform them like that!)

All in all, it was a really fun weekend! We all agreed that we liked the group travel aspect, and we're already in talks to take on other regions in 2012. Vancouver? Seattle? Who knows! I look forward to and welcome any travels with these fabulous friends anytime!

Best Bathrooms Bar None: THE BELLAGIO

Second Best Bathrooms: Caesar's Palace

Total Elvi Sightings: 5

Total Preachers lecturing on our sinning/lecherous ways: 1 (on the strip on Sunday night)

Day of Debauchery, or Executive Cheeks goes to the Thunderdome

This is the entry that everyone is waiting for. And by "everyone," I especially mean those who don't know me particularly well. On the surface, I look like a kindergarten teacher (even though that idea scares the bejeezus out of me; I love little kids a few at a time, but 30 kids who can't snap their own pants, or make it to the bathroom on time? I shudder at the thought!!!), and professionally I can be pretty intense and focused. I am also shy (despite the fact that I talk A LOT when I'm really comfortable with someone), which can make it hard for some to really get to know me. But I'm really like a Dairy Queen ice cream cake. Tame on the surface, but with lots of layers hidden underneath that vanilla surface. Some layers are squishy, there's a little crunchy texture to keep things interesting, and there's that rich, fudge layer that is at the core--deeply hidden, but worth digging through the other layers to reach because the heart of the cake is the best part. Put all the layers together and you get a buzzy mix of flavors that create an interesting whole. (At least I'm original, right?)

So, Saturday . . .

This day can be broken into 4 main categories:

1) Brunch with bubbles

2) Dancing in the street

3) Eiffel Tower

4) Thunderdome

Actually, "Day of Debauchery" started out innocently enough. Amber, Amy, and I went for a nice little 2 mile run first thing in the morning. However, we were soon off to brunch. Brunch can be dangerous, especially when it's a buffet. Unlimited food that's mass-prepared? That's a bit scary. However, when your buffet brunch is the Bellagio, well . . . that's another matter entirely!

So we had brunch. Yummy, yummy brunch! The food was delicious! I especially enjoyed the polenta, which had a wonderfully creamy consistency and an indescribably rich, savory flavor. The Bellagio also had brilliantly realized that pesto mashed potatoes were something to be relished. I don't know why I'd never thought of this combination before! Pesto? It's delicious! Mashed potatoes? Love them! It's like tasty food and comfort met and had an alarmingly scrumptious baby!

Did I mention that this was a champagne brunch?

The lovely thing about champagne is that it's bubbly. The bubbles go down easy, and unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how full your glass is) they go to your head very quickly. We did mix ours with orange juice (mmmm--mimosa!). And what hitteth the head quickly leaveth quickly too. The buzz wore off shortly after brunch. (I did break a glass somewhere in there, too, but it really didn't have anything to do the rampant champagne consumption. I blame it on my natural clumsiness. And seriously, I think my sober brunch buddies could attest that I merely tapped an empty glass. Tapped. And that sucker went right over and *crash!*)

Post-brunch, we wandered through the Bellagio casino and the garden at the Bellagio (which has some seriously twisty trees straight out of a Tim Burton film, a lovely orchid green house, and what the lady standing behind me aptly described as some "big ass pumpkins"). By the time we hit the street, my head was mostly clear again.

The fact that Amy and I were dancing down the sidewalk had nothing to do with the mimosas consumed during brunch. It was an Amy and Gillian moment, music was blaring from every establishment we passed. (Anyone who knows Amy knows this isn't out of character; in fact, it would have been more of an oddity if she hadn't been dancing! When we get together, Amy and I feed off each other, and fun ensues!) Of course, we did dance through a section of street "salespeople." If you've been to Vegas, you know the type. They have pocket-sized glossy pictorials advertising "girls, girls, girls." (I don't want to know any more about those handouts. Really.) As we heard the clicking sound of the glossy handouts, Amy and I sped up our dancing to trek past the girl-pushers. But apparently we caught their attention anyway because we got the cat-calls, and one of the pushers declared that I had "executive cheeks." (That's a new one! I guess I finally decided to own my hips. In the words of the immortal Alice Hanson, "If you got it, flaunt it.")

We wound up in Paris. I, of course, headed straight for the bathroom (a cute, quaint nod to classic Parisian style with gilded mirrors and painted porcelain sinks). We wandered the Parisian shops for a while and wandered through the casino, but it didn't really seem to offer anything new or unexpected. However, we did like the outdoor cafe, where we sampled an Eiffel Tower. No, we did not lick the reincarnation of the Eiffel Tower that stands outside the casino. We got a giant plastic Eiffel Tower and filled with a Miami Vice (a tasty mix of a Strawberry Daiquiri and a Pina Colada). The bartender (wisely? cleverly? sneakily?) filled the entire base of said confection with RUM . . . so although there was a lot of fruity slush on the top of the tower, it was mostly an Eiffel Tower full of booze. Four of us did share this one drink, but we were a bit schnockered for the next two hours. (I wouldn't say we were drunk. But we were definitely buzzed. We giggled A LOT.)

So, after a morning and early afternoon that largely centered around alcohol, Becky, Amy, and I naturally decided that we needed to explore the wonders of what we affectionately call "The Thunderdome" that evening. That's right folks--we bought tickets to "The Thunder from Down Under."

:D

We all headed back to our time share for dinner and a little relaxation before the evening show (hee hee!), and we dressed up for an evening at the Thunderdome. (I had a new "little black dress" I was really excited to break out. It was a total "girl" moment for me, but it seemed fitting since I was going to watch male dancers "take it off." Time to embrace the girliness.)

I'll admit, I've never been to a strip show before, and I had only the vaguest idea of what to expect. The Thunder did not disappoint--we were highly entertained! Of course the men were ridiculously good-looking. (Seriously--does anyone that good-looking exist in "real" life? I doubt it.) Of course, knowing that I am planning a trip to neighboring New Zealand (in March!), part of me wonders if the whole of the Southern Hemisphere, or at least the Aussie/Kiwi region of the world has some secret "hot" gene that we're missing?

For those of you who are disbelievers, who think that "safe, kindergarten-teacher-appearing Gillian" would never debase herself and actually go to see male dancers take off their clothes (they did keep the family jewels covered!), I do have a picture (which I will not post here) that I will show you IN PERSON if you really must see proof. (Amy, Becky, and I giggled our way through a group shot with the dancers. Yup. Believe it. It was fun!) But I will NOT post this on the internet. :)

All in all, the day of debauchery was quite a lot of fun! Sometimes, it's nice to be naughty!

Best Bathrooms of the Day: The Bellagio (but Paris was a close second!)

Elvi sightings: 2!

Sleepless in Sin City

Las Vegas: Day 1

Some people need alcohol to loosen up and let loose.

I am not one of those people. Cut sleep out of the equation, and my usually quirky demeanor and skewed perspective becomes even loopier than usual.

As usual, I left all my packing until the last minute. Somehow, I forgot to do laundry until later in the day on Thursday, so then I had to wait for a few loads to finish in the dryer before I could pack. Somehow, at 1:30 a.m., I managed to go to bed, only to reawaken to a 3:30 a.m. alarm, and depart my humble abode at the early hour of 5:00 a.m. Once at the airport and easily through security, I sleepily awaited my boarding call.

Fast-forward 7 hours (which was really 10:00 a.m. Vegas time), and I landed in Las Vegas. Chris and Amy picked me up at the airport, and we met up with everyone else at the timeshare. Then we were off!

Being half-asleep, the visual over-stimulation of Las Vegas, even by day, was staggering. There were things to look at everywhere! Just when you think you've seen something big and shiny, something bigger and shinier pops up, and then you come across something large and shiny which also bleeps, dings, or chirps. I took my first steps into a casino (EVER) at no less a casino than Caesar's Palace. And in true Gillian fashion, I promptly found the bathroom. (What do you expect when you drink as much water as I do? I like to be well-hydrated, but it does present complications . . .)

We snaked our way through Caesar's casino, and we wound our way to the forum shops. There we ogled fashion we couldn't dream of affording and admired shiny jewelry both near and far. (We were too scared to go into Harry Winston--though the jewelry sparkled insanely and beckoned us to look closer, the store seemed stuffy and uninviting. However, just like Audrey Hepburn's "Holly Golightly" noted in the film, Tiffany's was quite lovely. The sales staff was very friendly, despite the fact that we all but announced verbally that we weren't going to buy anything as soon as we entered the store.)

The evening led us to the "Fremont Street Experience." To get to Fremont from the Strip, we needed to hop on board a bus known fondly as "The Deuce." (Insert your own "Deuce" jokes here. We did!) This double-decker bus took us past a menagerie of wedding joints to "old Vegas." We saw classic casinos, a Halloween-themed light show, and street performers agogo. Being so close to Halloween, everyone seemed to be a character. We saw Batman, Jason, Jesters, and an assortment of the macabre all along the street. Many were friendly--some downright flirty! (Really--you might be a very handsome/nice/genuinely awesome fellow underneath the costume, but no, we don't want to start a relationship with you while you're wearing so many layers we wouldn't be able to identify you to the police should you disappear. "Really, officer. He a hat shaped like a whimsical "W," wore pointed shoes with bells, and wore what could only be described as a giant, shiny onesie.") That being said, Fremont Street was fun! It was like Christmas came early and exploded across the sky. Except that Christmas was taken over by dancing pumpkins and dark little goblins.

We ended our Fremont Street experience with dinner at The Firefly. If you ever find yourself in Las Vegas, make sure you check this restaurant out! Every dish was tasty. The bacon-wrapped date (stuffed with blue cheese and an almond) just about took us to heaven. The mussels nearly melted in our mouth. Spicy shrimp set your mouth on fire for just the briefest moment. The mushroom tart was layers of flaky, delicate phyllo, smothered in delicious mushrooms and a rich cream sauce. And this is just things off the top of my head. I'm starting to salivate just thinking about those tapas . . . Mmmm!

Good food aside, I just found myself giggling all day long! I don't think it would have really mattered where I went that day. It was more about the company (good friends!). And frankly, when you're running on two hours of sleep and find yourself in the company of such fantastic people, you're bound to have a good time and share lots of giggles.

Best bathrooms of the day: Caesar's palace.

Elvis Sightings: a shocking ZERO!

Llama Vegas?

Yes, folks, that's right. I'm off to Las Vegas.

Ok. You can stop snickering now. I know--the idea of me in Vegas is laughable. Vegas embodies most things that I dislike. Crowds of people I don't know--yuck. (Could there be anything that an introvert dreads more than hoards of unknown people?) Cigarette smoke at a-go-go--yuck. While I don't have any strong anti-gambling feelings, I also don't partake in it. I've never stepped foot in a casino. Ever. (Anyone else who grew up in my hometown knows it was sort of a right of passage to go the casino for your eighteenth birthday, but frankly the appeal was just lost on me. I was just weird that way. But that's part of my charm, right? Hmm. Maybe you shouldn't answer just yet.)

So, why am I going to Vegas?

There's one reason--one fabulous reason. My friend Becky is turning 30 this week! Becky is one of those people that everyone should know. She has a contagious laugh. She is up for just about anything. She is open-minded. She knows how to have fun doing nothing and everything. She's the kind of friend who can go from being goofily sarcastic to serious in the blink of an eye. Amongst my friends, I often consider her the "great equalizer" because when getting various groups of people from different facets of my life together for social gatherings, Becks is the one that everyone universally likes and gets along with, and who can bridge the gaps between groups better than anyone else.

So I am looking forward to Vegas, despite the cigarette smoke, crowds, etc. for the sheer joy of celebrating 30 years of one extraordinary woman. There's a good group of friends gathering, and I really can't think of a better reason to celebrate!

Plus, llama in Las Vegas? This could be fun! Hmm . . .

(Have I mentioned that there is a big rodeo gathering in Vegas this weekend? That's right. The strip will be full of cowboys as far as the eye can see. :D I'm going to hope that this goes in the vein of Lifetime or other made-for-tv movies in the "gal-next-door has big-city fun and adventure in a strange new town" category. Who knows--we could have quite the adventure with the cowboys. Perhaps we'll meet the one cowboy, who, in addition to herding cattle, also herds llamas? What? You scoff? It could happen . . .)

Buckle Up!

Sometimes, you just feel like you're standing on the edge of a precipice, you know? There's that feeling that something's coming, you don't know what it is, but you know it's going to be significant in some way. Of course, after typing that, I really, really, really wish life was a musical. Right now, I am bursting into a rendition of "Something's Coming" from West Side Story. No, I will not post a video of myself singing. I don't really know all the words, and I know I'm botching Bernstein's tune . . .

(Admit it--you're probably singing it now too. And perhaps, like me, throwing in the occasional "na na na" when you forget or don't know the words to part of a phrase . . . )

Just like the song, I feel like something's changing, something new and exciting is happening in life. Ostensibly, not much has changed for me. I live in the same place, I have the same job I've held for the past seven years, and I am singing in the same choir I sang with last year. But somewhere between the de-cluttering of school and home and a 2600 mile trek across the United States this summer, a sense of excitement started to build. Though things may look the same from the outside, I think some little imperceptible . . . thing (for lack of a more precise term) has shifted inside of me, and suddenly, everything that was old and boring and dull last year seems reinvigorated as I rev up for this year. Although I always feel some nerves as I approach the beginning of a new school year, this year feels different. I'm excited in a way I haven't been in a long, long time. I hate to label it, but I think I feel giddy?

Yes, giddy. Like a little school girl. Full of glee (though not the popular show on Fox), and bursting at the seams like I might explode with positive energy like Rainbow Brite* at the end of her sensational 1985 movie. (It was my personal favorite as a kindergartner--what can I say? Hurrah for the Betamax!) I don't think I'll be riding rainbows anywhere anytime soon, but I wouldn't rule it out either. Something's coming, and since I haven't the foggiest idea what it could be, rainbows could be in the future. (Truth be told, though, I think I'd much rather take a ride in a hot air balloon than on a rainbow, but we'll see what the future holds . . . )

So buckle up! It could be a crazy year! Something's coming . . .

(And in case you're still na na-ing your way through "Something's Coming," here's a little help from the movie; bad dubbing aside, this YouTube clip has helpful sing-along words printed on the screen.)

*For the record, I am 99.9% certain Rainbow Brite doesn't literally explode at the end of her movie--it's more a rainbow fest of sorts as she restores warmth and color to the world, which had been in an extended and particularly dreary winter because the evil princess on some planet stole the planet of diamond, and all the light from the world has to go through that planet or it doesn't disperse or something like that, and that's why it was really cold on earth . . . Yeah. The movie is pretty much one long run-on sentence too. (But my inner 5-year-old will always think it's pretty spectacular.)

The Dust Bunnies Must Go!

Today, Alistaire and I took a little jaunt to school.

Lately, it seems that everything in my life has been about de-cluttering. At home, I harvested my closet for clothes I won't be using anymore and donated them to people who could really use them. Actually being able to walk into my closet and not feel claustrophobic? Pardon me, but I'm going to sound like a Mastercard commercial: it was priceless. It was a wonderful, freeing, cathartic moment.

Thus began the great cleansing of 2010. The closet cleansing simply seeped over into the rest of my home. Reorganization of misplaced or shoved items became priority one, and oddly, disposing of, finding a home for, or repositioning just a few items made my living room seem jarringly bigger. I won't say that my domain is showroom-worthy yet, but significant progress and improvements have been made, and I no longer fear the sudden stop-by from various friends. (You all know the feeling--you're totally cozy and happy in your clean but "lived-in" home, but you'd die of embarrassment if anyone ever saw it, right?)

The thing is, apparently home was not quite enough. Alistaire and I (with my aide of my awesome new colleague Mallory) decided to take on the ancient relics of the music department at my school. In showing my new colleague around the department's nooks and crannies, we found that long-forgotten bits of useless rubbish had been stashed here, shoved, over the years, into odd little conformities. The intention was, of course, (and I speak as a sometime "shover") to come back at a later date after the shoving, and purge the cupboard of all useless piffle. Except that, as every teacher of every age knows, often those organizational details of teaching may fall by the wayside in the interest of spending more time on what we really do--create relationships with and learn with students. (Forgive us this little oversight.) The stuff so often becomes secondary to the heart of our profession. I don't mean to use this as a disclaimer for sometimes being a pack rat, but it is true. I'd like to think that it's less important that I shoved the equipment for the antiquated (and unusable) midi-keyboard lab (that hooked up to something like a Comadore 64!) into the cupboard and more important that I focused my time instead on building curriculum, planning lessons, and helping kids.

I digress . . .

After yesterday, we had filled at least four of the regular trash bins and two recycling bins. Today, one of our custodians kindly lent me a large bin (on wheels) for the continued purging. :)

Today, slightly lighter in the dross department (though still a little . . . let's say "chubby"), Alistaire and I came armed with cleaning supplies--glass/surface cleaner, paper towel, and Swiffer duster cloths. And we attacked those dust bunnies, dust bears, and dust dragons with zest. Somehow, in my mind, my wiping cloth was really more of sword taking down the monstrous dust zombies as they raged their battle and tried to stake their claim on our space. But, ha! I would slay them all.

Quite frankly, I know that I teach in one of the driest non-desert locations of all time, and I am cognizant of the fact that the Dust Bunny Army is biding its time, strategically forming its plot to take over the music department again. But I too am armed (still with the better part of a spray cleaner!), and today . . . Today I am victorious!

British Llama

Now firmly back home in the St. Paul area, Alistaire and I ventured across the pond (you know--that little thing also known as the Mississippi River) for a taste of Minneapolis and a smashing good time at Brit's Pub.

If you live in or have visited the Twin Cities and have never been to Brit's, you really should go. It's quite a lively place, and it's got a little something for everyone. Standard British pub fare (fish and chips, chicken pot pie, bangers and mash), football games (or as we Americans call it, "soccer"), and a lawn bowling. (I've personally never tried it, but I have it on good authority that it's fun.) Oh--and for those so inclined--yup, it's got the alcohol.

Alistaire and I met up with my friend Becky for drinks and some much-needed single-gal talk. (I mean no offense to my married friends, but sometimes you just need to talk to someone else who lives in your same state of being; you don't spend all your time talking about being single or men, or anything that silly, but you do share a common perspective on some things without any necessary preamble.) Until today, I guess I had never known how many people venture out for happy hour after work in downtown. Brit's seemed to attract everyone, too. The up-and-comers were there in their suits that were fitted "just so," or their matching skirt-heels-purse combinations with perfect hair. Those who were further along the career path had already ditched their ties in briefcases, swilling the pint as though there were no tomorrow, glancing up at the golf scores every so often. The hipsters came in with their carefully planned "I-don't-care" layers of clothes perfectly mismatched enough to look cool, but enough to still be a look. (Mind, there were not many hipsters. This was downtown, Nicollet Mall, not UpTown.) The summer cargo-pant crew was there too, along with the cute summer dress posse.

Personally, I had dressed somewhere between the "summer dress posse" and the "up-and-comer." I actually had put a decent amount of thought (probably too much) into what I wore for this occasion simply because I wanted to blend in. Why? I guess I didn't want to look like the country bumpkin' cousin coming to play in the big city, even thought that's exactly what I was doing. I am the school teacher on summer break trying to blend into the fold of the working city. The coolest thing was, I did blend in. And I probably would have blended in no matter what I had worn because Brit's is a place that oozes comfort, charm, and a lack of prestige. That's one of my favorite things about this pub. It takes you as you are. Somehow, I'd forgotten that on any given night, Brit's is host to all walks of life. It's strategic location (and yes, this really is strategic, as opposed to Pie Town!) across from Orchestra Hall brings in concert-goers on performance nights, bachelor/bachelorette parties on the weekends, and hungry visitors looking for sturdy fare on any given night. Brit's is near several hotels and other dining/shopping establishments on Nicollet Mall, after all. (Ooh! A rhyme!)

There was a steady stream of people waltzing through the door. Becky and I seem to have timed it right--we got there and placed our drink and appetizer orders, were served in a very timely manner, and BAM! The people just kept coming through the door. I wondered how many of them made this their "regular place" after work. The whole idea of a daily happy hour still amuses me, as it's not something I do on a regular basis; for me it's more of a special event, a time to chill with friends, but it's not "just an ordinary day." For this teacher, an ordinary day of work includes finishing teaching at 2:25, working on projects, planning, or rehearsing until 3:30 or 4:00. Or 5:00. (Ick.) Then coming home, inhaling whatever edible thing I can find ("Broccoli? Yum!" or "Chicken--excellent." or "Um, bag of microwave popcorn--it's easy. Ok! It's dinner!"), and then collapsing in a heap. I'm lucky if I can find my way to my bed at the end of it all . . .

Perhaps that's why I'm extra-primed for adventure in the summer, even if it is just to one of my favorite low-key pubs, enjoying the company of a very good friend. Sometimes, low-key is exactly what the llama ordered.

There's no place like the land of 10,000 lakes

Leaving Nebraska was bittersweet. On the one hand, I had to say goodbye to one of my dearest friends, who I see far too infrequently. And my visit had been so brief . . .

On the other hand, I got to go HOME. There is something wonderfully welcoming about crossing the border from Iowa into Minnesota. Suddenly a few hills rise up, there are a few more trees . . . I know that southern Minnesota is similar in topography to Iowa, and compared to my driving in Denver and Albuquerque, it could be considered flat, but for me, crossing that border will always feel refreshing and welcoming. I don't consider myself an overly-anxious driver (unless I'm running late for something), but as I crossed the border and continued north to St. Paul, I couldn't help but inhale a breath of relaxation. I sensed my entire mind opening and clearing and simply feeling happy to be back in my homeland.

Dorothy said it--"There's no place like home." And I'd to add that there's no place quite like the land of 10,000 lakes. Yah sure you betcha'!

Nebraska--it's not that bad

I have long-suspected that I may have read too many romanticized books, and have watched far too many romantic comedy movies. (The worst are those made-for-t.v. movies that you don't want to watch, but somehow Lifetime or Hallmark sucks you in and you find that you've sat trough an entire movie despite your better intentions.)

I say this because I recently drove through Eastern Colorado and across Nebraska; despite my teen-action book-on-CD (I've been working my way through the Percy Jackson series, remember?), I found my my mind wandering instead to the rugged and restless hearts of ranches, to wind-swept prairie lands, skirts being picked up in the wind and fluttering around knees and ankles as you think about your devotion and love to the land . . . as well as to that brooding farmer down the road. Of all places, Nebraska had me completely enthralled with romantic notions that I have wanted to pretend I don't have. I couldn't stop thinking about all those wonderful works of fiction by Nebraska author Willa Cather. I went through a big Willa Cather phase in 8th and 9th grades. O Pioneers!, My Antonia, and especially The Song of the Lark came flooding back into my mind as I raced across Nebraska. I have a special love for The Song of the Lark. Although it has been a long time since I read that book, the protagonist, Thea, sticks with me. Perhaps it was that she was always seeking something but wasn't sure what, that she was different from her siblings simply because she sang (because even if your siblings are also musical, when you come from a stock of instrumentalists and you're the lone vocalist, you feel a bit like a fish out of water just because you're "the different one"), or simply because she was strong enough to do what she wanted, and although she loved sincerely, she didn't let her romantic disappointments ruin her. Whatever it is, that book has stuck with me, and it haunted me as I drove across Nebraska. I could almost picture myself in the hazy breeze with a more modern picture of romanticism, perhaps. Instead of long, pioneer skirts fluttering in the wind, I picture hair wisps flying about in the summer sun, blinking and squinting up at the treeless sky . . .

After hours of driving and daydreaming, I finally arrived in Omaha. This was not my first, nor my last, visit to Omaha. One of my best friends (Amy) lives there with her husband, so I usually visit at least once or twice a year. As with Denver, I was merely passing through, but this visit was one I looked forward to simply because I got to spend a day with Amy. After a delicious dinner at Lazlo's, a brewery and grill, Amy's husband met up with some of his friends to complete a beer tour at Old Chicago, and Amy and I had some girl time. (Yay!)

For years, Amy has tried to get me to consider moving to Omaha. (I, in turn, have consistently tried to get her to move back to the Twin Cities. It's that ploy we all use--we want all the people we love most to live near us. Nothing wrong with that!) Her rational explanations about the lower cost of living, deals, and the arts scene and history of Omaha always end with, "It's not that bad." Every time I visit Omaha, I do have a considerable amount of fun. Of course, I credit this with the company, though, not the city. I generally feel that the people you are with are more integral to enjoyment than the place being visited. I frequently love doing nothing with great company. In fact, that may rank among my favorite things. (I do have a penchant for "the little things," like great phone calls with friends, walks on a cool summer night, the crunch of leaves in the fall, the hush that falls on a busy city when it snows . . . )

I'm not looking to move--I do love living in the twin cities--but I must say I agree. Nebraska--it's not that bad. There is a certain appeal to all that open space, maybe a touch of romanticism tucked into those long grasses and tall cornstalks.

But . . . my heart still belongs to Minnesota.

Eastern Colorado has the juiciest bugs

Splat!

Splat!

Splat, splat, sploosh!

The bugs of Eastern Colorado were like a percussive song all to themselves. I don't know if it's all the ranching in Eastern Colorado, the clear skies that extend on forever east of Denver, or just a weird phenomenon, but Eastern Colorado has got some seriously juicy bugs. I knew that my car wouldn't look clean after all the driving. After all, this little road trip of mine clocked in at about 2600 miles. By the time I reached Albuquerque, there was some heavy-duty bug squashing going on all over the car. I thought about running my car through a car wash at that point, but decided I'd wait until I returned to the twin cities. Why wash it when it was quickly going to get covered in bug guts again?

Eastern Colorado brought a whole new bug massacre. I almost pulled over the first time one of those big bugs splattered against my wind shield. SPLAT! It's yellow guts spilled out over the windshield. "What in the . . .?" I thought. Then, realizing it was just a big Colorado bug, I sprayed my windshield with wiper fluid and gave it a rinse. Of course, this did smear the bug in a whole new way. It didn't really clean the windshield of my car, but I suppose it was a slight improvement. Instead of a smattering of yellow goo, I was left with an opaque smudge.

(On a completely geeky note, I would like to point out that smudge is a fantastic word! It sounds just like what it actually is. Smudge. The consonant cluster at the beginning of the word gives it a smacking, splattering sound, and the "dge" at the end makes it sound like it is simply sinking in, seeping in, rubbing. Try saying it: Smudge. Smudge, smudge, smudge. Smudge. What an oddly perfect combination of sounds. Smudge.)

So, here's my haiku to Eastern Colorado, home of the juiciest bugs ever:

Oh, Colorado,

Your bugs once so full of juice

Now rest on my car.

Ok. Maybe I shouldn't give up my day job just yet . . .

*I would like to note here that although I tease and make sarcastic jokes about Colorado's bugs, I really enjoyed my visit to Colorado in every aspect. I loved driving every part of the state that I visited, even the flatter eastern part of the state. My other thoughts on Colorado fit more thematically with my thoughts on Nebraska. Tune in to my next installment for something a little less silly** and a lot more thoughtful.

**Although the next installment isn't as silly as this bit about juicy bugs, I don't think I'll ever be so serious that all silliness will be gone. This is what happens when your parents bless you with a middle name like "Happy."

Denver, I barely knew ye

If you've never driven north from Albuquerque (or Santa Fe, for that matter) to Denver, I highly recommend that you try it at some point. Without a doubt, this 6.5 hour trek was the best stretch of driving I covered during the entire trip. From start to finish, it was breathtaking.

Of course, there were moments when the drive literally stole my breath. Driving through the mountains north of Santa Fe, I found myself constantly holding my breath. I wasn't driving overly fast, my car was not out of control, and the weather was extremely cooperative; and yet, even as I was consumed by the visual feast on all sides of my car, I experienced an irrational fear that my car would suddenly careen over the edge of the mountain and fall into oblivion below. Thankfully, I didn't hyperventilate whilst driving, and the actual driving in the mountains ended shortly.

(Alistaire would like to point out that llama trekking would have saved me from a whole host of irrational worries.)

The remainder of the drive was still quite gorgeous. Rolling hills and mountains rose on all sides, and as I rolled into Denver, I could see the mountain ranges growing bigger and bigger and becoming more distinct with every spin of my wheels. Finally, I was in Denver.

Denver! I was finally in a city I had dreamed of visiting for years. I will confess that this dream started about 3-4 years ago. My Amazonian friend from Chicago and I had long-discussed the merits of Denver--it's a good hub of arts and culture, yet has access to the outdoor activities we like. Plus, Denver has consistently landed itself on the list of "best cities for singles" for the past several years. Sometimes, it's nice to know that you can go somewhere and not feel like a pariah because you're not part of a duo.

Denver didn't disappoint. I only wish that I could have spent more time there, and another trip to Denver is DEFINITELY on my list of "musts" for the next few years. I had less than 24 hours, and there were too many neighborhoods to explore, too many places to go, and too much to take in to do it all in such a short amount of time.

Denver, I barely knew ye, but I know that I'll see you again before too long. :)

Apparently Santa does not live in Santa Fe

Thursday: my last day in Albuquerque.

So naturally, I spent it in Santa Fe!

Dan and Mary suggested we go to Santa Fe for several reasons. First, we could actually ALL go out together with ALL the kids because we could take the bus to the train. (Dan and Mary only have 5 seats in their car, which did limit us a bit earlier in the week.) Second, it is apparently the cultural and artistic hub of New Mexico. They assumed that I would dig Santa Fe because I am so heavily immersed in the arts. I think that's a pretty good assumption--I teach choir, I sing in a choir, I work with kids in the theatre, and I like art museums . . .

(Plus, I secretly suspect that Santa lives in Santa Fe. Isn't it obvious? North Pole, Schmorth Pole--Santa needs a little more arts and culture than the elves can provide year round. He must at least have a summer home here . . .)

The train, it turns out, is a brilliant way to travel with young kids. You can bring snacks for the kids, books and toys, and they don't have to be solely responsible for entertaining themselves. Instead of being stuck in the back seat, they can sit with you. Even better? On a train, they can get up and wiggle about, which, for the kiddos, is really the best part. Lizzy, Emily, and Alex spent most of the train ride to Santa Fe bopping from seat to seat, walking, crawling, toddling, and scooting wherever fancy took them.

Once in Santa Fe, we saw a lot of really interesting things. Santa Fe is a really neat city. It capitalizes on the tourist industry with artisans pedaling their wares up and down every nook and cranny of the city. There are stores upon stores upon stores with jewelry, paintings, sculptures, and pottery and hand-blown glass (admittedly my two favorite artistic weaknesses). I think my pocketbook was spared a thorough cleansing only because we had small children with us. We wisely decided that any store that prominently featured or specialized in too many breakables should be looked at from outside, not from within. Given the children's penchant for shiny objects, I don't think we could have made a better choice.

(Plus, with all honesty, anyone who knows me knows that I am an absolute klutz, and although I'd had a good record so far on this trip, I didn't want to tempt fate by stepping into a store full of breakables. Kudos to the kids for keeping my record in tact!)

We did see two churches--one was the oldest church built, which was impressively old and solid. There was something very solemn about that church--it smelled of ancient incense, had floorboards that creaked underfoot. In the daylight, it was a beautiful place to reflect and meditate for a moment. However, I admit that the thought of being in that very tight, cramped church, wreaking of incense and creaking at the joints at night scares the bejeezus out of me.

The second church we visited (which, chronologically speaking, we actually visited first . . .) was home to the Immaculate Staircase. Being the matter-of-factly sarcastic person I am (who knew nothing of the staircase's history), when we first saw the stairs, Dan said, "Well?"

"It's a staircase," I responded dryly.

Dan shook his head in dismay and made me sit down and listen to the history of the staircase, which the church loops on an audio track over and over throughout the day. I was inclined to ignore the speaker at first--I couldn't help it. They had laid the speaker's voice over early music sung by the Santa Fe Chorale, and I immediately started playing, "Name that Early Choral Music Composer" out of habit. (I'm sure all my grad. school buddies can relate . . .) However, the story truly is quite fascinating, and the staircase is truly beautiful. It almost appears to be made of one solid piece of wood that curves around with the stairs. I didn't actually take any pictures of the staircase--the one I included in this post was a better picture than I could have possibly taken (courtesy of el internet-o). If you ever find yourself in Santa Fe, I think this chapel and staircase are worth the $3 . . .

Santa Fe's plaza is a picturesque little square in the heart of the downtown area. I now wish I had taken more pictures in Santa Fe so I could share some of the scenery with you. I did take quite a few pictures that day, but they were all pictures of the kids. Since they are not my own children, I don't quite feel I should be posting pictures of them, but it should be noted that the kids are impossibly cute. We spent about an hour in the square. Mary and I took the girls through a narrow alley where artisans sold their wares. Emily, at age 1, was already eyeing all the shiny hand-crafted jewelry and hair accessories. (This is going to make it very easy to shop for my goddaughter . . . You know, once she gets past the phase where all items are likely to get shoved in the mouth and/or licked . . . And when she has hair for the hair accessories . . .) The plaza square was also a good place for the kids to run around and have downtime out of their carriers (the two baby backpacks and a stroller with some serious wheels). We did have to watch that they didn't eat things they found (twigs, rocks, tree bark, leaves), but they were pretty good. Lizzy, the oldest, likes to collect rocks--not eat them--and Emily and Alex seemed more intent on pushing the stroller that towered above them than on eating things from the ground. (Unless it was a stray cheerio. They recognized those cheerios . . . ) Lizzy also had fun dancing to the unicycle-riding guitarists music (but she seemed to agree with Mary, Dan, and I that his singing detracted from his performance, and that wearing a koala ear headband just made him look silly, not artistic) and chasing pigeons.

Now, should I ever go back to Santa Fe (which, given that I only had one day in a town with lots to see, I may), I think I will definitely have to investigate a fantastic little venture known as Llama Trekking. Alistaire seems to agree, and I know a certain theatre-directing friend of mine would think it fitting . . . Really, what more do you need to know? It's all there in the name--LLAMA TREKKING!

(If the name of the blog doesn't give it away, I do find llamas entertaining.)

Alas, I did not see Santa in Santa Fe. I think this means that I simply must go back to Santa Fe again and look. It was one short day, and there are lots of little burrows in which Santa could be hiding with a stash of New Mexican cookies and milk. Or maybe a sopapilla? And a llama. It's not quite the right climate for a reindeer after all . . .

Hightop Thoughts

Apparently summer in Albquerque also means monsoon season. I laughed when Dan first told me this, and was certainly quite skeptical every time the subject came up. Dan told me that the air was actually quite humid for New Mexico, at which I guffawed. Humid? Not by Minnesota standards!

The morning dawned quite sunny, so we took Lizzy, the oldest (at age 2) and went to see the petroglyphs. Seeing those ancient drawings was astounding--they were so primal, so raw. You could just imagine the native people chiseling their renderings of their surroundings into the rock. Some of the designs--spirals and the like--were simple to decipher. Others were more intricate--detailed drawings of people or beings. Although these drawings of people looked like the drawings a 3-year-old might create, you have to marvel at the handiwork. These were carved in rock! It was pretty amazing. Some things transcend time--for example, we saw two people drawn side by side. They looked very similar, but something about their appearance clearly indicated that the one on the right was male and the one on the left was female. I don't know why we knew this--both of them had box-like bodies, stick arms and legs, ornate headgear . . . But something was distinctly feminine about the drawing on the left, and likewise, something was distinctly male about the drawing on the right. Of course, the ancient Native Americans who drew these may be laughing from their afterlife right now, giggling at our assumptions, but I like to think that they'd agree and are happy that we understand at least a portion of what they left behind.

After lunch, we visited the Sandia Tramway. With the twins strapped on our backs, we marched up to the tram station at the base of the mountain. And then the rain hit. Buckets and buckets of water poured forth from the sky. The tram was, of course, delayed until the lightning stopped and the storm died down. So we waited. For the twins, this was one of best parts of the day. They toddled, waddled, and crawled about a waiting area, grabbing at the benches with wooden slats and wrought-iron decoration. Tiny holes for fingers? Check! Small spaces to crawl into? Check! People to coo over them and note how adorable they are? Check! (It turns out that twins draw quite a lot of attention--people can't get enough of them!)

The rain let up, as expected (New Mexico storms are not known to last long), and we made our way up the tram. Traveling a mile up the mountain, the temperature cooled. It was 47 degrees--definitely chilly, but not too cold for this upper Midwest girl. :) We had gorgeous views every which way up and down the mountain. As we wound our way through the trails through the trees and around the rocks, I almost felt as though I were back in the northwoods of Wisconsin where I'd grown up. The temperature was right, the trees were similar, there was that scent of pine permeating the air. The twins were enthralled for a bit, but naptime did take over fairly quickly. I could feel my goddaughter Emily burrowing her tiny little head into my back as we bounced about the trail.

*Attention Reader: The next paragraph contains an emotional outpouring that struck me at the top of the mountain. If you prefer the trite commentary, tales of the road trip, etc., skip ahead to the black text afterward. If you read the following, consider yourself duly warned.*

I don't know if it was the sudden cool of the temperature, if the thinness of the air affected my brain, or if the wilderness around me made me feel more relaxed and open, but I found myself thinking a lot about things that I had ignored for a long time. If you're not married, I think there comes a point in your mid-20's and early 30's where you start to put up a few protective walls. Since turning 30 a few months ago, I encountered more and more people who started asking me about my love life. When would I be "settling down?" Getting married? Those were issues I skirted for a while. I came up with stock answers in my 20's that I found myself regurgitating year after year. "I'm not there yet. I don't know if that's what I want. I teach kids all day, I don't know if I really want to have my own." Maybe it was something about the sleeping baby on my back, cozying up and providing that unmistakable sweet baby smell that is inescapable when you're in the presence of a baby, or spending two days with Dan and Mary's three ridiculously cute and energetic kids, but I think I was finally able to admit to myself that I still would like to have a whole passel of children myself. I would like to meet a man that I just want to spend all my time with without becoming exhausted of his personality because he's so much fun to be with, and is so easy to talk with. I think this admission had been coming for a while, and it's probably something that any one of my best friends could have called me out on for years, but I think it was important for me to have that moment of realization. This is what I want. I don't write that here to garner pity--I despise the sad head tilt, the "Aw, it's ok. You'll find someone, your time will come, blah, blah, blah," that people constantly spew to their single friends. I'm not looking for answers here, I'm simply stating a fact. I don't think I'll feel unfulfilled if these things never work themselves out for me--I can always be an aunt when my siblings have children and when friends' children adopt me as such, but it would be nice to have that in my life. It's something that I tried to deny to myself for the last several years; I don't know if it was absolutely necessary for me to stand on a mountain to discover the heart of the matter. But that's where I had the realization.

The twins woke up when we reached the stone house where stranded hikers have stayed in years past, and where teenagers paint graffiti messages. (We didn't hike the whole mountain--you can skip the tram altogether and hike up and down, or bike, but that's a good 26 miles round trip. Somehow, that was NOT going to happen without a significant amount of conditioning. I was fine with the hiking we did, which was not overly strenuous though we did get a few miles in, but 26? On an incline? Um . . . Give me a few months or years to prep for that, please!) This was a great place for a cheerio snack, which they happily shoveled into their mouths. Do you remember the days when you could shove your whole hand in your mouth? Yeah, I don't really remember being able to do it myself, but it's something that always amuses me about babies. Emily and Alex also love to "hoover," to simply suck cheerios or other small foods right out of your hand. I can't help but giggle when they do that--it's ridiculously funny, and they usually give you a big grin or make a goofy face of delight afterwards.

Down the tram again, and out for New Mexican food (which was very similar to Mexican cuisine . . . ) for dinner. The food was solid, but for me, the most amusing part was walking to the restaurant with Dan and Mary and their stroller for three, as well as learning Dan and Mary's take on eating out with the kids. There are rules. 1) The restaurant cannot be too stuffy, stodgy, or expensive. If it's too posh or formal, it's not a place for the kids. 2) The waitstaff MUST find the kids cute (which is ridiculously easy!) so that when they make a mess (which, inevitably, three kids 2 and under WILL do) they are forgiven. 3) Bonus points are given if the restaurant is within walking distance of their home. Dan and Mary are big-time walkers, and I think this is a wonderful habit for them to instill in the kids. All three of their children get really excited to go out with both Mom and Dad. They see the strollers or backpacks, they begin bouncing up and down, their eyes get big, and they reach up and gurgle, as if they are saying, "Please, please, please take me!!! Take me! Me!" Garcia's met all three of these requirements, and it was a wonderful way to wind down a lovely day.

Just one more day left in New Mexico . . .