OH THE PLACES YOU'LL GO

Living the Expatriate Dream…in the US

2011-12-23T18:23:00.000-07:00

At one point in my life, I seriously thought I would live in another country. And I attempted it – first in Nicaragua (2006), and then in Argentina (2007). Neither worked out, although I still occasionally have pangs for Buenos Aires like the lover I never got over. (Happily, we are scheduled to reunite this spring for a weeklong affair.)

Instead, as fate would have it, I relocated to New Mexico at the end of 2009. Many, many people were baffled at this choice, and I’ve answered the question of “Why New Mexico?” more times than I can count in the last two years. Lots of things usually get thrown into the answer: the artsy people, the wide openness, the cost of living, the unique lifestyle, the space and tranquility, the cultural heritage.

But it wasn’t until I was reading the January 2012 issue of New Mexico Magazine that another very important - and very appealing - factor crystallized. It was put into words by author Hampton Sides (who wrote Blood and Thunder: The Epic Story of Kit Carson) in his reflection on New Mexico’s 2012 centennial. (New Mexico became the 47th state in 1912.) He said:

“Yet even with statehood, I’m not sure New Mexico was ever fully conquered or assimilated, and that’s something I’ve always loved about this place. It’s still very much its own land, at the crossroads of myriad cultures, where the desert meets the mountains meets the plains. Living here is probably the closed one can come to an expat experience in the Lower 48. We’re in the United States, but we’re not entirely of it.”

Bells went off when I read this paragraph. I didn’t carry out my expatriate dream, technically, but I found something of an equivalent in my own country. To say that New Mexico is “a little different” than other states is an understatement. It feels like another country because for hundreds of years it was another country – it was part of Spain for more than 200 years, and then part of Mexico for a short while, before becoming a US territory.

For further proof of New Mexico “other-country-ness,” consider the following:

Many Americans do not know there's a state called New Mexico.
Those who do realize it’s a state are often confused about it.
The license plates say “New Mexico USA” to clarify things.
It’s the only state in the US with a bilingual constitution.
Along with CA, it’s one of two states with a Hispanic majority.
We have the first female Latina governor, Susana Martinez.
The state flag colors honor Isabella of Castilla.
The state flag symbol (the Zia sun symbol) is Native American.
Most city (“Santa Fe”), street and forest names are Spanish.
The Pueblo (“adobe”) style architecture is one of a kind.
The government tested the atomic bomb here. (Ahem.)

You get the point. It just took me a while to get it – that New Mexico is clearly an extension of my previous wanderings and the strong tug I felt to move to Latin America. Now, as I drive home on a dirt road looking at cows in the field, I realize it’s not unlike a scene I would see in rural Nicaragua (minus the desert terrain, of course). Without exactly realizing it, I got the best parts of what I liked about Nicaragua – including a slower pace, a Spanish-speaking culture, extreme friendliness and the ineffable feeling of being somewhere so completely different – and yet with all the conveniences that come with the good old USA, such as reliable mail and FedEx delivery. And around the holidays, you all know how important that is.

So I guess there's just one thing left to say: Feliz Navidad!

p.s. On January 6th, the US Postal Service will release New Mexico’s official Centennial Stamp, which is pictured above. Keep an eye out for it as it’s quite gorgeous.

The Curious Thing About New Mexico’s “Image Problem”

2011-11-07T20:37:00.000-07:00

Barren. Arid. Boring. Like Mars.

Recently, the New Mexico Department of Tourism conducted focus groups in Los Angeles, Houston and Chicago to find out what people thought about New Mexico. These phrases above were some of the results. Worse, some people said they had no impressions of the state whatsoever, while others thought there were beaches here. To really twist the knife, Colorado and Arizona – two adjacent states tested for comparison – came out better on almost every measure tested, even skiing.

Arizona is better for skiing than New Mexico? Really? Listening to a public radio news report on these focus group results, I had to shake my head with befuddlement. I mean, New Mexico has eight ski resorts compared to Arizona’s four, and it has Taos Ski Valley, a highly respected top ski destination. Are people just that clueless about New Mexico? The answer is yes. There’s a reason, after all, that New Mexico Magazine has a monthly humor column sharing anecdotes about people, businesses and websites who apparently don’t know New Mexico is a US state.

I wasn’t completely unaware of New Mexico’s strangely poor reputation before moving, however. Albuquerque in particular drew raised eyebrows among people we knew, with two people reporting that they thought it was a “s*%#hole.” Then there was the poll I conducted on this blog, in which 66% of my dear readers let me know that relocating to New Mexico was “insane.” Part of that may have stemmed from the giant leap we took to moving to a state where we knew absolutely no one, but I also suspect the state’s “image problem” could have played a role.

Yet here’s where this all gets squirrelly. Clearly, people ARE visiting New Mexico, given that tourism is a $5.5 billion dollar industry (the second largest in the state). And people HAVE heard of Santa Fe. In a very favorable light. I mean, just consider all the perennial accolades that Santa Fe – the state’s 400-year-old cultural and literal capital as well as a UNESCO-designated “Creative City” – receives from top travel publications and websites. Here’s a roundup of some of Santa Fe’s 2011 honors alone:

*See my Christmas Eve in Santa Fe blog; **Believe it or not, Santa Fe beat out cities like Chicago, Honolulu, New York, Savannah, Seattle and Boston in this poll.

Then there’s the fact that the New York Times certainly considers New Mexico a worthy destination to cover at least once a year, with a recent 36 Hours in Albuquerque piece (yes, Albuquerque!) as well as past features like The Art of Being Santa Fe and The Thrifty Wintry Charms of Santa Fe. I’ve also seen recent features on New Mexico in countless other publications – to the point that I am constantly thinking I need to get into the travel writing game.

So I ask, where is this poor or vague reputation coming from? Clearly, it’s not from the travel media, which treats Santa Fe like its darling. But maybe the real question is, is it really a "problem" that New Mexico is not a place people know much about? Sure, it matters to tourism revenue, but does it matter to me? After all, one of the things I love best about my new state is that fact that I only have to share it with two million other people – less than a quarter of the amount of people I had to co-exist with in Los Angeles. Its “off the radar” status keeps the winds of mass migration at bay and makes our tourists especially cool people who look deeper into things.

It also makes it a ball hosting first-time visitors to the state – who are by far the majority of our visitors – and introducing them to a landscape unlike anything most have ever seen. It is just so different here, and entirely unlike Phoenix or any other “low elevation desert” destination. (Our house is at 6,800 feet, after all.) I’d like to think our visitors (more than a dozen and counting, which makes us very blessed in the open-minded friends department) take back positive impressions that get circulated and work against the grain.

Or maybe they shouldn’t say anything, and we’ll just keep it our little secret.

My Pilgrimage to Chimayo, New Mexico

2011-09-12T21:24:00.000-06:00

Last Friday, I took the high road. Finally.

A fabled 56-mile scenic byway, the “High Road to Taos” refers to the mountainous route between Santa Fe and Taos. It winds through the Sangre de Cristo (“Blood of Christ”) Mountains, offers stunning alpine views and is dotted with centuries-old Spanish villages such as Cordova, Truchas and Penasco, to name a few. Conversely, the “Low Road” (Hwy 68) takes you through the valleys along the Rio Grande River. Both are beautiful drives, but the High Road has something that sets it apart: El Sanctuario de Chimayo.

Before I can tell you about this spectacular little church – considered the most important Catholic pilgrimage shrine in the United States and certainly one of the most photographed structures in New Mexico – I should first tell you a little about the history of the area. Chimayo and the other tiny villages along the High Road were settled by Spanish colonists, many of whom received Spanish land grants, in the 1600s. The area would remain part of Spain until 1821, when Mexico won its independence, and then in Mexico’s hands until 1850, when New Mexico became a US territory following the Mexican-American War. (Statehood would not come until 1912.)

As a result, the families of these early Spanish settlers in New Mexico go back some 11 or more generations – before the country of Mexico even existed. It’s a rich history that I’m just beginning to understand, but El Sanctuario de Chimayo is certainly an excellent place to start. Built between 1811-1816 (when the area still belonged to Spain), this handmade adobe structure is said to have been built by a devout Catholic – Bernardo de Abeyta – on the site where he witnessed a miracle. Today, it contains a special room for its holy dirt, believed to have curative powers. Visitors are allowed to take a small bag of holy dirt with them. Some simply rub it on their skin.

When you step outside of the holy dirt room, you find yourself in the prayer room, which is filled with symbols of suffering, healing and gratitude. I’m talking rows and rows of crutches, casts (from broken limbs), rosaries, baby shoes and photos of military men and women. These are the tokens of the more than 300,000 annual visitors to this National Historic Landmark, some of whom make the pilgrimage by foot. This is especially common during Holy Week, when thousands of pilgrims from the US and Mexico arrive seeking miracles of healing. Many carry wooden crosses or push wheelchairs. Others return in health to give thanks for having been healed previously.

I’ve failed to mention the lovely, rustic sanctuary, which is filled from floor to ceiling with incredible religious and folk art, including dolls, reredos (brightly painted wooden screens) and bultos (statues). The thing that struck me most was the striking contrast between the subjects’ facial expressions– usually one of suffering or sorrow, with eyes closed or looking down – with the incredibly vivid colors used in the artwork. I felt both saddened and uplifted.

Just a short distance away is the Santo Nino (“Holy Child”) Chapel, with perhaps even more impressive art. Recently renovated, it displays the striking contemporary work of artist Fernando Bimonte and others. It’s the “cheerier” of the two structures, aesthetically, with a feeling of innocence and gozo (joy). As the sign out front instructs, you should enter with “the heart of a child” to fully appreciate the chapel – and, of course, get into the kingdom of Heaven. I certainly felt more youthful and energized after as I headed to the gift shop. Need a car “bobblehead” of your favorite saint? This place is for you. My favorite item, however, was the “anime” version of The Virgin Mary pictured below. The only thing I can think to call it is “Catholic pop art.”

Between these two amazingly ornate adobe churches and their fantastic gift shops, you could easily make an afternoon of that part alone. But there’s even more to Chimayo, including art galleries, historic weaving shops and chile vendors. I recommend stopping into Medina’s Gallery (pictured below) to chat with Carlos Medina, a talented artist and highly entertaining raconteur known as “The Chile Man.” I tried several of his chile mixes, and they were incredibly piquant. They say the best red chile comes from Chimayo – an heirloom variety known as “Capsicum annuum Chimayo,” which was once used for medicine and currency as well as seasoning – and my taste tests did not dispute this. They did, however, make me hungry. So I headed to Rancho de Chimayo, a historic restaurant with a charming terrace for outdoor dining.

Once there, I ordered the carne adovada (pork marinated in red chile from Chimayo, of course), which was served with posole (hominy). It’s their signature dish, and I was expecting greatness. Sadly, it was not something I would write home about. The posole was far from spicy, and the carne adovada did not compare to the best I’ve had thus far, which was at El Bruno’s in Cuba, NM, where the pork was super tender and moist. Fortunately, I was tipped off to what may be the best food in the area a few days later. Unlike Rancho de Chimayo’s beautiful setting (see below), this humble food is served out the window of a roadside shack. I should not have been surprised. It’s the golden rule: eat with the locals, not with the tourists!

Located on Route 76 between Chimayo and Espanola, the original location of El Parasol (now a family-run mini-chain with five locations in New Mexico) is everything I’ve been looking for in New Mexican cuisine. It’s delicious, addictive and cheap. For $20, we feasted on four chicken tacos, two sopapillas (fried quick bread, as shown below at Rancho de Chimayo), a tamale and a frito pie. The friend who recommended El Parasol insisted we try the chicken tacos, and I see why. They’re fresh, deep fried tortillas filled with tender shredded chicken and homemade guacamole. Add a little El Parasol salsa and…perfection. The frito pie was also a knockout thanks to the high quality beef and generous infusion of green chile, and the sopapillas were my favorite of any I’ve tried yet – huge, thick and soft.

I may have used more napkins than I care to admit during the meal, but as we sat at our picnic table watching streams of locals rolling in, I knew I’d finally found the spot for crave-worthy New Mexican food. And that, I realized, is another pilgrimage completed.

Milwaukee Part II: From Cheese Curds to Custard

2011-07-26T21:04:00.002-06:00

(Read Part I, “The Unexpected Coolness of Cream City,” if you haven’t already.)

I wasn’t alone in having my comeuppance on Milwaukee. Our whole group did, with the exception of the friend who’d suggested it. Her parents had moved there recently, and she enthusiastically vouched for it. The rest of us were, as you can guess, deeply skeptical. But ultimately her proposal (a free lakefront condo and car to use) was too good to turn down. Even then, though, I was still scratching my head about why I was buying a flight to Milwaukee. Electively, no less! I kept thinking about all the “geographic crushes” I’d yet to visit.

Happily, the confusion started to wane the first night, when we strolled through East Town’s massive, four-day Bastille Days festival, hit up the $6 wine stand and nibbled on fried cheese curds while lounging in a grassy park listening to a great blues band. Don’t know what cheese curds are? I didn’t either. Turns out they’re the solid parts of curdled milk. It sounds gross, but they are a big Wisconsin specialty. You’ll see them in all sorts of varieties (as the photo above shows), and you’ll also see them fried with marinara or ranch dipping sauce. They’re a little chewy, a little sour, and a lot of tastiness.

By the next day, I couldn’t even remember why I’d been confused. Randomly, I picked a hike and a lunch spot that were both winners. The Seven Bridges Trail in South Milwaukee’s Grant Park Beach took us past forests, streams, meadows and an isolated beach (pictured above). Everything you’d want in a little nature detour. From there, we drove back along the quaint neighborhoods along scenic Lake Drive, which hugs Lake Michigan, and headed to Barnacle Bud’s on the Kinnickinnic River. The Milwaukee Express, the local weekly, had called it “the place to be in summer…if you can find it.”

They weren’t exaggerating. Hidden on an industrial street that looks abandoned at first, Barnacle Bud's is the offshoot of Skipper Bud’s, a boat storage facility. Delightfully ramshackle with picnic tables and beer served in buckets of ice, Barnacle Bud's was serving up its Friday Fish Fry to everyone arriving by car and boat. I opted for the outstanding crab cake appetizer (voted Best in Milwaukee for good reason) and a brat (aka bratwurst sausage) on a bun instead. As we clinked our cold beers together, things were seriously looking up.

That night, we perused Glorioso Brothers Italian Foods market, picked up some provisions (including cheese, of course) and enjoyed a delicious spread on the porch of our lakefront condo. By Saturday, we were refreshed and fully in vacation mode. With a new zeal for exploring this now-intriguing city, we headed to the Historic Third Ward, home to tons of new, happening places to eat. We settled into a rooftop table at Benelux and studied their menu, which focuses on the cuisine of Europe’s Lowlands (Belgium, The Netherlands and Luxembourg). We started with Bloody Marys, which in Milwaukee all come with a refreshing beer chaser (it IS a beer town, after all), and decided to split two Pannenkoekens (huge Lowlands-style crepes).

From there, we walked along the nearly-three-mile-long River Walk to downtown and took our obligatory tourist photos with “The Bronze Fonz” (aka a statue of actor Henry Winkler). As you may recall, the classic television sitcoms “Happy Days” and “Laverne and Shirley” were both set in Milwaukee, and TV Land apparently commissioned the statue in 2008. (A rerun ratings strategy?)

We then crossed the river into the charming Old World Third Street area before swinging back to East Town for one last walking tour. We cut through Juneau Park to the waterfront to see the modernist architecture of the Milwaukee Art Museum, originally designed by mid-century legend Eero Saarinen, with an amazing “movable sunscreen” and outdoor pavilion area later installed by Spanish architect Santiago Calatrava. This wing-like structure opens every morning at 10 a.m. See the photo below of it rising upward, halfway open. It’s a perfect analogy for Milwaukee, a city rising to a comeback in shocking (and striking) fashion.

Nightfall brought us to a wine tasting event at Bastille Days, where we took in more great bands while sipping wines from around the world. A perfect ending to a big day. On Sunday, with only a few hours (and a tiny bit of energy) left, we relaxed at Bradford Beach, a beach right in East Town where you can rent cabanas and beach chaises. On the way in and out, you can also grab burgers and custard at Northpoint, the famous custard shack located right in the beach parking lot. While the custard was cold and creamy, I have to say the burger was the thing that struck me: a truly mouth-watering hamburger on Cioppino bread with pickles, my favorite classic condiment.

An hour later, I left Milwaukee full in all senses. Not only was it a fantastic reunion with old friends, but it was a great “blind date.” Out of left field, I discovered another place I think I could live. The only downside I can see is that teensy weensy detail called winter, as I was reminded when I saw a license plate that read, hilariously, H8WNTRS. But the upside of a serious winter region like the Midwest is that nobody does summer quite as exuberantly. I noticed this when I was in Michigan the summer of 2009. After such a long winter, you can tell how uber-grateful everyone is for summer. Just look to the zillion festivals crammed into every summer weekend.

In Milwaukee, and the upper Midwest, there’s an urgency and passion to summer. I really like that, and I just wonder if someday I might need to have a seasonal pad in Milwaukee. For example, a cool riverfront loft in an old industrial brick building with its own boat slip.

You just never know.

The Unexpected Coolness of Cream City (aka Milwaukee, Wisconsin)

2011-07-24T14:29:00.000-06:00

When I first saw that Milwaukee’s nickname was Cream City, I assumed this was a reference to the dairy industry. After all, the one thing I knew about Wisconsin is that cheese comes from there. (It is, in fact, the number one cheese producing state in the US, with more than 600 varieties of cheese produced.) But that’s not what Cream City refers to. It’s a special type of creamy-golden-yellow brick that was produced in Milwaukee in the 1800s and used to construct many of the city’s well-preserved historic buildings.

This revelation was one of many last weekend, when a group of friends convened in Milwaukee. I realized that not only did I know nothing about this metropolitan city of 1.5 million – apparently a shared condition given that I would tell people I was going to Milwaukee and they’d wish me a great time in Minnesota – but I really couldn’t explain why. It simply wasn’t on my radar. Inexplicably, Milwaukee has the same (lack of) appeal as say Baltimore or Detroit.

But the truth of the matter, as I’m prepared to set straight today, is that Milwaukee is a very cool place. First, Milwaukee has a lovely setting right on the western shore of Lake Michigan. That means vast ocean-like views, clear water, sailboats, waterfront parks and biking trails, and nice beaches within walking distance. Then there’s the wide Milwaukee River cutting through it, creating an impressive downtown River Walk area with stately riverfront buildings and tons of dockside eateries that you can visit by boat. I personally think it eclipses the San Antonio River Walk, which is far better known. As if that weren’t enough, there’s another smaller river – the Kinnickinnic River – which is quite fun to say.

Beyond this aquatic bounty, there are great urban areas like the Historic Third Ward, where industrial buildings have been transformed into hip lofts, food markets and rooftop restaurants; or the Old World Third Street area, where modern wine bars abut multi-generational sausage shops; or East Town, an upscale district full of parks and museums. Frankly, I didn’t see any downtown area that wasn’t comely, and I was looking for it. For a city with a declining population (another hallmark of a poor reputation), I saw no rundown areas, strangely. Instead, I found Milwaukee immaculately landscaped, carefully preserved and more lively than depressed.

The fact that the cost of living is so reasonable (e.g. luxury three-bedroom waterfront condos between $200-$300K) doesn’t hurt. Another major ingredient is that this is a young town, which I definitely noticed. The median age is 30.3 years, which is six years younger than the national average of 36.8 years. Fittingly, Milwaukee is only second to Las Vegas in the number of bars, clubs and restaurants per capita. It was also named one of the top ten best places to be single by Forbes. As a result of all these surprising things, as well as the fact that its population loss has slowed to a trickle in the last decade, The Street recently named it one of the “America’s Five Most Underrated Cities.” I couldn’t agree more.

Read Part II of my head-turning date with Milwaukee here.

New Mexico Is One of America's Top Five Food Regions

2011-05-26T11:52:00.000-06:00

That's according to Budget Travel magazine's May 2011 issue, folks.

In reviewing their roundup of the seven must-taste spots in "New Mexico Chile Country," I was surprised to learn that I'd only been to three. One of them, Golden Crown Panaderia, was a memorable highlight of my first visit to Albuquerque. I devoured several empanadas dulces while chatting with the charismatic owner and "bread artist" Pratt Morales and then brought home several loaves of his famous green chile cheese bread. (Order it online here.)

Unfortunately, the other two spots (El Rancho de las Golondrinas in Santa Fe and the Pueblo of Jemez west of Santa Fe) I've visited but not tasted. That means a re-do of those plus four more to try, with Mary & Tito's in Albuquerque being at the top of my hit list.

I've heard repeatedly that I must try the savory stuffed sopaIpillas (the New Mexican equivalent of a turnover) and carne adovada (pork marinated in red chile) at this 48-year-old institution, which was one of five restaurants to receive the "America's Classics" award from the James Beard Foundation in 2010. Watch their short video piece to see 87-year-old owner Mary and hear her story.

Wondering who else made the cut around the country? That would be Texas' Barbecue Belt, Portland's Farm-to-Table Movement, Louisiana's Cajun Country and Pittsburgh's Old World European Kitchens. Read the full article to send your taste buds traveling.

A Hoodoo Needs Its Hat

2011-04-19T12:04:00.000-06:00

The title may sound like something out of a Dr. Seuss book, but I’m talking about magical place that is in fact quite real.

A year and four months after relocating to New Mexico, I finally made it to Kasha-Katuwe Tent Rocks National Monument, about an hour and a half north in the Pueblo of Cochiti (tribal land). Kasha-Katuwe means “white cliffs” in the pueblo’s traditional language, while Tent Rocks is the anglo way of describing the unusual pointed hoodoos that number in the hundreds here. (Another famous example of hoodoos would be Bryce Canyon National Park in Utah.)

Towering up to 90 feet in height, some of them have hard caprocks, or “hats,” which keep their cone shape and softer layers intact. Those that have lost their hats, however, are slowly crumbling right before your eyes.

The 1.5-mile trail takes you through shady slot canyons at the bottom (which were slightly eerie after watching Aron Ralston get stuck in one in the film 127 Hours), up a steep 630-foot climb, and finally, out onto a panoramic cliff where you are literally on top of the world. You can see the Sangre de Cristo Mountains overlooking Santa Fe to the north all the way to the Sandia Mountains of Albuquerque to the south. You can also look down at the posse of hoodoos below you for a whole new perspective on these otherworldly rocks.

In case you’re wondering, these pumice, ash and tuff deposits were created by volcanic eruptions six to seven million years ago, and you can still find round black pieces of translucent obsidian (aka volcanic glass, or colloquially, “Apache tears”) mixed into the sandy bottom of the canyon. It’s tempting to take a six-million-year-old sample home, but it’s prohibited. So I took a photo instead.

As a final nerdy factoid, I read in the Trail Guide that the Spanish conquistadors who arrived in New Mexico in the mid-1500s (and brought green chile with them, as I wrote about in my last blog post) made note of this place in their diaries. It surely must have looked like a serious contender for one of the Seven Golden Cities of Cibola. But no, it’s just a breathtaking living geology laboratory that’s captivated humans for over 4,000 years.

And I can go there anytime I want. That’s pretty cool.

Green Chile + Anything = Amazing

2011-04-15T15:11:00.000-06:00

If you know anything about New Mexican cuisine, you know it centers around green chile. (And yes, that’s how it’s spelled here. Not chili/chilies, but chile/chiles.) Today, I learned even more about the state’s largest agricultural crop from Santa Fe Travelers' blog post, entitled “Were chiles always in New Mexico?”

According to the New Mexico Department of Tourism, wild chile plants originated in Brazil, and like many things (both agricultural and cultural), they were brought to New Mexico by the Spanish, who first arrived in the 1540s looking for the mythical Seven Golden Cities of Cibola. (They, ahem, found no such thing.) Centuries later, a pioneering horticulturist from Las Cruces, NM, helped cultivate the more hardy varieties that are ubiquitous today: Big Jim, Joe E. Parker, Sandia and Española Improved.

When I say green chiles have become a cornerstone of our gastronomical life here in New Mexico, that they mark the harvest season (when you can smell them roasting outside grocery stories here) and that they can enhance just about anything you eat, you may think I’m drinking the green chile juice. But before you question my sanity, let me ask – have you actually eaten green chiles? If you have, you know they’re mildly spicy (meaning pleasantly, bearably spicy, and not too hot) and incredibly flavorful.

As further evidence, let me cite three ways green chiles have been unexpectedly added to dishes with killer results. The first, as mentioned in the Santa Fe Travelers article (with a recipe), is Green Chile Apple Pie. This one has actually caught on so much that you can now find it outside of New Mexico, as I did in November when I bought one at Green Chile Kitchen in San Francisco. (Here’s the New York Times review of their version of this unique pie.)

The second is adding green chile to sushi. My favorite example of this thus far is the Amex Roll at Samurai Sushi in Albuquerque, which combines green chile with spicy tuna and cucumber. Absolutely delicious and an explosion of spicy goodness. You’ll also see green chile tempura as an appetizer or a specialty role in a number of Japanese restaurants here, showing that it’s not just a condiment but the headliner in many dishes.

Finally, my most recent discovery on the “surprising uses of green chile” front would be the utterly addictive Green Chile Pecan Sandia Cookies from AlbuqCookie, a company founded by a New York transplant who also realized that in New Mexico you can combine chile with about anything. Another product I'm eager to try is his Chocolate Pepper Chile Cookies, which also demonstrate the happy marriage of sweet and spicy.

So there you have it - my trifecta of proof. Feeling the need to come up with your own wild and crazy combination? Order green chile online (either roasted or frozen) from Hatch Chile Express, as everyone from New Mexico will tell you the best green chiles are grown in Hatch, NM. Or, you can also snag a jar of 505 Southwestern All-Natural Diced and Flamed Roasted Green Chiles in many supermarkets. (They too source all their green chiles from Hatch, and their name is a reference to the New Mexico area code, 505.)

When Farolitos Fly: Christmas Eve in Santa Fe

2011-02-10T18:24:00.000-07:00

[This is rather late, I know. But I just got my hands on our photos from Christmas Eve, and I was reminded what a special thing this is!]

Imagine it’s a cold winter night in a 400-year-old city, and the only lights you see are candles placed inside paper bags (aka farolitos) and bonfires in front of some homes. The glowing farolitos line the narrow streets and rugged adobe walls, while the crackling bonfires provide warmth, a distinctive holiday fragrance (thanks to the aromatic pinon logs) and interaction with fellow revelers.

This is Santa Fe on Christmas Eve, and you’re here, walking around the city’s oldest neighborhood in your warmest coat, hat and scarf (not to mention your long johns), because this is what New Mexicans do. It’s a longstanding tradition rooted in religious practices (the farolitos are meant guide baby Jesus to shelter) that’s become an opportunity for Santa Feans and tourists alike to come together for strolling and caroling and, quite frankly, marveling at it all. Santa Fe is postcard pretty as is, but at night, by candlelight, with all the electric streetlights dimmed for the occasion, it’s magical.

Artists have joined in on the Christmas Eve tradition by making Canyon Road, with its 100+ art galleries and studios, a featured stop on your stroll. Most galleries stay open late and tempt you inside to see their latest collections with hot cider and cookies. (The lovely mermaid above was enough to get us into one shop.) Holiday music spills out of every doorway, and lighted sculptures and kinetic art call you over for a closer look. There are also roving bands of carolers and other curious processions (like the chariot built with camping lanterns pictured below) heading up and down Canyon Road, amidst the throng of people who’ve replaced the cars on this famous, winding street.

For me, the festive scene on Canyon Road was certainly something to take in, but I most enjoyed wandering the quiet little lanes that branch off of it. You feel so far from modernity and all its loud and busy ways. Some of Santa Fe’s oldest homes are in this area, and being on foot, it was an unprecedented opportunity to peek in the windows and see what it’s like to live in a historic adobe (among the priciest real estate in town). The shot below shows a glimpse of the extensive collection of religious art we spied in one home.

In the stillness of the Canyon Road side roads, you also have the attention span to notice something else. The flying farolitos. Yes, believe it or not, an ingenious solar energy expert developed a way launch a kite-like version of the farolito, which rises comet-like across the sky until gets smaller and smaller and eventually burns itself up in a falling cascade of ashes. (Check out this YouTube video showing a flying farolito from “launch to loss” – forward to 1:30 to see it start to go up.) If you didn’t know about this little twist on the tradition, you would rub your eyes and wonder if you’d seen an UFO.

But no. It’s just Christmas Eve in Santa Fe, a place like no other on a night like no other.

The Truth About Truth or Consequences, NM

2011-01-08T17:57:00.000-07:00

I had planned a relaxing, romantic, semi-adventurous, warmer weather getaway. And I had done it in stealth. It was my Christmas present to Kevin, and I was determined to keep the cat in the bag. That part, at least, was a success. The trip, however, turned out a little differently than I had imagined.

The first omen was logging onto the Virgin Galactic website two days beforehand, with the intention of buy two tickets for the Hard Hat Tour of Spaceport America (still under construction). If you haven’t heard, that’s the brainchild of Sir Richard Branson, the place where starting next year, the average wealthy-as-all-get-out citizen will be able to take a commercial flight into space for $200,000.

Credit card in hand, ready to book our three-hour tour, which I was sure would be the highlight of our trip, I instead find myself confronted with the following message: Due to the safety implications of increased construction activity on the spaceport site, we are unable to accept new Hard Hat Tour reservations until further notice. We anticipate tours to resume shortly.

Nooooooooooo. Okay, I think – this is disappointing, but not the end of the world. I’m sure there are plenty of other things to do over two days in Truth or Consequences, NM (formerly Hot Springs, NM). Certainly a town that renamed itself after winning a 1950s game show contest had all sorts of kooky stuff to get into. (And if you count drinking $4 cocktails at the bar at a bowling alley called Bedroxx as one of them, maybe I was right.)

As we pulled into T or C (as the locals call it), approximately three hours south of Albuquerque, I will admit that I was a bit startled, especially given some of the descriptions I’d read. “An East Village vibe in the Southwest,” New York Magazine had called it, as well as "a town with a low-key, ambient weirdness.” The New York Times had talked about the “stark beauty and quirky local vibe.” And Budget Travel magazine, to which I swear loyalty, had named it one of their “10 Coolest Small Towns” in 2008.

But I wasn’t really seeing any of that – the funkiness, the coolness, or even enough live human beings to get a clear vibe. It appeared rather deserted and thus jived most with Sunset magazine’s phrase: “a dusty one-stoplight town on the banks of the Rio Grande.” (We had to look around to find the river, but we did finally - here's a shot of a pretty stretch of it below.)

It didn’t help that we arrived in the heels of a cold snap that had lowered temps from 75 degrees the previous week to the 30s, with lots of blustery wind. Or that it was Wednesday of the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day, apparently a dead zone of activity in a town that locals told me comes alive on the weekends. Or that we arrived around 4:30 p.m., and all the shops closed by 5:00 p.m.

We checked into our hotel, scheduled our complimentary 30-minute hot springs soak in one of the private tub rooms for 9:00 p.m. (you get one free soak every day of your stay as well as hot springs water piped directly into your bathtub), strolled around downtown long enough to get thoroughly frozen, and thus, not sure what else to do, headed off to dinner at 5:15 p.m., just like my parents would do.

This shockingly early meal was the harbinger of the sleepy feeling that would engulf our trip – yet without any actual restful sleep. (More on that later.) The meal itself at Café BellaLuca, just a block away, was good. We had a crabcake, a salad, a bowl of carbonara pasta. We sipped our glasses of wine and then an apertif. But after all that, it was still only 7:00 p.m. What to do now? We asked the waiter for a suggestion, and she sighed and told us there wasn’t much nightlife. The hip kids go to the bowling alley, she said.

So at 7:15 p.m. on a Wednesday night, we found ourselves at the Leopard Lounge at Bedroxx Bowling Alley, wondering what twilight zone we’d entered. Bowling a few games might have passed the time, but it was league night. No dice. We drank our bargain cocktails, watched music videos on the TV and eventually found it was time for our soak back at the hotel. Great.

After changing into our robes back at the historic Sierra Grande Lodge (built in 1926, and the only hotel in a town of retro motor court motels), we headed to the spa for our private soak in a lovely stone tub. Things were looking up. The water felt great, and they even had a pitcher of ice water with two glasses set out for us.

And boy did I gulp it down. You see, the geothermal hot springs that sit just 30 feet below the town are hot. Real hot. Like 107 degrees hot. The kind of hot that gives you a flush feeling and elevated pulse when you get out. I found it very relaxing at first – and nearly unbearable at the end. (I was reminded of a motel I saw downtown called "Fire Water Lodging," pictured below.)

Back in our room, our bodies refused to cool down, and our heart rates wouldn’t slow either. Combined with an incredibly hard bed and thin pillows, this led to the first of two nights of tossing and turning. When Kevin told me he’d slept like crap as well the next morning, I couldn’t believe it. The whole point of a relaxing spa getaway was to sleep better than at home. Also, this was supposed to be the “nicest” lodging in town. True, the staff couldn't have been friendlier, and the exterior and grounds of the hotel as well as the spa were nice, but the creaky bed could not have been more uncomfortable. WTH?

Clearly, I had to readjust my understanding of what “nicest” means in a health-spa-boomtown-gone-bust that was trying to revive in an economically depressed region. Yes, there were big city transplants opening stores, giving massages and teaching yoga. But even with the New Age set, this was still a rough n’ tumble place with “kicker bars” (aka, “where shitkickers start fights,” as one local told us), and any notion of “luxury” really has no audience. Or at least not yet.

Perhaps when the millionaires start showing up for their trips into space, that will be the tipping point. I can only imagine the seismic impact that will have on this sleepy little town, which, with some preservation efforts and an economic infusion, definitely has potential. It certainly has all the history. (Geronimo soaked here!) Not to mention some of the most striking cacti I've seen in New Mexico - including the "fuzzy" kind pictured below.

Until then, I have to tell my truth. T or C really wasn’t the right getaway for this particular trip. “Retro romance,” as New Mexico Magazine called it, was not what we found. But after reflecting on the experience, we both agree that we’d give it another chance if spaceport tours resume. We’d stay at Blackstone Hot Springs, a restored motel with kitschy theme rooms that’s about half the cost of the Sierra Grande Lodge, we’d avoid soaking at night (and soak for shorter periods), and we’d go on a weekend so that hopefully we’d encounter some of the cool folks that clearly do frequent this place.

Oh, and maybe we’ll bring our own pillows, just like a fellow we saw in the parking lot of Blackstone Hot Springs.

Expand Your View in Villa Grove, Colorado

2010-11-01T15:27:00.000-06:00

When it starts turning cold, the mind naturally turns to all places warm. And in the high desert, the only places that stay warm in the winter are hot springs. Fortunately, they’re all over the place. You just have to know where to find them. (And then, when you do, you just have to be prepared to A) hike in and B) encounter possible nudity. Most are clothing optional.)

This summer a friend took me to Valley View Hot Springs in Villa Grove, a rural enclave in southern Colorado with one general store/restaurant (Villa Grove Trade, which has a great buffalo burger). It’s the kind of place you would never discover without an introduction. The springs themselves are high up in the mountains above Colorado’s San Luis Valley, an area best known for its potatoes as well as a fascinating little New Age town called Crestone, which has facilities for every major world religion.

But once you’re in the know about Valley View Hot Springs, it’s almost like you’re part of an incredibly devoted family. People who come here have been coming for years, as a ritual of relaxation and cleansing. The overnight camping rate is just $30. And, to ensure that the experience would never change, the owners converted the place into a public trust (the Orient Land Trust) that ensures a continuing set of stewardship practices and guest policies.

During the 4.5 hour drive from Albuquerque, my friend told me not only about the unique “public ownership” aspect of Valley View Hot Springs but also the magical and healing qualities of the spring water, which pours out of the mountainside in a series of descending pools. The thing is - you just can’t believe it until you experience it for yourself. But it IS unlike any other spring water I’ve encountered.

First, the water temperature (96-98 degrees) makes it so that the water feels like a second skin. It’s not too hot. It’s not too cold. It’s just right. It’s also incredibly silky and soft and soothing. But perhaps the most amazing thing is that as a result of all this, you never wrinkle, and you never feel like you have to get out. You could easily soak in the springs for hours without any issue – not even sunburn, as several of the pools have shaded areas.

That latter detail was quite imperative as I arrived at Valley View with a nasty case of sun poisoning. I had a number of worries about sun exposure as well as hot water being potentially irritating. But they all faded away along with all sense of time, stress and “the real world.” I headed for the shady corners of each pool, and the water truly did abate the itching and redness. Life soon eased into a lazy rhythm of soaking (moving from this pool to that pool), sleeping and eating.

Adding to the enchantment is the pristine campground. Under a canopy of trees, tame deer walk right up to you, and steaming brooks of hot spring water babble down the mountainside, creating a feeling of “Gorillas in the Mist.” We set up camp at the intersection of two streams, making for the most narcoleptic sleeping conditions of all time. I was ready for a nap anytime I approached our tent.

Impressively, the entire place (including the public bathrooms, showers and a number of rental cabins) is powered by harnessing the hydrothermal energy of these hot water streams. It’s off the grid and completely self-sufficient, not to mention low-impact. There’s a respectful understanding on the part of every guest, and no one would even think about leaving a piece of trash at their campsite.

Beyond using one of the complimentary “noodles” to free-float in one of the upper pools, another great way to take in the "Valley View" is from the swings, which allow you the giddy pleasure of feeling as free as a child as you gaze down on the vast valley below. You feel so incredibly far away from everything down there. And you are.

No Reservations Is One Thing. No Destination Is Another.

2010-10-29T15:18:00.000-06:00

Traveling without a plan? C’mon now. If you know me well, or even if you know me a little, you’ll know I have never done such a thing. Or at least not willingly. I’m Type A, after all.

When I have a trip coming up, I research, research, research. Then I research some more. It’s partially out of some deep instinctual need to know what I’m doing (or ahem, shall we say be in control). But it’s also for pleasure. Honest. I love making lists of restaurants we might want to try. I like reading reviews on Yelp.com and TripAdvisor.com. I like getting oriented – and anticipating things.

(And, by the way, research shows that anticipation increases happiness – as well as what you gain from the overall travel experience. Don’t believe me? Check out this fascinating New York Times article called “But Does It Make You Happy?” The takeaway for me was that my alter ego Planny Plannerson is not something to be embarrassed about, but in fact a vital component to my happiness.)

That said, I confess that I have often longed to be one of those spontaneous travelers, the kind who just lets fate direct them. Who doesn’t stare at the map. Who doesn’t worry about where to sleep tonight – or at least not until nightfall. Who doesn’t use guidebooks. But who manages to find him/herself in the craziest situations. And thus, who comes homes with amazing stories that make jaws drop and bellies ache.

I guess all Type A’s long to be this person at times, and perhaps that explains the recent trend I’ve seen of “plan-less” travel journalism. In September, the New York Times began a monthly travel feature called “Getting Lost.” The idea is to plop yourself in a foreign destination with no maps, no GPS and zero research – and just see what happens. The first piece was “Lost in Tangier,” a seemingly perfect destination for confusion given its labyrinthine center. The problem? The writer ran into people he knew (and who knew Tangier quite well), and after that, he was no longer lost, I would argue.

But the second piece, “Lost in Ireland,” revealed greater challenges in the “purposefully lost” concept, given the isolation of traveling by car instead of foot. The writer barely interacted with anyone for the first three days and found loneliness setting in until he decided to just accept being alone. For me, this is the part I think I would really stink at. Being lonely on vacation sounds awful. I also don’t like the idea of missing out on something really sublime right around the corner – because I don’t know about it. This writer, for example, never found that classic Irish pub full of storytelling, singing men.

The Times series, however, invokes less anxiety than another article I read in Oprah magazine, which takes impulsive travel to a new extreme. It’s called “Traveling to Toyko Without a Map,” but it’s not just that the author took off without a map. She left home without a destination. She packed a bag, went to the airport and asked a stranger where she should go. The response was “Tokyo,” and thus, she bought a flight to Toyko. From there, she asked people on the plane where to stay, people at the hotel where to eat and so on. Every aspect of her trip was determined by the advice of others.

It’s a head-spinning idea, and of course, it’s only possible if you have the funds to buy a ticket anywhere last minute. But it really intrigued me. Would you find that elusive thing only a local could tip you off to? Is everything you need available from a random person on the street – and you just have to ask? Unfortunately, I doubt I have the cojones. I mean, what if your random stranger said a place where it might be dangerous to show up with no idea what you’re doing and no one around who speaks English? Those type of fears aside, there’s no doubt that kind of trip is going to be a story like no other. Maybe even a bestselling novel, later adapted into an award-winning film.

And that’s why I’ll always wish I could be that kind of traveler. And why I’ll always read these type of travel articles with keen interest and admiration. But let’s face it. I’m not that person. Which is why I have to run. I have research to do for an upcoming trip.

It’s All Happening in Harlem

2010-10-09T19:04:00.000-06:00

Boarding the shuttle from Boston to New York recently, I picked up a NY Times and settled in for the short flight. I was on the way to join my partner Kevin, who’s been working in Harlem on a renovation project. I’d become so jealous of all the fun he was having in this newly revitalized neighborhood that I wanted to check it out for myself. “It is so happening here,” he told me.

Well, wouldn’t you know, I flip to the Weekend section of the Times and spot an article called “Going Upscale Uptown,” a roundup of several hip new restaurants and bars that are bringing Harlem into the limelight. The excitement of Manhattan came flooding back, despite it being what I once called “the coldest of all my exes.” I hadn’t even arrived, and I was already plotting which spots to try.

That night, having forgotten all my city slicker instincts, I urged Kevin to hit up some of the places in the article. We walked over to Frederick Douglas Blvd. between 112th and 120th, the stretch featured in the article, only to find that everyone else in New York had read the article and decided to do the same thing for their Friday night. The places were packed. No tables open. Nowhere to stand. Yes, I should have known, but such things don’t happen in New Mexico. Crowds? Waits? Not things I think about anymore.

But in New York, you better think about it. So I did, and like a smart urbanite, we returned to one of the smallest spots, 67 Orange Street, in the middle of the week. Much better. We got seats at the bar (which actually afforded more room than the tiny table we tried first), ordered some appetizers and cocktails (the Brazilian Jig for me, The Emancipation for Kevin) and chatted with Karl Franz Williams, the owner, whose photo had been in the Times.

Life had been good for him that week – after the Times piece came out, he did four more interviews, he said. That’s good news for his two places – he also owns Society Coffee just a few blocks north, which has a very community-oriented vibe – and good news for Harlem. The word was out about the rebirth (depicted in the mural shown above), and everyone was showing up. Blacks, whites, Latinos, tourists. Lots of tourists. We kept seeing them everywhere we went.

In fact, we soon decided European tourists (particularly German) were more in the know about Harlem than we were. They had camped out at Yatenga, the very cool French bistro where we had planned to brunch on the patio and watch the African American Day Parade (pictured above), and they also knew about the Sunday afternoon Parlor Jazz series at pianist Marjorie Eliot’s apartment. A friend tipped us off and we arrived – along with all the Germans – to see Marjorie and a flutist/saxophonist make improvisational magic.

But I can tell you now exactly what the Europeans know. There is some seriously good eating and drinking to be done in Harlem these days. On the soul food front, I have to be a heretic, though. I say forget Sylvia’s, the famous restaurant where tour buses now frequent. I thought the Queen of Soul Food's Fried Chicken and Waffles were just okay. The cake-like cornbread was really the best part. Amy Ruth’s? Well, I can’t even say as the Sunday brunch line was so out-of-control, I refused to wait in it.

I can vouch for brunch at Melba’s (photo below), run by Sylvia’s niece. Melba serves chicken and waffles too, but she’s added a modern touch to everything from to her decor – sleek and sophisticated with a bopping jazz soundtrack – to her menu. She serves Mimosas and Mellinis, for example, and her cute mini waffles come with this insanely good strawberry butter. I opted for the Sweet Potato Pancakes, however, and I did not regret it. They were moist, heavenly and repeat-worthy. Kevin’s Salmon Croquette was also quite good (and better than Sylvia’s, he said.)

But the best meal I had in Harlem was at Zoma, an upscale Ethiopian restaurant next door to 67 Orange. We stumbled in without knowing anything about it. I’ve always thought Ethiopian food was interesting, and that the communal eating was fun, but this was my first experience with crave-worthy Ethiopian. Beside the delicious Doro Wett chicken, I can’t stop thinking about a vegetarian side dish we had called Shiro Wett – chickpeas, lentils and peas in a berbere sauce with “a multitude of spices.” The menu called it “Ethiopian comfort food,” and yes, it’s as comforting as mashed potatoes.

I know you don’t believe me ("chickpeas and lentils!?"), but it’s true. So if you ever find yourself at the top of Central Park, within five minutes walking distance of the many beautiful blocks of Harlem brownstones just to the north, stroll on up Fredrick Douglas Blvd. and see what I’m talking about. You will not leave hungry – nor will you fail to notice the incredible, diverse energy of this resurgent area.

Oh, and I'm sure you'll bump into some Europeans too (for proof, see the ones behind Kevin above). As a final parting shot, below is a photo of Kevin giving directions to some French tourists. They wanted to know where they could see some basketball being played. No, I am not joking. The racial cliché had us giggling the rest of the afternoon.

Budget Travel's Coolest Small Towns 2010

2010-09-07T12:34:00.000-06:00

As a longtime Budget Travel subscriber, I've always been titillated by the magazine's annual "Coolest Small Towns in America" issue. And of course, now that I'm a recent transplant to a very small town myself (only 1,500 people), I'm even more keen.

But this year, for the first time, I am unfamiliar with all 10 finalists - which are voted on by readers and must have a population under 10,000 people. Looks like I'm losing my edge, folks.

Here are this year's winners, dubbed as small towns "with more personality than cities triple their size":

1. Ely, Minnesota

2. Cloverdale, California

3. Brevard, North Carolina

4. Saugatuck, Michigan

5. Kennett Square, Pennsylvania

6. Bandon, Oregon

7. Cuero, Texas

8. Medicine Park, Oklahoma

9. Nyack, New York

10. Egg Harbor, Wisconsin

Agree? Disagree? Been to any of them? (Check out the the full article and photo slideshow to learn about all ten.)

Turns out two of these small towns - Cuero, Texas, and Medicine Park, Oklahoma - are within striking distance in neighboring states. Maybe a road trip is in order.

Here goes that wanderlust again!

p.s. You may also want to peruse the 2009 winners. At least I was familiar with two - Lexington, Virginia, and Rockland, Maine - and could feel reasonably good about myself.

The Tao of Taos, New Mexico

2010-08-24T17:55:00.000-06:00

We’ve been trying to get to Taos since we arrived in New Mexico. But the 2.75-hour drive makes it tad bit longer than a day trip.

Then, as luck would have it, a friend in LA connected us with an old friend of hers who lives in Taos, and we were extended an invitation to come up for a weekend. This is one of many examples of the immediacy of New Mexico. You meet people, they’re incredibly friendly, you become friends with them, you go stay with them.

These new friends, as it turns out, could not have been better guides to Taos. She grew up in the area and works at a prestigious museum. He’s an artist and furniture maker. And together, they know just about everyone in Taos. No wonder we got to attend two parties and a wedding reception in one weekend with them.

Of course, it’s not that hard to get to know people here. In fact, we ran into two people we’d met at our first party while grabbing coffee at World Cup near the plaza. This was clearly a common occurrence that surprised no one. And to top it off, we learned we’d see them both again later in the day for another party.

While exploring the small downtown (including the John Dunn Shops, housed in the infamous gambler and stagecoach driver’s former home), we also checked out the Harwood Museum of Art’s new photo exhibit of the Taos Pueblo from the beginning of photography to present. This iconic UNESCO World Heritage adobe structure has been continuously inhabited for over 1,000 years (chew on that for a minute), and the exhibit features shots from the last 140.

In part, it was this close proximity to a vibrant Native American community that drew so many artists to Taos in the early days to paint the pueblo and its inhabitants. The Taos Society of Artists was founded in 1915 by prominent transplants from New York, Paris and other major cities, and this worldly artistic sensibility continues. (Everyone we met had lived in New York or LA previously, it seemed.)

Of course, they were also drawn to the beauty of the area, with its ancient cottonwood trees, snow-fed streams and grassy valleys. But what really sets Taos apart is the perfect ring of mountains (including Mount Wheeler, the highest in the state) that encircles it, making for breathtaking views in all directions as well as world class skiing, which attracts an entirely different set of affluent visitors.

Maybe that’s why Taos just doesn’t seem like a town of 6,000 people. With its natural pulchritude, famous residents (including Julia Roberts) and international tourists, it feels more sophisticated than a small town…and yet decidedly rural and rustic. I’m still trying to put my finger on it, but the vibe is very distinct, very free, very appealing. Even more than Santa Fe, whose name alone inspires certain lifestyle aspirations, Taos is just cool.

Since I found myself rather drawn to it (okay, full-on crushing on it, let’s be honest), I guess it’s a good thing it’s so far from a major airport. Otherwise, I might have had some second thoughts about whether we should have looked into buying there instead. But given how much my partner’s profession involves travel, it just wouldn’t work logistically. And I guess that’s what keeps Taos the way it is.

Life’s not about logistics if you live there. It’s about…life. In fact, it seems like the kind of place where you have to have your own income or your own thing going on already, be it art or otherwise. Which reminds me - Dennis Hopper, another famous part-time Taos resident (he fell for it after shooting Easy Rider there and was a renowned artist in his own right), loved getting away to Taos so much that he wished it to be his final resting place. Below is the San Francisco de Asis Church in Rancho de Taos, where his funeral was held.

So while I can’t have Taos as my mate, it’s definitely got all the makings of an in-state weekend cheat. I’m dying to get back and see the Taos Pueblo in person, for one. Perhaps I’ll attend one of the religious ceremonies they invite the public to attend throughout the year. I’ve been told that the Procession of the Virgin on Christmas Eve is something special – with bonfires lit everywhere and a blend of Catholic and native traditions.

The Last Garment Maker in Denver’s LODO District

2010-08-06T17:30:00.000-06:00

“The West is not a place. The West is a state of mind.”

– “Papa” Jack A. Weil, 1901-2008

A year before we moved to New Mexico, my partner Kevin visited Denver and brought me back a t-shirt from Rockmount Ranch Wear. It featured a bucking bronco and read “Styled in the West by Westerners.” You could say it stood out from the other t-shirts in my urbanite’s closet. He got himself a vintage Western shirt with saddle stitching, sawtooth pockets and white pearly snaps, which reminded me of something an Austin hipster might wear. Very retro. Very now.

At the time, I had never heard of Rockmount, nor did I know how many celebrities wear it. But when we drove up to Denver earlier this summer, I got a chance to find out what all the fuss is about. Turns out Rockmount is something of a legend – as was its recently deceased Founder and CEO, Jack A. Weil, who ran the company until his death in 2008 at age 107. His book, Ask Papa Jack: Wisdom of the World’s Oldest CEO, dispenses his famously opinionated lessons.

I knew I liked the guy when I flipped through his book at the Rockmount headquarters in Denver’s historic LODO (lower downtown) district – where gold was first discovered, industrial warehouses later sprung up, and more recently, trendy stores, clubs and restaurants have proliferated – and landed on a page where he was bashing Sam Walton, Wal-Mart's founder. “Sam Walton was nothing but a hillbilly."

Weil’s disdain may in part be personal – they were acquainted – but also professional. Rockmount refuses to sell to chains or discounters like Wal-Mart, and in fact, Weil felt those very outlets were responsible for ending clothing manufacturing in America. He may be right given that Rockmount’s historic five-story building (built 1908) in LODO is the only clothing manufacturer remaining in the area.

Rockmount’s finely tailored shirts, skirts, ties, scarves and more are still made mostly in the US. Accordingly, they’re not cheap – around $70-$90 a shirt. But as Kevin says, they’ll last forever. You can find more modern “relaxed wear” Western styles, and you can also find vintage fitted designs from the 40s, 50s and other eras, including "high wattage" shirts with hand chenille embroidery, fringes and rhinestones. The original bling. Recognize these two?

A trailblazer as well as a holdout, Rockmount introduced the sawtooth pocket and was the first to add snaps to Western shirts, now a common practice and part of the rockabilly aesthetic. The reasons were quite simple. Buttons come off, cowboys don’t like to sew, and it’s easier to wiggle out of a shirt with snaps if you get caught or snagged out on the range.

And that’s the Western state of mind, folks.

Why I Didn't Order The Vitamin Soup - And Stuck with Copywriting

2010-08-05T14:53:00.000-06:00

I’m a freelance writer, and I telecommute from wherever I am at the time of the assignment. That’s what's allowed me to travel for longer periods of time, and consequently, that’s what enables me to write this little blog about the places I fall for.

When I say I’m a freelancer writer, most people ask, “What publications do you write for?” Then I have to explain that I’m not a freelance journalist, but a freelance copywriter. That I write websites, newsletters, emails, ads, brochures and “marketing stuff.”

At this point, their expression usually turns to one of disorientation or disappointment. But it's okay - I don’t take it personally. I understand that journalism has more romance than copywriting. It’s just that I like being paid on an hourly basis rather than per word.

Five years into my freelance adventure, I’m still okay with why I took the direction I did. I’m still self-employed, after all. I’m still getting to travel. And I even managed to buy a house…with another freelancer. (Different industry, same glorious uncertainty/flexibility.)

And if you’d like to know even more about why I didn’t pursue travel journalism after flirting with it, I’ll directly you to this painfully amusing excerpt from a former freelance journalist (now a staff newspaper writer). Sure kills the romance, doesn’t it?

Excerpt from “Seven Years As A Freelance Writer, Or How to Make Vitamin Soup" by Richard Morgan:

Freelancing is pitching two ideas to a new editor at the Times, after having written for the publication for five years, and being told (quoting exactly here): “I think you’d have better luck pitching your stories elsewhere.”

Freelancing means walking from the West Village to the Upper East Side and back because you don’t have enough money for the subway. Freelancing means being so poor and so hungry for so long that you “eat” a bowl of soup that’s just hot water, crushed-up multivitamins and half your spice rack (mostly garlic salt).

Freelancing is being woken up on a Monday at 8 a.m. by an editor who gives you the following assignment: “Put together everything interesting about all the city’s airports by Friday,” doing it, and then not getting credit when it runs… as an infographic.

Freelancing is having your mother send you a book called $ix-Figure Freelancing which lists as helpful resources, on page 198, the dictionary, thesaurus, and sree.net.

Freelancing means your editor will reject your pitch and then, seven month later, run the story you pitched—with the same language as your pitch—and then have it submitted for a National Magazine Award.

Freelancing is having an editor tell you that he really loves the story you’ve filed and wouldn’t change anything, and in fact suggests you expand upon the characters a bit—and also cut the story in half. Because, in an editor’s world, it’s possible to expand upon characters and not change the structure while you also cut the story in half.

Freelancing means having to chase down checks every time, even when that means waiting two years for $1000. It means having stories killed and being told that the editor-in-chief gave no reason, but that the same editor would love to work with you some more.

Following the Old Santa Fe Trail to Colorado

2010-08-02T19:05:00.000-06:00

From Santa Fe, it’s an easy six-hour drive to Denver on I-25N. Back in the 1800s, however, this route – which parallels the historic Santa Fe Trail most of the way – was pretty grueling, thanks in part to the treacherous mountain crossing at the Colorado border. Today the most dangerous aspects may be avoiding hitting an elk or veering into another lane while admiring in the vast scenery.

Following this storied trail – which turned Santa Fe from an isolated outpost into a commercial center – gives you a lot of time to contemplate, given the countless acres of wide open grazing land you’ll pass, as well as several glimpses into history. A stop in Las Vegas (yes, that would be Las Vegas, New Mexico….not Las Vegas, Nevada), an hour north of Santa Fe, is one of the largest eyefuls. With its leafy colonial plaza and creaky storefronts, the entire downtown is like a living Western movie set. (Over 900 structures are on the National Register of Historic Places.) No wonder numerous films, including No Country for Old Men, have been shot here.

Founded in 1835 with a land grant from the Spanish government, Las Vegas was the last Spanish settlement established in the US – and soon became the prosperous epicenter of the Southwest, thanks to its location along the Santa Fe Trail, and later, the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railway. It had four opera houses and electric railcars. But it also had an infamous underbelly. Doc Holliday practiced dentistry and owned a saloon here – until he had to leave town after shooting a local. Wyatt Earp, Billy the Kid, Jesse James and every other outlaw passed through too, giving Las Vegas a reputation of harboring murderers, con men and bandits.

Storefronts like Tome on the Range and “OK Café” on Old Town's Bridge Street remind you of this colorful history. And of course, there’s the Plaza Hotel (built 1882), which is the epitome of the grand frontier hotels and the place where Teddy Roosevelt and his Rough Riders held their first reunion in 1899. Still operating today, it is home to the Landmark Grill as well as Byron T’s Saloon. Many of the nearby buildings still need restoration, though, and hopefully someday someone will pump a few million into bringing them back to life.

Two hours north, Trinidad, Colorado, offers another turn-of-the-century flashback. Now known as the sex-change capital of the US (the phrase “taking a trip to Trinidad” has become code for such a procedure), this mining town was the place that weary wagon-bound travelers would pull into for supplies after making it through the Raton Pass at the Colorado border. It’s another Santa Fe Trail boomtown gone bust – and yet with hints of a comeback.

A prime example is Danielson Dry Goods, a sophisticated café-meets-gift store housed in the restored Five ‘N Dime store on Main Street. The owners wanted to help transform the depressed downtown area – and clearly, they’re leading the way. On the left side of the building, you can order the signature Corazon Chicken Salad and a sparkling soda and sit in a booth lit by a chandelier. On the right side, you can browse picture frames and greeting cards decorated with quotes (manufactured by the owners’ design company, now the largest employer in southern Colorado) as well as soaps, perfumes and more.

After stopping for breakfast or lunch here, you too may get inspired by seeing how the past can be preserved for the future. These two Old Santa Fe Trail towns are not yet widely recognized tourist destinations, but they have all the history required – and just need a little more revitalization. I know it’s possible after seeing my own hometown’s shuttered downtown turned around in two decades.

Find Your Slice of the (Clam) Pie in Cape Cod

2010-07-06T17:39:00.000-06:00

Every year, my friend Laura and I take a weekend trip to a place we’ve never been. Last year, it was the capital of cool: Austin, Texas. This year it was the capital of summer: Cape Cod, Massachusetts.

You could say our theme is simply a “girl’s getaway.” But more accurately, it could be called a “girls’ gastronomic fling.” From start to finish, our itinerary is dictated by where and what we will be eating. And as a requirement, we do not consider the impact on our waistlines. That’s life back home – and this is a fling, after all!

Given that we’re both known for having a raging sweet tooth, our first stop was naturally Four Seas Ice Cream, known for its homemade Peppermint Stick ice cream. If you can think of something that tastes more like summer than this winsome pink scoop, I’d like to hear it. But trust me – you won’t. It was the most refreshing thing ever.

Unfortunately, it only made us hungrier, though. After dipping our toes into the surprisingly warm waters of the Nantucket Sound, we made our way around Lewis Bay to The Raw Bar (not the famed original location in Mashpee, but the Hyannis “Hyline Location,” referring to where you catch the high-speed ferry to Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard). Our mission: to consume what I’d read was “the best lob-stah roll on the Cape.”

Now, everyone has an opinion on that, but the lobster roll here is known for two things: a ridiculous amount of fresh lobster meat and a hefty price ($25). I can confirm both. But as I’d come to find out, it’s also known for its “purist’s” presentation: the only ingredient beyond lobster and the roll? Mayo. That’s it.

If you love the taste of lobster unadorned, this could be your dream meal. For me, though, it was incredibly bland. I mean, would a few fresh herbs mixed in with the mayo hurt? Or what about a little butter on the roll? (You see buttered rolls in other places, but “not on Cape Cod,” a local told me, indignant at the very suggestion.) I tried to feel nonchalant about disliking a signature item – but I was now a little desperate to try another.

Despite the rough start, it wasn’t long before I’d happily devoured some of the other favorite eats and drinks on the Cape. In touristy, gay-friendly Provincetown (aka “P-town”), prior to an unexpectedly hardcore bike ride through sand dunes, humid forests and cranberry bogs, we wolfed down all manner of lobster delights at the famous Lobster Pot at the wharf. Lobster bisque. Lobster ravioli. Lobster salad. All very tasty.

In Chatham, a charming, walkable village on the Lower Cape that was our misty home base for the weekend, the non-stop tour of Cape specialties included the stuffed quahog (a yummy clam appetizer baked with cheese on the shell) at The Red Nun (named after a type of channel marker, not a pious woman), the crab cakes, calamari and clam chowder at the boisterous Chatham Squire, a local institution that’s one of the few places to stay open late, and a cold pint of Cape Cod Red Ale and Wachusett Blueberry Ale, micro-brewed locally and in Western Mass, respectively.

The piece de resistance, however, was the Clam Pie at the unbearably cute Marion's Pie Shop. This may not sound appetizing to you. It didn’t to me, either. But after ingesting way too much saltwater taffy (in flavors ranging from Beach Plum to Cranberry) from the Chatham Candy Manor, I wanted something that wasn’t sweet.

Trying to look past the beguiling pastries and fruit pies, I asked Marion what pie put her on the map. “Clam pie,” she said. No hesitation. Huh. I bought one, figuring I’d bring it back on the plane for my seafood-loving partner, Kevin. And I got an Orange Citrus Roll, the largest I’d ever seen, to split with Laura. (Some things, especially a sweet tooth, never change.)

Little did I know how good it would smell heating up that little six-inch Clam Pie in the oven – or how the thick, buttery crust would be among the best I’d ever tasted. As for the insides? Perfectly seasoned, nicely textured (no chewiness to the clams) and not a whiff of fishiness. For someone who only came to appreciate seafood in her late twenties thanks to an early hang-up about “fishiness,” I was beginning to truly believe Kevin when he said fishiness only happens when fish isn’t fresh. I tried more seafood dishes in a 48-period in Cape Cod than probably ever in my life, and not one of them was “fishy.”

As if I need anything else to make the place seem dreamier. As a parting image, check out the little outdoor seating area in the back of our B&B when we arrived. The couple had two champagne flutes in hand, as if ready for their photo shoot. Life is just too good here.

Sane or Insane?

2010-05-25T16:24:00.000-06:00

Back in the fall, I put up an anonymous poll asking: “What do you think of Amy moving to New Mexico?” The verdict was 66% of you found my relocation “insane.” It was a bit shocking that so many of you think I’m completely cuckoo, but hey, I asked.

Now that I’ve had time to look back at this life-changing decision, I thought I’d do my own analysis of the “saneness” of a geographic 180. I’m going to try to be as objective as possible (if it is possible). I’ll also try to answer those of you who’ve asked if I’ve had any “buyer’s remorse” or shall we say “mover’s remorse.” So here goes…

Arguably insane factors:
•Moving to a place where you know no one and have no family
•Going from a city of 11 million people to a hamlet of under 2,000
•Relocating to a different state that you’ve only visited four times
•Buying a house in this new place without living there first
•Choosing a town smaller than your hometown (which felt small)
•Leaving the world's best temperate climate for true winters

Arguably sane factors:
•Doubling our living space without paying more per month
•Fulfilling the dream of home ownership where buying makes sense*
•Invigorating our personal growth with a conscious lifestyle change
•Moving to a lower cost-of-living area where we can save more money
•Following our gut instincts about what places inspire and soothe us
•Taking maximum advantage of the benefits of our flexible careers

So what I see here is that this move was equal parts sane and insane. It’s a matter of perspective. Is it insane to want to both get more and save more? Is it insane to want the opposite of what you have? Is it insane to think you can make friends anywhere…at any age? Is it insane to crave space and tranquility after once dismissing it? Is it insane to want to buy a home but not stretch financially? Is it insane to seek to change yourself? Is it insane to just leap?

It may be. And it certainly would be – at different points in time. But for me, at this age and stage, it’s also the fullest realization of being a telecommuting freelancer. I’ve traded job security for the risks and uncertainties and financial fluctuations of “going it on my own.” But I’ve also bought myself the ability to live how and where I please…and now I’m finally capitalizing on that. It’s a way of paying myself back in intangibles that makes the equation fully add up.

As for mover’s remorse, we were frustrated at being snowed in this winter…three separate times. I had “a moment” during the last major snowstorm. But that’s about it. Because I already feel at home. I’ve already made some new friends. I’ve already felt a change in myself. I’ve already gotten used to the quiet. (A car alarm in Santa Fe this weekend was like a traumatic flashback.) And I’ve already fallen in love with the simple life again – in a way I probably never could have if I hadn’t lived and breathed the excitement of the big city.

Freedom means many different things, but to me, this is it. “You are free to move about the country,” as the Southwest Airlines slogan goes. It may sound insane (and it is, partially) to pick up and move somewhere you barely know, but I’ve never felt saner.

*See the New York Times' very helpful "Buy Versus Rent Calculator" to determine where it's smart to buy...and where it's better to rent. Based on our previous rent and current mortgage, as well as assumptions of a 3% annual rent increase and a 1% annual home value appreciation, we will save $29,697 over six years by owning here, with an average savings of $4,950/year.

Kidding Around in the East Mountains

2010-05-18T20:49:00.000-06:00

Last month I got to experience “kidding season” for the first time here in New Mexico. This was not a month-long April Fool’s Joke, as it turns out, but the time of year when baby goats or “kids” are born and bottle-fed on goat dairy farms.

For reasons I have yet to uncover, the East Mountains area of Albuquerque is rife with goat dairy farms. This has turned out to be a serious perk of living here given that my partner Kevin is lactose intolerant and may well be the top consumer of all goat dairy products, including goat cheese, goat milk, goat yogurt and goat butter. We used to only be able to get these products at Whole Foods. Now we can now get them right down the road. Who said country living wasn’t convenient?

Our first tip-off was finding a surprising number of local goat cheese brands at Whole Foods and the wonderful Montanita Food Co-Op. After trying Old Windmill Dairy’s amazing Holy Chipotle Chevre, I went to their website (beyond my taste buds, they’d captured my interest with their cute tagline: “The Little Dairy on the Prairie”) and discovered they offered cheese making classes. I had barely uttered the words before Kevin agreed that we should sign up.

The following Sunday we drove down many, many dirt roads until we found our way to the Old Windmill Dairy a bit late. Fortunately, we were still in time to sample all of their chevre flavors – my second favorite soon became The Great Caper – and learn how to make goat mozzarella cheese. Bottom line: it’s not easy! They were still working out their exact recipe in fact before going into production.

Beyond yummy snacks, I also got a real appreciation for all the science involved – not to mention the pitfalls. Exact temperatures. Sterilized equipment. Very clean goat utters. There are a lot of things necessary to make safe, bacteria-free cheeses that taste great – and not “goaty.” One of them is making sure the male goats stay very far away from the females. Why, you ask? Because as Ed, one of the owners, explained, they stink (it’s their natural musk for mating) and like to pee on females.

After the class, we got to go see the baby goats, some only a few days old. My favorite moment was watching this bleating herd of kids chase the farm hand – their long ears flapping comically. (See the picture below.) But this was soon eclipsed by getting to bottle feed a baby goat ourselves two weeks later. Ed informed us that we actually lived on the same road in Edgewood as another goat dairy farm – South Mountain Dairy. We couldn’t believe our luck! And, as it turned out, they hold bottle-feeding open houses every Sunday in April.

So of course, we had to go to that too. Fortunately, the timing was perfect as we had friends visiting that weekend with their toddler, who loved playing with all the goats. We bottle-fed a fidgety kid, we walked around the high-tech goat housing (the owners of South Mountain Dairy both retired from Sandia Laboratories) and we eagerly bought all the products they had on hand, including drinkable raspberry yogurt, apricot chevre and lemon chipotle marinated feta. All fantastic. All different than Old Windmill Dairy’s product line (which you can buy in CSA fashion). Score.

So between these two dairies and an organic CSA farm called Frost Hill Organics that’s started up five minutes away, we should be able to buy a lot of what we eat from people we actually know. And, after watching Food Inc. (the Oscar-nominated documentary about the industrial food system), I’m pretty happy about that.

Riding Ten Thousand Waves in Santa Fe

2010-05-09T16:51:00.000-06:00

I've learned that when you’re having a hard time relaxing, it never hurts to follow the Japanese example. No, I’m not talking about getting a karaoke room - although I know several people who would swear by that. I’m talking about soaking in some hot springs in the mountains (what they call onsens) until your skin turns pink, your mind clears and your entire body begs for a nap.

For my birthday this year, Kevin and I checked into a Japanese-style spa resort called Ten Thousand Waves in the mountains above Santa Fe. We had spent the two weeks prior clearing out the contents of his mother’s home. Upon returning to New Mexico, we were wiped. Recharging was clearly in order, but we needed something to help us snap us out of the “what has to be done next?” mentality.

Fortunately, Ten Thousand Waves had just what we needed. “The Natural” spa package promised “total transformation in just three hours.” Sold! Dressed in our robes, bright orange kimonos and spa sandals, we followed the stone path and climbed several steep sets of stairs from our suite to check in at the spa. After catching our breath and sipping some cucumber water (lest you think we’re pansies, I should mention the entire resort is 20 acres), we then ascended several more levels to our private outdoor hot tub.

Fenced just high enough for privacy – and just low enough to let you take in the scenery - our tub looked like a steaming cauldron in the cold mountain air. Snow covered the ground beyond the fence, and when the wind rustled the ponderosa pines, small flakes fluttered into the hot water for a kamikaze death. Disrobing was not something to take your time with. It was winter, and we were at an elevation of 7,800 feet. So we jumped in quickly and exhaled deeply. Before we knew it, our 50 minutes were up, and the attendant was at the gate beckoning us to the next treatment.

With noodles for legs, we shuffled indoors to a couples massage room for the “yasuragi” head and neck treatment. The name “yasuragi” means “comfort” in Japanese, and for me, this was truly the best part of the package. With warm camellia oil slowly dripping down my scalp, I was more than comforted. I was practically asleep. They say most people hold tension in their head and neck, and I’m definitely one of them. After the “yasuragi” was over, my scalp pulsated with a happy lightness, and I welcomed the mental blankness.

Next came the full body massages followed by a salt glow. Personally, I could have done with continuing the “yasuragi” and forfeiting all the rest. While most of the massage felt wonderful, parts of the salt glow had me alert with anxiety. On the thinner skin of my calves especially, I felt like I was being assaulted with sandpaper. Later, in the sauna, I asked Kevin if he found the salt glow as painful as I had, and he hadn’t. So go figure. Apparently I have sensitive calves.

It wasn’t enough to keep me from slipping into a near-narcotic stupor, though. We made dinner in the suite’s small but functional kitchen, lit a fire in the fireplace (with Buddha sitting above), passed out at 8 p.m. and slept for ten delicious hours.

When we woke, for the first time in many days, there was nothing we needed to do, other than make a pot of coffee and try out the complimentary organic granola in the fridge. That, and have a long discussion about our Warmlet, the suite’s Japanese-style heated toilet. I found it a bit startling. Was it turned up too high? Or was it just the cold temps that made it seem overly toasty? More importantly, what IS the optimal temperature for one’s behind?

After this ridiculous dialogue (although perhaps not so ridiculous given the warnings posted on the Warmlet above, including a note that the young and elderly should be supervised), we needed no further proof that our adrenaline rush was over. We were finally relaxed. Perhaps a little too relaxed. But let’s face it, sometimes mindlessness is bliss.

Relocated, Refocused, Rebooted

2010-04-30T14:26:00.000-06:00

I’m baaaaaaaaaaaaaack. And I can hardly believe it’s been five months. Or maybe I can.

Between closing on our new house, packing up our lives, making decisions on every item we owned (keep, donate or throw away?), driving a 26’ Penske truck to New Mexico, unpacking endless boxes, shutting off and starting up a million utilities, furnishing the new place, figuring out what light switch worked what light and why the garage opener didn’t work, changing our address with everyone and everything, and dealing with all the other bureaucratic rigmarole, the process of getting our new life started has been all-consuming.

Add to that the unexpected hospitalization and – a month later – passing of my partner Kevin's mother in December, and you can see why all elective activities had to be shelved. As the executor of her estate, Kevin needed my help with the overwhelming legal, financial and emotional responsibilities he now shouldered, and I needed to be there for him. Beyond taking care of his well-being and many of his mother’s affairs, traveling to and from Charleston, South Carolina (where his mother resided), and keeping the pieces together with our new home, there was no extra bandwidth available for anything else.

Until now. Last week, I was driving east on Interstate 40 from Albuquerque to my newly adopted hamlet of Edgewood, and I saw the largest rainbow I’d ever seen. It started at ground level (which in Albuquerque is at an elevation of 5,000 feet) and jutted up over the 10,000-foot-tall Sandia Mountains to the east. Doing the math, I realized this rainbow was 5,000-feet tall!

I kept gawking and uttering sounds of idiotic amazement until...I saw another rainbow. Just as big. On the other side of the road. Unwilling to let the moment pass, I fumbled for my camera and found myself swerving into the next lane. Which was occupied by an 18-wheeler. Crap! I thought, is this photo worth risking my life for? Yes, I heard my subconscious respond. I need to put it on the blog!*

It was at this very moment when I knew that A) I had become truly enchanted with New Mexico, just as the motto on the license plate promised and B) that my bandwidth was opening up again. I hadn’t thought about the blog in months, and suddenly, I NEEDED to post on it. It was a moment of pure joy to find the urge returned – and one of many that I plan to post about. More regularly, of course. Because I sense that an insatiable discovery process is about to kick off within myself, and I hope you’ll come along for the ride. It’s time to see, do, find and experience a blitzkrieg of new things. The rough stuff is behind us, and the honeymoon phase of living in a new place is here.

So, thanks for understanding about my absence, and stay tuned as I reboot this blog from the cactus-dotted countryside. I’ll be sharing my deepening courtship with New Mexico, and yes, I’ll be hitting the road again soon too. Coming up: Denver and Cape Cod. Pull up your armchairs, travelers, and let’s wander.

*Sadly, my photo did not come out. The wipers got in the way. So much for my death-defying bravery.

Top Five Things I Will Miss About Los Angeles

2009-10-29T20:07:00.001-06:00

1. My friends, hands down. (You all mean the world to me, and I WILL keep in touch. Fortunately, you'll be just one hour time difference and a short flight away.)

2. The weather. It IS the perfect climate. No matter where you go, it's downhill weather-wise from here. I have tried to prepare myself for this.

3. The beach. There's nothing as relaxing as an afternoon reading, snacking and dozing at the beach. Once I got an umbrella (ahem, fair skin), I was sold.

4. The walkability. From my apartment, I could walk to get coffee, a fresh croissant, gelato, Thai food, prescriptions, dry cleaning, a pedicure and a haircut.

5. The food. So many ethnic cuisines. So many great restaurants. So much money spent at them. (Okay, I won't miss the last part).

Oh The Places You'll Buy

2009-10-29T15:56:00.000-06:00

I apologize for neglecting my blog over the last two months. It's been an unacceptably long gap. But I DO have a good excuse. My boyfriend and I were on a fervent house-hunting mission that involved two back-to-back trips to New Mexico, one rejected offer, endless mortgage paperwork and last but not least buying our dream home in Edgewood, New Mexico! (It's quite a good thing our "first love" house didn't work out, huh? Thank you, divine intervention.)

Yes, the big news is that I am leaving Los Angeles, my beau of the last nine years, and committing to a rural area 30 minutes east of Albuquerque and an hour south of Santa Fe. If you've got a bit of whiplash, you're not alone. It happened fast. At the same time, it's the culmination of things that have been building for a long while. They include: my long-standing crush on Santa Fe, my growing love affair with small towns, a ticking real estate clock, the high cost of living in Los Angeles, the "turnoffs" of an urban mate and, of course, the quest behind this very blog ("Where should I take my lance?"/"What kind of place is right for ME?").

Then there were all the omens, as Paulo Coelho would call them. Colleagues kept telling my boyfriend he should really consider relocating to New Mexico due to the booming film production. My results from Find Your Spot skewed heavily towards New Mexico. U.S. News & World Report named Albuquerque the Best Place to Live for 2009. HGTV announced their 2010 Dream House is in none other than the East Mountains of Albuquerque. Friends gave us the first season of "Breaking Bad," which is set in Albuquerque. It was uncanny.

So, we did it! We followed the signs and let the momentum take over. The funny thing is that all the feelings surrounding relocation - excitement, jitters, fear, optimism, possibility, reinvention - are awfully similar to what you experience with a new romance. In both cases, you are taking the plunge based on some information, yes, but mostly gut instincts and first impressions. It's the kind of decision that makes you feel hyper-alive.

Just as in the early stages of a relationship, I will have to get to know this alluring place that has drawn me in but still has many secrets. Stay tuned for the the good, the bad, the weird and the wonderful about Edgewood (population 1,800), Albuquerque (population 800,000), Santa Fe (population 75,000) and New Mexico (1.9 million).

There are other unknowns, too. What does it mean for a girl with wanderlust to commit to a place? (Let's face it, buying a home is a big geographic commitment.) How will this flip-flop-wearing urbanite fare in the country, where her new neighbors raise goats? Or in a high-altitude, high-desert area, where six inches of snow fell yesterday? And what about dating other places - can I be platonic when I travel, now that I've found a match? These are just a few of the things I will be addressing in the coming months.

All I know is that it's about to get interesting, folks.

Somewhere in Time on Mackinac Island, Michigan

2009-08-26T21:47:00.000-06:00

I saw the 1981 film “Somewhere in Time,” starring Christopher Reeves and Jane Seymour, as an impressionable pre-teen. And I admit it. I cried at the end. (Go ahead and judge me, you cynics.)

Ridiculed by some as a cheesy romance with a preposterous plot – the NY Times called it “the big-budget film with the highest giggle content” – and yet beloved by others as the ultimate time-traveling love story, “Somewhere in Time” does have a few things that are unassailable. There’s the beautiful Oscar-nominated score by John Barry, the fantastic costumes, and the thing that left the strongest impression on me: the magical setting of the Grand Hotel (opened 1887), which somehow lent credibility to the movie’s premise.

With the world’s longest porch, and a majestic position high over the water, the Grand Hotel is the world’s largest summer resort, and one of the best preserved from the 19th century heyday of refined repose. In the film, it seemed like a fantasy confection, too gargantuan and too luxurious to possibly be real. But it is real, and it’s still in operation today on historic Mackinac Island, an island off the coast of Northern Michigan in Lake Huron. Even the gilded, aristocratic feel remains, as the “Proper Attire” requirements below demonstrate.

You can’t miss the Grand Hotel as you approach the island by ferry. It’s big and long and white, and the closer you get, the bigger it gets. But by the time you’re in the harbor, there’s even more to gawk at, thanks to the charming Victorian homes dotting the hillside. Helping to preserve the feeling of a past era, the first thing you notice after exiting the boat is a very interesting sound: the complete absence of car engines. That’s because the only methods of transportation allowed on the island are your own two feet, horses and bicycles.

It’s hard to convey what a difference this makes. You really do feel “somewhere in time.” Or occasionally “multiple places in time,” such as when your cell phone rings just as a horse-drawn carriage passes. There’s also some timeless humor, too, such as watching the hotel bellboys struggling to cart luggage on bikes as well as the “poop scoopers" sweeping away the horse manure as soon as it hits. Yes, this really is someone’s job. (See the photo below for proof.)

After taking in the neck-straining Grand Hotel up close (as well as an equally grand burger at the hotel’s Jockey Club), we began to wander the back roads of the island, which are really more like lanes or paths than roads. It wasn’t long before we were beckoned into what literally seemed like an enchanted forest. The trees were evenly spaced. The yellow wildflowers made a lovely blooming carpet. The sun cast beams of light in selectively beautiful spots.

I couldn’t even roll my eyes when our little lane turned into “Cupid’s Pathway.” It really was the spot to fall in love. Carefree and semi-lost, we passed a beautiful old cemetery and eventually climbed some stairs to an old fort at the highest point in the island.

After our walk in the woods, we made out way back to the tourist congestion in town. Admittedly, it was a Sunday in July, which is the peak of the island's "season" (May-October). Canadians. Americans. Foreigners. You name it, they were all here, and like us, they seemed to be trying to decide on the best place for fudge. Why fudge? All I can tell you is that for over a century, Mackinac Island has been known for its legendary fudge. The trend apparently started when an island resident got tired of the maple candy exported from Canada and decided to make his own treat.

Finding a fudge shop is not hard. There are at least six main fudge franchises (including Murdick’s, Ryba’s and May’s), and each has several storefronts. So no matter where you are in town, you’re likely less than two doors from a fudge purveyor. It’s choosing the fudge shop that’s so hard. They all have different recipes and flavors. Some are more traditional in their offerings – chocolate, vanilla, peanut butter, etc. Others have gotten pretty creative, offering flavors like Traverse City Black Cherry and Amaretto Chocolate Chip. Yet like a cartel as tight as OPEC, they all charge the same price – around $7/slice, or three for $16.95.

After several taste tests as well as observing the fudge-making process (it’s made daily in the stores on big marble tables), we settled on Joann’s Fudge. The main reason was that there were dark chocolate options offered among the 30 flavors. Most of the other shops only had milk chocolate fudge, which was much sweeter. We ordered the divine Double Dark Cherry Pecan for ourselves as well as several gift “slabs” to take home. We felt complete as fudge-eating trolls now.

With the pressure off, we headed to Mary’s Bistro for a drink on the waterfront deck before catching the ferry back. Above is a parting shot of the view of the Mackinac Bridge (connecting the Lower Peninsula and Upper Peninsula of Michigan) from the ferry.

A River Runs Through It in Grayling, Michigan

2009-07-20T17:59:00.000-06:00

When I first “mapquested” Grayling, Michigan, I saw that it was three hours north of Detroit and dead in the middle of Northern Michigan. (Yes, the U.P. is farther north, but people call this area Northern Michigan. Yet another slight!) My initial thought about the town we’d be staying in can be summarized as: “Looks like the boonies.”

As it turns out, historic Grayling (population 1,952) has been “on the map” as a top fishing destination for well over a century. For that, it can thank the famed Au Sable River, which flows right through the middle of town and ends at Lake Huron. Back in the late 1870s, this lovely river began drawing trains full of fishermen looking to hook the town’s namesake species, the Grayling.

According to the Old AuSable Fly Shop, the fishing was ridiculously abundant at the time – upwards of 100 Grayling per person could be caught per day, with yields of three to four fish per cast. But that was soon to be all over, though. The logging industry began using the Au Sable River for transportation (inventing the flat-bottom “Au Sable Boat” to navigate such a shallow river), and in doing so, built dams, stripped the banks, cleared/leveled the river and essentially destroyed the Grayling’s habitat and spawning beds.

Not surprisingly, the Grayling are gone. 100% wiped out. Wealthy individuals (including Henry Ford, Thomas Edison and others in 1914) as well as the state tried to reintroduce them, but to no avail. It’s a damn sad story. But Grayling, the little town, held on. So did the fly fisherman, who now rent riverside cabins (much like the one we’re staying in, pictured below), put on fancy waders and set their sights on brook, brown and rainbow trout. (The Au Sable is designated a "blue ribbon" fishery for brown trout.)

But that’s not all this lush, beautiful area has to offer. In addition to being a fishing mecca, the Au Sable River attracts kayakers and competitive canoe paddlers. Yes, unbeknownst to me (and I suspect many of you), there is a sport involving racing in canoes, and it’s a big deal in these parts. Every July since 1947, the Au Sable River Canoe Marathon, one of three events making up canoeing’s Triple Crown and the longest such race in North America (120 miles), has started right here in Grayling.

I say starts here because it doesn’t end until roughly 14-15 hours later (and that’s for the first-place finishers, mind you.) It begins at 9 p.m. and goes all night, non-stop, until the next afternoon. The approximately 180 paddlers (in teams of two) must first sprint down the main street on foot, carrying their canoes over their heads, before jumping into the river in the center of town. Locals have told me it’s “pure chaos.”

From there, it’s about skill, speed (50-80 strokes per minute!), endurance...and good help. Paddlers have crews, much like race car drivers. But in this case, they’re known as “feeders” or “bank runners.” These dedicated folks position themselves at various points on the river and hand off food and water to their paddlers every two hours. That means a lot of standing in the dark in cold water.

(Photo credit The Bay City Times)

Making things even nuttier is the fact that spectators, too, stay up all night, driving and parking along the river and watching paddlers go by at various locations. The event guide recommends that the “the fully equipped spectator” have, among other things, a full tank of gas, toilet paper, an alarm clock, rain gear, a first aid kit, a battery-powered radio and a flashlight. Now you can see why the race has come to be known as “The World’s Toughest Spectator Race.”

Tragically, I fly out hours before the 2009 canoe marathon begins. So I’ll have to have my boyfriend report further. But consider yourself previewed – and myself enamored by yet another small town that’s way more interesting than I anticipated.

How to Speak Michiganese

2009-07-16T08:22:00.000-06:00

We’ve been having a lot of fun trying to master the accent here in Northern Michigan, which primarily involves elongating your “o’s” by pulling in the sides of your mouth. For example, you say, “Oooooooh yeah.” Or “Minnesooooota.” But beyond the accent, there’s also a colorful regional vernacular, which I will now share with you.

The U.P. – Pronounced “the U-P.” This is the Michagenese abbreviation for the Upper Peninsula, the horizontal finger that is north of Lake Michigan and south of Lake Superior. Check out this state map if you don’t follow.

Yoopers – These are people who live in the U.P., which is pretty much an entirely different world. Case in point: the Yooper language was named the official state dialect by the Michigan legislature in 2003.

Trolls – What Yoopers call people who live “below the bridge,” or in other words, south of the famed Mackinac Bridge, which connects the Upper Peninsula and Lower Peninsula. Thus, folks in Grayling, where I am, or Detroit, three hours south, are all trolls.

Fudgies – This is Michiganese for “tourists,” particularly those who visit the popular Mackinac Island area. Apparently there are an inordinate amount of old-fashioned fudge shops on the island. I’ll find out how many when I head there this Sunday, so stay tuned!

Oh, and one more thing. Mackinac is not pronounced "Mak-in-nac," as it would seem. It's pronounced "Mak-in-NAW." Say it wrong, and you'll out yourself as a serious first-time fudgie.

From Polka to Perched Dunes in Cedar, Michigan

2009-07-13T15:02:00.000-06:00

Cedar, Michigan, is the “Sausage Capital of the World." Yet it’s so small it doesn’t even warrant its own Wikipedia entry. (Rather, it shares one with the two other towns that make up Solon Township, a rural enclave 20 minutes west of Traverse City.)

How I came to know this was pure serendipity. We were driving to Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore, which spans 35 miles of Lake Michigan coastline, when we saw a banner stretched across the road that said “Annual Polka Festival – July 2-5th.” As it was the 5th, there was only one thing to do. “Pull over!” I yelled. Soon, we were handing over $5 to enter a big tent in the middle of town.

What we found was this: a live polka band (called “PMS”), old folks dancing, lots of red and white outfits (the colors of Poland, where many area families hail from), long tables dotted with pitchers of beer, a “Polish Pride” souvenir booth, and, of course, sausages galore.

You see, Cedar is home to the famed Pleva’s Meats, known for premium sausages as well as the “Plevalean” burger. What makes it special is the addition of a little something extra. It’s – wait for it – cherries. Of course. Founder Ray Pleva got the idea from his daughter Cindy, the 1987 National Cherry Queen, who wanted to help the struggling cherry industry.

Today Pleva’s supplies “cherry burgers” for school lunches in 17 different states (!) and sells over 40 “cherry-enhanced” products, including the popular Cherry Pecan Sausage. I’ll admit, however, that I didn’t care for the latter. I tried a sample, and it was a bit too nutty/gamey for me.

Still in a Polka-induced daze, we piled back into the car and soon crossed into Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore. It wasn’t until then that I realized I didn’t know where in the park we were going. After some scenic detouring (aka getting lost with no help from the GPS), fate again took over. “What’s that huge thing over there?” we asked simultaneously.

Amidst a sylvan backdrop, there appeared to be the largest, steepest sand dune ever. Just sitting there. As if it belonged. Mouths open, we turned into the “Dune Climb” parking lot, bought a $10 park pass and took our shoes off. Craning our necks to see the top, we took off, racing and sprinting like giddy children. It’s amazing what the unexpected sight of a gigantic sand dune can do to a person.

About three quarters of the way up, though, reality (aka near cardiac arrest) set in. Fortunately, this gave us the chance to look back for a stunning view of Glen Lake below. Like many lakes here, it’s a light, almost Caribbean blue color. Finally, after our breathing returned to semi-normal, we made it to the crest, where if you stand on top of the right mound, you can glimpse Lake Michigan, 3.5 miles away.

So how did this towering 110-foot sand dune (one of many in the area, some as tall as 400 feet) get here? The maddening question soon had me nose-deep in the National Park Service brochure. But alas, the answer is not simple. Let’s just it involves the Ice Age, glaciers, receding waters, sediment, “perched dunes” (like this one) versus “beach dunes,” strong westerly winds, dune migration, “ghost forests” and more.

In other words, I still don’t get it. But even that can’t take away the awe of stumbling across two very different wonders in one perfect afternoon.

Life Is Just a Bowl of Cherries in Traverse City, Michigan

2009-07-11T14:24:00.000-06:00

Summer in Northern Michigan is all about the cherries.

Case in point: we arrived at Traverse City’s Cherry Capital Airport on July 4th, the first day of the National Cherry Festival. We’re talking cherry pie eating contests, cherry pit spitting contests, “cherry d’vine” buffets, cherry pie make-and-bakes and more, as well as plenty of good old-fashioned Americana, including air shows, big wheel races, toddler trots and sandcastle contests. A whopping 500,000 people come to the grassy shores of Lake Michigan for this weeklong event, held every summer since 1926.

Why the cherry craze? Turns out 75% of the tart cherries in the US are grown here – a figure I truly believe. Driving the bright green countryside outside of Traverse City (population 142,000), cherry farms are ubiquitous, along with some of the prettiest old barns I’ve ever seen. You also see drive-in theaters named the Cherry Bowl and everything else cherry-themed you can imagine. (It reminds me of how no matter where you go in Atlanta, it’s likely to be named “Peachtree Place” or “Peachtree This-Or-That.”)

Naturally, we had to go to The Cherry Hut, the legendary restaurant that a friend told me was a must-see. Located southwest of Traverse City in the little lakefront town of Beulah, The Cherry Hut is exactly what I pictured – only better. It’s the epitome of unintentional kitsch, with its cherry wallpaper, red-and-white striped waitress uniforms and cherry-shaped menus. And of course, it’s home to the ultimate cherry pie. I kept the meal light – a cherry and walnut salad, which I split with my boyfriend – so that I could gorge on this signature item, which came with a gigantic mound of vanilla ice cream.

Meanwhile, our friend ordered the drowned turkey sandwich, which is the equivalent of Thanksgiving between two slices of bread, while my boyfriend got the cherry brownie sundae, which is the dessert of choice if cherry pie is too sweet for you. This is a complaint I hear from him and others, although as the possessor of the world’s biggest sweet tooth, I have no such gripe. I found the whole thing perfectly balanced thanks to the ice cream, which, by the way, I couldn’t finish. There was still almost a full scoop left after the pie was gone.

But our cherry spree wasn’t over. The next day, we discovered the Cherry Soda at Dawson and Steven’s Classic 50’s Diner (aka The Bottle Cap Museum) in Grayling, an hour east of Traverse City. And no, I don’t mean cherry-flavored soda pop, as they’d say here. This was dessert in a glass, a true fountain soda with cherry syrup, fountain water, ice cream and whipped cream. It was pink and frothy, and it went down awfully quick. So we, ahem, ordered a second.

And since we’ll be staying in Grayling for a few weeks, chances are there’ll be a third - which is why I'm going out to exercise this very minute. Right after I have a peanut butter sandwich with my new favorite, cherry raspberry preserves. (The latter, by the way, is made by Food for Thought, an organic, fair trade company located right here in Honor, Michigan. Order your own!)

Baydreaming in St. Michaels, Maryland

2009-07-07T10:35:00.000-06:00

On the Eastern Shore of Maryland, about two hours from DC, there is a tiny fishing village known as St. Michaels (population ~1,200). Some know it as the place where Wedding Crashers was filmed. Others know it as the place where Washington politicos (including two by the names of Cheney and Rumsfield) own second homes. Natives, however, call it “The Town that Fooled the British.”

Strolling the charming, walkable downtown, it’s easy to see why residents are proud of their history. The well-preserved colonial, Federal and Victorian architecture shows how long the place has been around – since the mid-1600s. But it was in 1813 that the town’s reputation was made. Facing attack by British war ships, the crafty Episcopalian settlers – who grew tobacco, and later wheat – hung lanterns on top of masts and tall trees. As a result, the cannons overshot the town, and only one home was damaged.

Unscathed, St. Michaels went on to become a shipbuilding center, inventing an oyster dredging vessel known as the Skipjack. Chesapeake oysters and blue crabs were caught and sold by generations of watermen. But when the oyster and crab populations dwindled in the 1990s (thanks to two oyster viruses plus fertilizer runoff in the Chesapeake Bay), the town morphed into a weekend tourist destination. Now former oyster fisherman give ecological bay tours, and “boatiques” sell mementos from “the Shore.”

If you can get past the sad fact that local restaurants now have to import crabs frequently, your first meal in St. Michaels should be at the legendary Crab Claw – just as ours was. Overlooking the harbor, it’s THE place to don a bib, crack some claws and watch the ships. We arrived to find my friend’s wedding party and other early guests slurping down mounds of crab and pitchers of beer amidst a rather strong aroma of fishiness. They didn’t seem to mind the smell, but I opted for the tasty crabcake sandwich. I know, I know – heresy.

But it’s not just about the Old Bay Seasoning here. Two days later we found our way to Sugar Buns Bakery (pictured above), where I enjoyed a sweet potato biscuit drizzled with honey. It was rich and dense and more like a meal than a biscuit. Sugar Buns is also known for its cakes, including the St. Michaels/Smith Island Cake, aka the Official State Cake of Maryland. It’s a yellow cake with seven thin layers of chocolate icing. We’d enjoyed a slice the day before while the wedding party took a tour the bay with Captain Ed aboard the restored H.M. Krentz Skipjack.

I managed to not get sunburned (which for me is a real accomplishment), but unfortunately, none of us managed to completely shake off Captain Ed’s long and depressing assessment of the Chesapeake Bay’s health. Let’s just say the largest estuary in the US is in real bad shape – and getting worse. Fortunately, after an open bar rehearsal dinner and further drinks at the Carpenter Street Saloon, we perked up enough to mingle with the locals. For all of St. Michaels' growing affluence and famous residents/visitors (Jenna Bush was spotted in town when we were there), the rollicking dive was a reminder that real people live here too.

By Saturday, though, we had stepped back into the fantasy life. The bridesmaids got ready at the gorgeous “estate home” my friend’s parents had rented, which had a fantastic old barn – converted into a game palace with ping pong, pool, air hockey and more – as well as a swimming pool, a pool house, a rose garden and a big blue sailboat docked in front. Though nowhere near as posh, our own rental house, Swan Harbor, had exceeded expectations too. A rambling white brick waterfront home, it sat on a tree-lined drive with its own private dock. Though I fawn over B&Bs, St. Michaels rental homes are surprisingly affordable and the way to go here if you’re with a group.

Speaking of lodging, St. Michaels is home to over 20 B&Bs, but the Inn at Perry Cabin (an 1812 country manor turned into a hotel in 1990) is the town’s best-known and swankiest option – a massive compound with big white columns and Adirondack chairs dotting the waterfront grounds. It’s old-school luxury with all the modern amenities, including an Aveda spa. See below for a stunning view of the Inn from the water. The wedding reception was held here, and it began with a sunset cocktail hour on the patio. Let’s just say it simply doesn’t get better than that time of day at this kind of location.

Crab Claw place setting photo credit: Ron Lynch.

Rating the Dates

2009-06-14T12:22:00.000-06:00

The pictures have been posted and the thrills described. But how did my back-to-back trysts with Santa Fe, Albuquerque and Austin stack up?

FOOD
Winner: Albuquerque
Reason: This is going to shock people, but the three best gastronomic experiences I had were in New Mexico, and two of those in Albuquerque. First the Golden Crown Panaderia’s Green Chile Bread rocked our worlds. Then I had a divine trout and leek sauce dish at Zinc in Nob Hill. Finally, my delicious Ayurvedic meal at Annapurna in Santa Fe can also be enjoyed at their Albuquerque branch.

BEAUTY
Winner: Santa Fe
Reason: No-brainer here. It’s just gorgeous, like the genetically blessed supermodel who could never be mistaken for anyone else. As if more justification were needed beyond the fact that the Spanish settled here in the 1609 (duh – you pick the best spot first!), it consistently ranks as a top 10 US vacation destination - it was number four in this year's Conde Nast Traveler Readers Choice Awards - and is one of those places whose name alone evokes a dream lifestyle.

FRIENDLINESS
Winner: Albuquerque
Reason: Austin is known for its friendliness, but we had a few instances of rudeness that really startled us, such as a bike store employee yelling, “Can’t you see we’re closed?” Santa Fe is friendly, but a little tourist-weary. But in Albuquerque, everyone was warm, chatty and uber-helpful, with strangers taking 30 to 45 minutes to talk to us, draw maps, tell us where to eat, etc.

COOLNESS
Winner: Austin
Reason: It’s like no other place in Texas or even the US, really, thanks to its defiant weirdness. It’s the legendary hipster mecca. It’s the home of South by Southwest and Austin City Limits. It’s a big party year-around…and never lacks a blazingly good soundtrack. (There’s even live music in the airport, for crying loud.) It makes you wish you could only be half as cool.

TRAFFIC/CONGESTION (between the two “big cities”)
Winner: Albuquerque
Reason: We didn’t encounter ANY traffic – not even during Friday “rush hour.” For the largest city in New Mexico (population 800,000), that ain’t bad. One reason may be that it has two 75 mph interstate freeways (25 and 40) connecting perpendicularly to disperse traffic. In comparison, Austin (population 1.5 million) has one main artery, and we got stuck on it twice.

COST OF LIVING
Winner: Austin
Reason: Kiplinger’s 2009 Cost-of-Living Index puts Austin ahead – it scores a 94, whereas Albuquerque and Santa Fe come in at 98 and 100, respectively. (100 is the average, so anything lower is cheaper than average.) The biggest factor? According to CNN’s Cost-of-Living Comparison Tool, housing in Austin costs 16% less than in Albuquerque.

p.s. A huge reminder about why I’m on the prowl: Los Angeles scores a painful 142 on the Cost-of-Living Index.

JOB OPPORTUNITIES
Winner: Albuquerque
Reason: I wasn’t sure who’d come out on top on this one between Austin and Albuquerque. (Santa Fe, at 75,000 people, is just too small.) Then I see Kiplinger’s 2009 Best Cities rankings, which this year “focuses on places that have stable employment plus the talent to create new, well-paying positions.” Both cities make the list, but Albuquerque edges Austin out (#2 vs. #8).

NIGHTLIFE
Winner: Austin
Reason: I don’t think I even need to explain this, do I? Sleepy New Mexico’s got nothing on Austin’s wild scene, thanks to its countless live-music venues, bars, and festivals. Also, let’s not forget those 48,000 very thirsty University of Texas students. Or that Travel & Leisure “America’s Favorite Cities” rankings put it #2 for live music and #4 for singles/bar scene.

OVERALL LIVABILITY
Winner: Albuquerque
Reason: Santa Fe just doesn’t have the real estate bargains and job opportunities that make for a win-win. Austin and Albuquerque have both, which means it comes down to tiebreakers. If I were single, Austin would probably win out. But I’m not, and these days, less congestion and niceness matter more than nightlife. Clinching the deal, US News & World Report just named Albuquerque the Best Place to Live for 2009, putting Austin #3. So close, but “the ABQ” takes it!

Final tally: Albuquerque 5, Austin 3, Santa Fe 1. Let the planets re-align!

Dazed and Amused in Austin, Texas – Part II

2009-06-06T16:12:00.000-06:00

(Read Part I for the beginning of this tale.)

Our second day in Austin we found our bearings. If we’d done our research properly, we probably would have made a beeline to this funky and happening area. But the delay only amped our appreciation.

For anyone who knows Austin, you’ve probably already guessed that I’m talking about historic South Congress (“SoCo”). Dilapidated and seedy not so long ago, SoCo has been revitalized and reborn. It’s now home to the most popular South by Southwest “musician’s hotel,” the Hotel San Jose, the longtime holdout Austin Motel, several carefully curated thrift stores, the Allens Boots megastore, numerous cafes and, of course, the legendary music venue, The Continental Club, which has seen SoCo through good, bad and back.

If you need any further evidence that you’re in the hippest part of town, just walk past Hey Cupcake, which sells cupcakes out of a Airstream trailer accompanied by live music (see photo below).

We knew we were on track as we bit into our uber-rich Carrot Cake French Toast (complete with warm cream cheese sauce) during brunch at South Congress Café. High from all the sugar, an impromptu shopping spree took over us, leaving us with bags full of gently worn retro duds as well as some handmade jewelry from Ten Thousand Villages, the fair trade retailer that sells the wares of artisans from developing nations around the world. (Yes, that was a plug.)

If we hadn’t just had dessert for breakfast, we surely would have given into not only a cupcake but also the weirdo ice cream flavors at Amy’s Ice Creams, including Shiner, which is flavored with the beer Shiner Bock. (Did I mention this is a big drinking town?)

After a nap, we set out again to grab some (more) comfort food and hear some live music. Our greatest hits tour took us first to Threadgills, a local institution for 76 years, and also where local "Roots & Rock" star James McMurty was performing that night.

Unfortunately, our grubbing on fried pickles, meatloaf, mac ‘n cheese, “Texas black-eyed pea caviar” (pictured below) and more in the restaurant adjacent to the outdoor stage ran a little long. When we emerged, there were no seats left, and our nascent food coma was making standing seem out of the question. So we headed back over to The Continental Club, where we were early enough to score table seats and hear some jazz.

That night, we slept extra hard thanks to the turbocharged air conditioning in our room. (We never did figure out how to turn it down, a sign that such as desire was clearly abnormal in these sweltering parts.) We awoke refreshed, and the sun, which had hidden a bit the day before, was out in full force. The obvious thing to do was to go biking. I mean, we were in Lance Armstrong’s hometown after all. But first we needed to fuel up, and we hadn't had a nibble of Mexican food yet.

We made our way to the famed technicolor shack that is Taco Xpress. You can't miss it thanks to the huge, wacky and welcoming bust of owner Maria Corbalan out front (see photo below). We arrived at the tail end of “Hippie Sunday Church.” I’d read something about it a while ago, but I don’t think anyone can fully appreciate it until you’ve experienced it. We’re talking about some serious rocking out.

Young and old, boho and yuppie, everyone was on their feet, dancing, shouting and clapping (with greasy hands from eating tacos, of course) with a true religious fervor. The lead singer of the band was absolutely going for broke, whipping her head to the point that I was concerned for her spinal column. It was perhaps the moment where I really got Austin. This place lives for A) music and B) brunch, and when you combine the two, well, prepare for nirvana.

Still decompressing from that raucous scene (above is the beer line afterwards), we rented bikes at one of the nicest bike shops I’ve ever been in and pedaled the short distance to Town Lake (renamed Lady Bird Lake in 2007, but no one seems to call it that). And yes, it’s exactly what it sounds like. A lovely lake (formed by damming the Colorado River) right in the middle of town, with big corporate offices just a block away in some cases, but with the added amenity of 10 miles of interconnected trails around the perimeter. Everyone, their brother and their brother’s dog was out walking, jogging or biking.

We had to conduct some high-stakes crowd navigation, but we didn't mind. Biking around Town Lake is darn fun, except when you’re lost, as we were twice. This did allow us to see a rowing competition in progress as well as talk to some natives, but next time, we’ll take a better map. (Talk about the recurring theme of this trip!)

Dazed and Amused in Austin, Texas – Part I

2009-04-29T12:09:00.000-06:00

I knew this could be a problem. Less than 12 hours after returning from my heart-thumping rendezvous with Santa Fe and Albuquerque, I departed for a first date with Austin, Texas. The pitfall of such brazen promiscuity? I’d gotten so besotted with New Mexico that I forgot to do any research or planning for Austin. I scooped up a few articles I’d printed out ages ago and scrambled to make my flight.

Now, as many of you know, this is highly out of character for this congenital planner. (I didn’t earn the nickname “Planny McPlannerson” for nothing.) Arriving in a place I’ve never visited without a guidebook, map or at least a heavily-researched list of ideas is frankly unprecedented. I was winging it, and I felt out of sorts. I also felt somewhat unburdened. I couldn’t be responsible for the success or failure if I didn’t plan it, I rationalized.

To be fair, I have gone on spontaneous adventures orchestrated by non-planner, Type B friends and significant others. And I enjoyed how they pulled me out of my comfort zone. But in those instances, I just followed their lead. This time I was meeting a college friend who rivaled me in the planning department. Shockingly, though, she confessed she hadn’t had time to look into Austin either. Gulp!

So here we were – two Type A control freaks in a rental car without even a decent map to pee on. For a panicky moment, I didn’t even think we had the address and directions for our B&B, though it turned out we did. The sensible thing would have been to rent a GPS with our car, but we gamely headed out with our crappy Avis map. Not surprisingly, we were soon muttering “This can’t be it!” and calling the B&B to find out where we’d gone wrong.

Fortunately, once we found the historic Woodburn House (built 1909), located in the venerable Hyde Park neighborhood, we realized we at least had a soothing resting place. With its double porches and yard full of pecan trees, things were looking up. Plus, our lovely room (a steal at $125/night including breakfast) was remarkably plush and period-appropriate without any of the bright floral prints or doilies you might expect. Instead, we got soft robes and plenty of surface space, a real luxury when you have toiletries for two women.

Yes, we were here, in a grand mansion surrounded by tiny Craftsman bungalows, but now what? Being in Texas, eating some BBQ seemed like a good first move. So we pulled out the laptop and headed to the upstairs porch to do some Googling. The air was warm and humid (an odd sensation having just come from arid New Mexico), and the reviews were equally confusing, pointing us to joints outside of town (e.g. The Salt Lick) for “the best BBQ in Austin.” With our paltry map, and the growing darkness, we balked at driving that far.

Eventually we gave up and decided to drive towards downtown. We were winging it, after all. We were soon rewarded for our intrepidness with Ironworks Barbecue, located in a former ironsmith’s shop south of the rowdy Red River District. (According to their website, they’re ranked #1 in Texas, but isn’t it funny how every BBQ place is rated “top” by someone?) We ordered the $12.95 sampler platter, which came with sliced beef, one rib, sausage, beans, potato salad, pickles…and a slice of white bread. Yep, soft, enriched sandwich bread like you’d buy at the grocery.

I was puzzled…and a little turned off. It wasn’t until I learned that the slice of bread was a deep South tradition – meant to sop up all the good stuff – that it made sense. But I still think it’s weird. Nonetheless, I managed to scarf up most of my ginormous platter (ignoring the bread) and still find room for the banana pudding. Sitting with our cafeteria plates on the screened porch, I was satiated - and staring to get a sense of Austin’s casual scruffiness.

Later, we motored through the downtown club area, where pounding hip hop beats spilled out followed by packs of kids who seemed very young. This is a mild concern when I think of living in a big college town (Austin is home to the University of Texas, with 48,000+ students) – namely, feeling old and saying things like, “This place is way too loud.” So not surprisingly, we instead chose a tranquil gelato bar where we could hear each other and catch up.

Normally, I wouldn’t question whether this was lame, but in a good-timer place like Austin, you feel a little ashamed. Tomorrow we’ll do better, we agreed. We just needed to find the part of town that was our speed.

Stay tuned for Part II!

Desperately Seeking Santa Fe, New Mexico

2009-04-24T20:15:00.000-06:00

I’ve been eager to return to Santa Fe since I started this blog in June 2008. My quest at the time was to find my geographic soul mate, and Santa Fe loomed as potentially “the one.” I’d last visited on a post-college road trip, and of all the places we stopped, it stood out as the city with the most unusual, peaceful lifestyle. And truly, there is nowhere like Santa Fe, which is why it’s ranked the second best place to live in America by Sperling’s Best Places as well the number four destination in the US by Conde Nast Traveler readers.

Since the start of the blog, however, a lot of things have happened. I’ve gone on dates with long-standing crushes (e.g. Charleston, South Carolina), old flames (e.g. New York, New York), and new, unexpectedly beguiling suitors (e.g. Los Alamos, California; Apalachicola, Florida.) I’ve thought a lot about the right size city, as well as other criteria like home prices, culture and airport proximity. And perhaps most importantly, I’ve questioned whether I should be looking to hunker down in one place for the rest of my years. After all, is that really a fit with my intractable wanderlust?

The result is that I’ve dispatched the notion of a “long-term match” in favor of “my next great affair.” My new vision is that I still have several more places to live in me, and I should be looking for a place to spend the next five or so years with. This has been a fundamental shift in thinking, as I don’t have to reconcile things like: could I live in an arid desert forever? Or, will I ever return to the East Coast? Or, what about my dream of living abroad at some point? Now, I’m looking for the stepping stone that will help me relieve my ticking “real estate clock" and grow as a person.

So how did Santa Fe sync up when I finally visited in March? Beautifully, in all ways but one: price. Despite New Mexico’s generally low cost of living (it’s the 27th cheapest state in the US), Santa Fe is not a bargain. It’s the most expensive county in New Mexico, and thanks to its far-reaching reputation and million-plus tourists per year, it attracts wealthy retirees, transplants and second home owners who help keep the housing prices elevated. Case in point: while the average home price in Santa Fe County is down from 2008, it’s still averaging $440,000 thus far in 2009. As a true luxury destination, it’s also not unusual to see $1,000/night hotel rates and $35 dinner entrees catering to the elite visitors seeking refuge here.

Beyond this $$$ revelation, Albuquerque emerged as an affordable, livable city (area population 845,913) not to be overlooked, and I saw that the areas along the Turquoise Trail in between the two offered nature, space and privacy, the latter being something that had recently jumped in importance after one too many days working from home to the sounds of construction, car alarms and hyperactive yip dogs. If it was within reach to have more room, more acreage and more serenity for as low as $115/square foot, and be within easy driving distance of both Santa Fe and Albuquerque (including the airport), wouldn’t that be the best of all worlds? The answer: YES.

So you could say my crush on Santa Fe has not be extinguished - it’s only broadened to include the surrounding area, which encompasses desert, forest and mountains. The great joy of a state with only 1.9 million people (making it the sixth most sparsely populated state in the US) is that getting from place to place does not involve any of the pain, frustration and incivility that driving 30 minutes or an hour within LA can invoke. It’s frankly therapeutic for this Angeleno to be able to drive 75 miles per hour without stopping. The difference is that you actually do cover 75 miles in each hour you drive, versus spending 20 minutes stuck in traffic only to move half a mile.

Thus, the conclusion of my trip was that I don’t have to live IN Santa Fe to enjoy it. I just need to be nearby. That way, I can still grab an organic/fair trade coffee at the uber-funky Aztec Café (pictured above), an amazing Ayurvedic stir fry at yoga-centric Annapurna (when you sneeze, they say “Blessings”) or some down-home BBQ and brew at the Cowgirl Bar & Grill. Or I can head to the historic Pink Adobe restaurant’s Dragon Room lounge whenever I'm craving the Rosalita, the best margarita I’ve had in years, which is made with cranberry and gran gala, a triple orange Italian liqueur.

Maybe I’ll even rent a hot tub at the Zen mountain retreat Ten Thousand Waves. Because the relaxing drive just might wear me out.

A Big, Dysfunctional Family in Madrid, New Mexico

2009-04-19T22:09:00.000-06:00

Highway 14 (aka Turquoise Trail) is the scenic highway connecting Albuquerque and Santa Fe. You could say this is the route for non-commuters, lollygaggers, dreamers and, on the weekends in high season, tourists. Anyone who’s in a hurry takes Interstate 25 (75 mph), but blissfully, we were not.

Starting in Albuquerque to the south, you begin at the base of the Sandia Mountains, which tower over Albuquerque. (See some amazing photos here.) There is literally no spot that doesn’t have a view of them. You then unsuspectingly climb much higher in route to Santa Fe (7,000-feet high,), which is a fact is of no small significance. Though these cities are less than an hour apart, there is a ten-degree temperature difference due to the altitude. If it’s 70 degrees in Albuquerque, expect it to be 60 in Santa Fe.

The snowy shot above is me at Sandia Peak (at 10, 768 feet, the highest point in the range). You reach this point by car from the east (as we did), or by the world's longest aerial tramway from the west. At the top, altitude stupidity set in for us, producing some very silly photo-taking, as well as an impulse buy of a green turquoise ring at the gift shop. (For the record, I still love it.)

And yes, I said altitude stupidity, not altitude sickness. Although I did experience a few moments of dizziness and dehydration the first few days, what I experienced more intensely was feeling dumb as a rock. For example, I “lost” my cell phone, only to find it in my hand. Twice. Rather embarrassing stuff like that. So when people talk about the effects of altitude here (such as actor Seth Rogen, who said that his difficulty breathing while filming in New Mexico is the reason he had to lose weight), they really need to include a warning about this one!

As you get further from Albuquerque on Highway 14, the terrain changes from evergreen mountains fed by snow to high desert. Then suddenly you find yourself in Madrid, a town so kooky that it makes Santa Fe seem almost staid. The first clue? It’s pronounced “MAD-rid, not “Ma-drid.” The second? It’s almost entirely populated by artists, some 300+ of them. (A fact often quoted is that it has more artists per capita than anywhere else in the US.) “We’re a big, dysfunctional family,” one of them told us cheerfully.

A former mining town deep in a gulch, Madrid is like a Wild West outpost, freethinker’s refuge, art gallery and little bohemia all rolled into one. Every old house facing the road has been converted into a gallery or store selling art, sculpture, snacks and more. In many cases, the wares are out front, and the artist lives in back. Everyone know everyone, and with no more building permits available (due to a lack of water), the town has been saved from modern development.

Despite the tiny population, you can get a drink at the Mine Shaft Tavern, a coffee at Java Junction (also a hat shop and B&B) and a gourmet meal at The Hollar. You can buy all manner of art. You can even buy rent movies at the general store (pictured below). But more importantly, you can interact with lots of spirited artists. Some are incredibly friendly, others are wary of newcomers (one artist told us it took him five years to “get into the club”) and many are full of love/hate for the tourists who fuel the town. But it’s safe to say that not a single one of them seems to want to leave.

The same could not be said for the "ghost town" of Cerillos, just three miles north. From the looks of it, everyone has left. But it turns out that’s not really true, and those who do live here enjoy the façade of a deserted place. That way, no one bothers them. It’s spooky driving through a seemingly abandoned town that you know has people in it. (Mary's Bar, pictured below, is still operating, believe it or not, with 91-year-old Mary Mora behind the counter). There are walled compounds that contain hints of life, but not for your prying eyes to see. Compared to colorful, commercial Madrid, Cerrillos is the place to truly hide – not just from people, but from the present day.

Back on Highway 14, it isn’t long before we reach Santa Fe and are assaulted by the unimaginative, copycat nature of the modern world. (That is to say, the southernmost parts of Santa Fe developed in recent decades.). Strip malls. Starbucks. Or our Holiday Inn Express, built self-consciously to look “rustic” and “Southwestern.” Yes, it was perfectly comfortable and not unattractive, but who are they fooling?

Fortunately, downtown Santa Fe remains one of the most distinctive places in the world, with its twinkling artistry and singular architecture. It’s a bright spot in the sea of sameness, with Madrid as its most defiant satellite. But is it still my top geographical crush?

Stay tuned for the answer to that as well as a full report on Austin, Texas. (Sorry that I'm so behind!)

A Lifestyle Choice? Or Simply the Future?

2009-03-30T15:29:00.001-06:00

As you may know, I'm a freelancer. I work for myself, and I work from home. I took the leap in 2005 in attempt to create a lifestyle that fulfilled me. I'm still refining exactly what that is - words like "freedom" and "balance" and "travel" often tumble out when I describe it - but I know that what I want does NOT involve commuting, workaholism or rigid schedules. A tall order, yes, but I've avoided all three more weeks out of the year than I ever did previously.

What's interesting, though, is how the traditional workplace has evolved in some parallel ways during this same time period. Three years ago, telecommuting was a novel concept. Today, it's the next cost-cutting frontier. Similarly, freelancing was seen as an alternative career for risk-taking or niche tradespeople. Now, even "full-timers" are turning to freelancing as a stopgap, supplement or entirely new path during uncertain economic times. Freelancing has hit the mainstream, you could say.

After talking to some friends at career crossroads recently, I sense that the workplace is poised for big change, as are traditional gender roles. With men constituting 80% of those laid off since 2007, and more and more women taking on the breadwinner role, something's gotta give, right? How can breadwinning women (especially mothers) work insane hours and still handle 75% of "domestic engineering"?

I don't know how it will all shake out, but I see "flexibility" and "lifestyle" being the key words moving forward. For evidence, I humbly submit a few headlines that caught my eye this week. Take a gander and let me know what you think the future holds.

Freelancing: A Real Option (Miami Herald)
As times get tougher, many are turning to freelancing and contract work, transforming a trend that was once a lifestyle choice into a matter of economic survival.

Telecommuting: Once a Perk, Now a Necessity (Business Week)
To cut costs, companies such as Capital One are pushing more employees, including even top managers, to work from home.

The Increasing Call for Work-Life Balance (Business Week)
Work-life balance is now the second most important driver of employee attraction and commitment, says CEB research.

As Layoffs Surge, Women May Pass Men in Job Force (NY Times)
With the recession on the brink of becoming the longest in the postwar era, a milestone may be at hand: Women are poised to surpass men on the nation’s payrolls, taking the majority for the first time in American history.

Career Women at Midlife: Sadder and Sicker (Business Week)
While women are securing greater power in the workplace, they are also growing less satisfied with their lives as they age.

Baked-in Artistry in Albuquerque, New Mexico

2009-03-24T00:23:00.000-06:00

Within hours of landing in Albuquerque, it became clear that almost everyone in New Mexico is an artist. Or has artistic hobbies. Or champions art vigorously. Even the frozen yogurt place is a gallery.

As one gallery owner put it, “This is the most supportive artistic community you’ll find.” He wasn’t exaggerating. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Santa Fe (45 minutes away) is the third largest art market in the US. Or that artists can actually make it thanks to the affordable cost of living. ($30,000 is “an abundant salary,” we were told.) But there’s more to it, and I’ve been ruminating on just that.

One visible clue is the state’s film incentive program, which offers rebates, loans and tax breaks. Not surprisingly, it’s made the state a hotbed for film and TV production. “We love filmmaking in New Mexico,” handmade signs read on the roadside. Apparently 28 films were shot in Albuquerque alone in 2008. While some politicians have been critical, the population remains enthralled.

But perhaps the best example of this artistic proclivity is the Golden Crown Panaderia, which we visited the very first day. Located in the Old Town section of Albuquerque, this tiny neighborhood bakery is a single-father-and-son operation that is guaranteed to make an impression – emotionally, olfactorily and gastronomically.

The first thing you notice is the wonderful smell (from the fruit empanadas), which prompts you to inhale deeply and soften a bit. Not that New Mexicans need that. But this overworked urbanite did. Then we were handed a free biscochito, a crispy butter cookie flavored with anise and cardamon. It's the endearing "welcome bite."

The father, Pratt, is a former CPA turned passionate baker. His signature green chile bread, which he’s holding below, has been featured in the New York Times, Gourmet Magazine and the Food Channel. It’s spicy. It’s rich (thanks to the parmesan). And it’s amazing. A loaf is currently sliced and frozen in my freezer, per Pratt’s detailed instructions. Salivating? Order it online here.

Having a famous specialty bread is just the beginning, though. The exuberant, indefatigable, 70-year-young Pratt also makes bread art. What’s that, you ask? Well, it’s making a horse and carriage out of bread for his son’s birthday. (See old photo below.) Or a bread turkey for vegetarians at Thanksgiving. Or bread busts of people’s heads. It was fairly astonishing to see all that one could do with bread.

Pratt mixes various dough to produce color variations (yes, all skin types are possible) and carefully orchestrates how the bread rises in his massive oven. He’s currently working on a bust of Jay Leno, he shares. Listening to this delightful raconteur, I felt my face hurting from smiling so much. I also noticed strangers striking up conversation and the convivial atmosphere infecting everyone. This was truly the “golden crown” that started the trip so auspiciously.

How did I feel around all this warmth and creativity? The word would have to be inspired. We talked to a guy from Ohio who decided to make custom water fountains – because he thought he could. We spent time in a shop specializing in Ukrainian Easter eggs. Nothing is too out there in New Mexico, and perhaps most importantly, there is the feeling that you can try anything because no one will judge you.

Soon my boyfriend was pondering the large-scale mobiles he’d build in the studio/barn, and I was listening to a female poet on New Mexico public radio, thinking, “I bet I could write a lot of poetry in a place like this.” In the dramatic high desert setting, with colossal mountains and endless views, it seemed easier to reflect on life. I guess that happens any time you can see for hundreds of miles and realize your own itsy bitsy role.

Thus, my first and strongest takeaway from New Mexico is that the possibilities seem as wide open as the environment and as optimistic as the people, who (teaser alert) would go on to eclipse Austinites in the battle for “Most Friendly.” Yes. Believe it. Who won “Most Weird”? That one’s going to a tiebreaker round, folks. Stay tuned!

Travel Reading Roundup

2009-02-27T12:52:00.000-07:00

Photo credit: Tara Donne, Condé Nast Traveler

The small-town daydreaming just won't let up. Below are three things I really enjoyed reading this week. And surprise, surprise, they all are paeans to rural living.

Fairy Land
An exceptionally good article in this month's Conde Nast Traveler about the rustic charm of Northwestern Connecticut, worlds away and yet only a two-hour drive from NYC. Read about treehouse communities, raw milk aficionados and more.

Vespa Vagabond
A friend sent me this blog about a Bay Area photographer who drove cross-country on her Vespa as part of a planned move to NYC. One slight hitch - she fell in love with a small town in Wyoming and decided to live there instead.

Daily Coyote
This is the continuation of Vespa Vagabond. Wondering what a 31-year-old city slicker does after moving to a town of 300 people in Wyoming? Adopt an orphaned coyote and take amazing pictures of him, naturally.

Vote on the Coolest Small Towns in America

2009-02-23T17:18:00.001-07:00

Every year, Budget Travel surveys readers to gain ideas for their "Coolest Small Towns" fall issue. Then they filter the candidates using the following definition:

A Coolest Small Town is a town of under 10,000 residents that's beginning to draw attention—and new residents—because of the quality of life, arts, and restaurant scene, or proximity to nature. We want towns with an edge, so think avant-garde galleries, not country stores.

As you can see, I'm not alone in hankering for small town life with a slice of sophistication. Nor am I the only one who believes it exists!

We are now at the next step in selection process, where readers get to vote on the finalists. There are currently 22 towns in the running for 2009's Top Ten Coolest Small Towns, and I've only been to one: the wily, mountaintop bohemia that is Eureka Springs, Arkansas.

So my vote is no surprise. But yours is. Check out the finalists - from Silverton, Oregon, to Owego, New York - and place your vote here.

p.s. Anyone been to Onancock, Virginia? I feel sheepish that I'm not familiar with the lone candidate from my home state!

Promiscuous Girl: My Back-to-Back Upcoming Dates

2009-02-18T13:02:00.000-07:00

Time to stop fawning over certain cities - and actually go on some real dates!

I am positively giddy to announce that I will be visiting my top geographical crush - Santa Fe, New Mexico - in just a week and a half. This will mark our second date, the first being more than a decade ago when I was young and naive and had no idea what I wanted in a place to live. Now, we will meet as consenting adults.

Will there still be an attraction? TBD. In the interest of full disclosure, I will also be flirting with Albuquerque and smaller enclaves in the Northern New Mexico area. My yearning for wide open spaces needs to be put through a reality check.

Immediately after, I will be heading to Austin, Texas, for a first date. Comparison shopping at its finest. Both cities are known for being progressive, artsy and eccentric, as you can tell from the slogans ("Keep Austin Weird" and "The City Different", respectively.) Both cities are a cheap, non-stop flight from LA. And of course, because they are located in neighboring states that border Mexico, there are some cultural and regional similarities. Let's just say my new cowgirl boots go with either place.

But one major difference is that Austin is more than 10 times larger than Santa Fe - 1.5 million people versus 75,000. I'm hoping the contrast will (pardon the pun) help me nail down my size requirements.

Yes, it may seem a little loose to go straight from one date to another. But life is busy. I can only take one week off work, and that means it's time for a little speed dating.

Will lightning strike in either place? Stay tuned!

Final Impressions of Jax

2009-02-04T13:25:00.000-07:00

I am heading back to California this weekend, so it's time to review my date with Jacksonville. Here are some observations...

Abbreviated – Locals don't say Jacksonville. They say Jax. Strangely, using the nickname immediately boosted my fondness for the place.

Populated – I find it puzzling that I couldn’t get a direct flight to Jax when it’s the most populous city in Florida (1.4 million) and the 12th largest in the US. What gives? Perhaps Orlando, two hours away and home to a certain mouse house, has stolen its thunder?

Spread Out – I thought LA was a sprawl, but Jax eclipses it. An oft-cited factoid is that it’s largest city in the US by land mass. Fortunately, you can take a major interstate highway (95 runs N/S; 10 runs E/W) to nearly every corner, though, so getting around is easy.

Multifaceted – Jax has many different sides. A sleek, riverfront downtown with high-rise towers. Older neighborhoods with live oaks and Spanish moss. Vanilla suburbs. Beach towns both tattered and upscale. Backcountry creeks and swamps. Very hard to generalize.

Large Middle Class – From what I’ve seen, the low cost of living, diversified economy and abundance of affordable, decent housing makes for a thriving middle class here.

Militarized – With a Naval Air Station, a Naval Ship Base and a Marine Base, Jax has the third largest military presence after Norfolk, Virginia, and San Diego, California. The military is the largest employer and contributes $6.1 billion to the economy here.

Damn Cold – Jax is supposed to have a humid subtropical climate. Ha! It’s been in the 30s, 40s and 50s the last month due to the cold front sweeping the East Coast. Everyone says this is highly unusual, but it shows North Florida is affected by continental weather.

Waterfront – As I mentioned in my last post, you’re not in Jax if you don’t see water. Thus, driving over countless bridges is a daily experience. One of the city’s nicknames is “Home of Seven Bridges,” as there are seven iconic bridges crossing the wide St. Johns River.

As for our chemistry, I'd have to rate it as purely platonic. No sparks. No signs of a future together. But that's okay. I have more dates lined up. Next up is Austin, Texas, the first weekend of March, and I'll admit - I already have butterflies.

Where the Wild Things Are in Jacksonville, Florida

2009-01-31T14:35:00.000-07:00

For the past month, I’ve been based in Orange Park, a suburb of Jacksonville that the locals call “the OP.” But truth be told, I could be in any newish suburb of any mid-sized city. Everything around me is a franchise, from the hotels (Holiday Inn, Ramada) to the restaurants (Outback, Red Lobster) to the stores (Target, Walmart).

Sadly, this is the story of modern real estate development. A nationwide homogenization is in process, with every city following an identical formula. The sameness can be both familiar (“I know I can find it at Walgreens”) and disorienting (“Do I turn after the third or fourth strip mall?”). At times, you really could be anywhere.

I think this is why I’m so drawn to historic towns and neighborhoods – places with a look and feel that can’t be found anywhere else. Here in Jacksonville, closer to downtown, there are charming old neighborhoods like Riverside/Avondale, with its beautiful mansions along the St. Johns River, and San Marco, with its Italianate central square (pictured below) lined with unique, individually-owned shops and restaurants. (Incidentally, Bistro Aix in San Marco was hands down the best meal we’ve had in Jacksonville.)

But even out here in the burbs there are reminders of the way things used to be. A particularly colorful example is the fish camp restaurant genre. Apparently they’re common in the South, and usually situated in the location of a former bait shop or marina, but I had never encountered one before. Perhaps it’s because I didn’t grow up in a fishing paradise. But with the massive St. Johns River dividing the city in half, and creeks and offshoots all over the place, Jacksonville is a town full of water. It’s a small miracle if you drive 10 minutes without crossing a bridge.

So to get a deep-fried taste of the fish camp concept, we visited the two best-known ones: Clark’s Fish Camp (established 1974; pictured above) and Whitey’s Fish Camp (established 1963). Both are rustic waterfront shacks that have been expanded and adorned with dead critters, although Clark’s takes the latter to another level. It’s like a taxidermy shop meets Alice in Wonderland. Or a National Zoo of the dead. It’s hard to describe how over-the-top the embalmed scenery is, so I’ll let the photos speak for themselves. Suffice to say there are hundreds of once-living animals “roaming” the place, and there was even an angry bear leaping over my head as I ate.

The extensive menus are basically a list of fried __________ (fill in the blank with any seafood.) But fish camps are also famous for frying up exotic things like gator tail, frog legs, ostrich, turtle (“cooter”), antelope, rabbit, swamp onion and more. Having just watched Bear Grylls kill and eat a snake on “Man Versus Wild” – without breaking a sweat, of course – we gamely ordered two of Clark’s “Call of the Wild Appetizers”: fried kangaroo and boa constrictor.

The verdict? All weird meats do not “taste like chicken,” as the waiter described. The kangaroo tasted more like steak or venison, and if I didn’t feel so guilty, I’d have it again. The snake (pictured below) just plain sucked. It was flavorless and incredibly tough. We’re talking five minutes to chew one bite. I do NOT recommend it unless you’re really and truly starving in the Amazon.

My conclusion is that fish camps are a delightful holdout of the Old South. They’re lively, they’re down home, and they’re filled with locals, which is always a good sign. The adventurous menus may get your eyes bulging, and the taxidermied herd might make your hairs stand, but the trick is to just stay calm and order the catfish, people.

Gastronomica Orgasmica in Charleston, South Carolina

2009-01-24T12:20:00.000-07:00

There are many things that turn me on about Charleston, South Carolina. It’s postcard gorgeous. It’s steeped in history. It’s utterly genteel…yet with a wily progressive streak. Don’t believe me? The county went blue in the election, has smoking ordinances (extremely rare in the deep South) and even boasts several new green housing developments such as Mixson (pictured below).

But what what I may dig most is the food.

Charleston is the epicenter of Lowcountry cuisine, a regional style of cooking found only on the coast of South Carolina and Georgia. Thanks to an abundant estuary system, Lowcountry cuisine features a rich variety of seafood. The marshlands also allowed for antebellum rice cultivation, making that grain another important staple.

Signature dishes include Shrimp ‘n Grits, Hoppin’ John, Charleston Red Rice and She-crab Soup. My boyfriend, who grew up in Charleston, has made awe-inspiring Shrimp ‘n Grits for me several times, always with a voluble discussion of why only stone ground grits from Logan Turnpike Mill in Georgia are acceptable. Charlestonians do not lack opinions on their food.

Back in 2005, my good friends Cameron and David – who live on Johns Island, one of several barrier islands flanking Charleston – took me to Charleston Cooks! This upscale kitchen store offers Taste of the Lowcountry classes ($25) in its demonstration kitchen. I was responsible for adding the cream to the rice pudding we made. After pouring EIGHT cups of cream in, I came to a full and proper realization of why Lowcountry cuisine is not for the health conscious.

But even that can’t quiet my lip smacking. During the same visit, Cameron, David and I waited 45 minutes for brunch at Hominy Grill, the hallowed Southern restaurant located in a former barbershop. It was worth it for the Mile High Biscuits alone.

This past year, Hominy Grill’s chef, Robert Stehling, won the James Beard Award for Best Chef from the Southeast. He was up against another famed Charleston chef – Mike Lata of FIG. When two of the five nominees are from the same city, you know it’s a foodie destination. In fact, Travelocity named Charleston one of the top 10 culinary cities in the world.

So what was I to do upon my third date with Charleston a few weeks ago? Go all the way, naturally, and insist to Cameron and David that we dine at FIG. And...wow. I have nothing short of adoration for Hominy Grill, but my meal at FIG proved to be far more (let's just say it) sensual. It was actually to the point where I was making involuntary murmurs of pleasure with each bite of my entrée. Fortunately, Cameron and David seemed to handle the embarrassment okay.

I started with the Warm Salad of Shrimp and Radicchio ($10) in a tasty pancetta vinaigrette (pictured below). Not bitter at all. (N.B. Even salads are artery-busters in Charleston.) Then there was the delicious “side for the table,” the Anson Mills Farro Piccolo Risotto with Broccoli and Country Ham ($7). Farro is a rare Italian wheat grain with a chewy texture, and one of the few American growers is South Carolina’s Anson Mills, an artisan mill that has revived several near-extinct varieties of corn, rice and wheat. I was starting to see how FIG was serious about sourcing high-quality local ingredients.

But sweet nibblets! It was my entrée, the Crispy Caw Caw Creek Pork Shoulder ($27), that I am compelled to write home about. Just typing the words makes me salivate. It was served atop a puree of kabocha squash (the sweetest of all squashes), and let’s just say the kabocha contrasted mind-blowingly well with the incredibly tender, rich, salty, brick-colored pork shoulder, which I could cut with my fork. It was the single best meat dish I’ve had in years.

Afterward, I had to know more about this Caw Caw Creek Farm. Turns out it’s a 90-acre sustainable farm in South Carolina that specializes in heirloom pastured pork. What that means is that the pigs roam freely through woods and pasture and do not receive any hormones, antibiotics or medicines. As a result, Caw Caw Creek pork is moister, tastier and redder in color. It resembles steak more than “the other white meat.” No wonder the farm supplies prestigious chefs like Thomas Keller of Napa's French Laundry.

Caw Caw Creek pork is in a different league. The same could be said for Lowcountry cuisine. True, I may not be able to stand Charleston’s sticky, mosquito-friendly summers. And I may not be able to maintain my waistline in such a high-calorie culture. (I gorged at FIG, only to have crabcake benedict the next morning.)

But boy would I risk it to eat this mythical dish once a month. Or if I was rich...once a week.

Photos courtesy of: Charleston Area Convention and Visitors Bureau; Mixson.com; Shayna Anne; Roadfood.com; Caw Caw Creek Farm

Small Town New Year's Eve

2009-01-11T11:51:00.000-07:00

In Apalachicola, Florida (see my last post), there are three essential ingredients for a New Year’s Eve gathering:

1) Fireworks usually illegal in other states
2) Bonfires on the beach or elsewhere
3) Alcohol and plenty of ice in coolers

To procure our fireworks, we headed to a tent sale near the highway. There, we found an astounding variety of things that make noise and blow up. Our splurge was the $75 Black Mamba, which was supposed to be the biggest and baddest around. The family selling the fireworks – a mother, father and their pregnant 15-year-old daughter – proved exceedingly helpful in describing how loud each product was, from “pretty loud” to “real loud” to “deafening.”

Our next mission was alcohol, and this is where my mind was pretty much blown. To our great luck, an upscale liquor store had opened two weeks earlier. It’s called Honey Hole Liquors. Yes, you heard that right. (I have a t-shirt to prove it.) The phone number is 653-BUZZ. Best of all, this cheeky little store lives up to its name and then some. Let’s just say it’s a twinkling oasis of gourmet intoxicants, mixers and snacks. Price tags are placed on sea shells, and your purchases are wrapped in lime green tissue paper.

We were amazed to discover hard-to-find goodies like Firefly Sweet Tea Vodka, which is all the rage in the South. If you haven’t had it, you MUST try it with a splash of water and a lemon. A family-owned distillery located on Wadmalaw Island outside Charleston, South Carolina, Firely is not yet available nationally, so when you see it, you have to grab it. We also found six types of Bloody Mary mix and just about everything else our hearts desired, thanks to the enthusiastic help of store worker Dmitrius. (He admitted he loved to drink and had thus found the perfect job.)

A final word about The Honey Hole. Beyond the naughty connotation, the name has a regional tie-in. You see, this area of the Panhandle – culturally more Southern than Floridian – is famous for honey. Tupelo Honey, that is. This mild honey gets its flavor from Tupelo trees that grow along the Apalachicola River in Georgia and Florida, and it’s known for its high quality and accompanying high price. The reason Tupelo Honey is so prized? It never crystallizes.

But I digress. Getting back to the eve, we started the festivities with a fantastic meal of bacon-wrapped venison (shot by our host Kathy’s boyfriend in a hunting camp in Georgia) and ahi tuna bought that day from Doug’s Seafood Truck on the island (pictured below). Local eating at its finest. Who doesn’t love walking up to a truck and saying, “So what’s fresh today Doug?” He can even tell you where it was caught (say Alligator Point, for example) that morning.

Afterwards, we gathered around a crackling bonfire in front of the houseboats. With a low of 35 degrees predicted, we decided it was too cold to set up on the beach. Plus, why drive? So we hunkered down with blankets to watch the fireworks show in Kathy’s parking lot, which eventually expanded to the street. As the decibel level grew, and the clock turned well past 2:00 a.m., I kept waiting for the police to show up. But no one seemed to mind. Not even the neighbors. (They were drunk.)

It’s at moments like this that I really miss the South.

At World's End in Apalachicola, Florida

2009-01-07T11:57:00.000-07:00

You’ve probably never heard of Apalachicola. Neither had I until recently. That’s not surprising when you consider that it’s the belle of Florida’s “Forgotten Coast,” a beautiful, remote section of coastline that few know about and even fewer inhabit. (Supposedly, the name came about when a Florida tourism brochure “forgot” to include it.)

To get you situated, Apalachichola (or “Apalach,” as the locals call it) is located on the southernmost tip of the Florida Panhandle. It’s 1.5 hours southwest of Tallahassee (the drive on Highway 319/98 hugs the water and offers gorgeous views), or 1.5 hours southeast of Panama City. No matter how you slice it, it’s not that easy to get to, which is why it remains the perfect place to drop off the grid.

Water is the name of the game here, as the town (population 3,000) is located on the banks of the Apalachicola River, which empties into the massive Apalachicola Bay, which is in turn protected from the Gulf of Mexico by St. George Island, a 22-mile long barrier island with pretty white sand beaches and summer houses on stilts. (I stuck my feet in, and let's just say the Gulf is warmer right now than the Pacific ever gets - and that's in "winter" here!)

These unusual geographic qualities make the bay the uncontested oyster capital of Florida. If people know anything about Apalach, it’s that “good oysters come from there." Approximately 90% of the oysters in Florida come from this bay, as well as 10% of the national oyster supply. The town's big annual event is the Florida Seafood Festival every November, which features an oyster eating (up to 250-300 at a time!) and shucking contest.

As someone who finds a raw oyster the equivalent of a salty blob of mucus, I can assure you that it wasn’t oysters that drew me here. But for those that appreciate the slippery critters, you should know that I have never in my life seen them prepared more ways: fried oysters, baked oysters, broiled oysters, oyster po’ boys, oystercakes, oyster gumbo, etc. They're the centerpiece of every menu, and you could easily eat them three meals a day.

Fortunately, there were plenty of other things to eat, from unbelievably fresh fish caught same day to classic Southern fare. We checked out three great places mentioned in the New York Times’ 36 Hours in Apalachicola article – Caroline’s River Dining, The Owl Café and Verandas – as well as the town’s undisputed best restaurant, Tamara’s, where we chatted with the funny chef/owner, Danny, pictured below, who was a chef in Savannah, Georgia, previously. Oyster lovers will have to join the debate about whether Papa Joe’s or Boss Oyster is the best spot for oysters.

For us, what drew us to Apalach for New Year’s Eve was the opportunity to hang out on a houseboat with my boyfriend’s good friend Kathy. Talk about a unique lifestyle. A massage therapist and yoga teacher (after years of obstinate resistance, I attended – and very much enjoyed – my first yoga class under her tutelage at the Water Street Hotel), Kathy lives full-time on a handcrafted, floating houseboat moored in the Apalachicola River. She also owns a second houseboat, which houses her adorable Spirit of the River Spa. As is typical of a town with one stoplight, everyone knows Kathy, and Kathy knows everyone.

The houseboats are docked in the center of town in a small houseboat community. To enter the boats when the water is low, you climb down a small ladder, and voila. Sometimes you notice a gentle rocking and the squeaking of an otter who lives underneath, but other times, you forget you’re on the water. One of the boats has an engine and rudder should they be needed (i.e. hurricane relocation!), and both have porches overlooking the river channel and surrounding marsh.

Most people who come to Apalach stay in stately inns and B&B’s, however. Modeled after Philadelphia, with wide streets and central squares covering a nine-square-block “downtown,” Apalach is distinctly Southern, thanks to the live oaks and Spanish moss, and distinctly genteel, thanks to its Victorian architecture and boomtown history as an antebellum cotton port, turn-of-the-century timber powerhouse, and more recently, seafood producer. (You're snapped back to modernity when a golf cart whizzes by, however. It's legal to drive them on any road other than the highway.)

Given this rich legacy, the town has a surprisingly large number of historic buildings from 19th and 20th century - over 900 according to the Chamber of Commerce. Many grand homes have been preserved as B&Bs, and The Coombs House (built 1905; around $120/night and up) is the best-known. It was fully booked for New Year’s – a good sign given the current economy. So on Kathy’s recommendation, we stayed at The Bryant House (built 1897; around $90/night and up), run by the vivacious Brigitte, a native of Germany.

A hilarious raconteur, Brigitte says the town cast a spell on her, prompting her to twist her husband’s arm into buying an old house and relocating with their talking Macaw Einstein, who greets you from the porch when you arrive. Brigitte admits to getting “small town panic” every now and then, but insists that as soon as she leaves, she’s desperate to come back to the peace and quiet. Kathy echoed these sentiments. Apalach seems to be one of those places that pulls you in with its sleepy charm and, when you leave, calls you back.

I see what they mean. Despite the region’s nickname, Apalach is not easily forgotten. And to the continued bafflement of my friends, nor is my love affair with teeny tiny historic towns!

Fear The Heat

2008-12-17T16:58:00.000-07:00

In June, I wrote a blog entry about whether severe weather should be a deal breaker in choosing a geographical mate. I was in Arkansas at the time, and hail storms were the big story.

Seeing hail damage everywhere, I wondered if I could handle living in a place with baseball-sized hail. Then I wondered if every place you go simply has its own mix of natural disasters. California, after all, is known for earthquakes, wildfires and mudslides. Isn't that just as dangerous?

Well, the question has finally been settled. A new study by the University of South Carolina has compared all natural disasters across the country according to mortality. The surprising top killer? Heat and drought, which cause 19.6% of all deaths from natural hazards. Second was thunderstorms, and third was winter weather. All three are rather mundane when you think about it.

Having just read The Science of Fear, which is all about human fondness for exaggerating low-risk things and ignoring high-risk things, I found it interesting that the exotic hazards we seem to fear most - like tornadoes and earthquakes - are not really the big risks. In fact, as you can see on the study's "Death Map," California, Arizona and Nevada are ranked as one of the safest areas of the country in terms of natural hazard mortality, along with Northern New England.

Where is it deadliest to live, you ask? The upper Midwest, which is affected by flooding, severe weather and winter weather, followed by the South, which is affected by heat, lightning and flooding.

Who'd have thunk?

The Most Cold-Hearted of All My Exes

2008-12-16T15:20:00.000-07:00

I spent Halloween weekend in New York this year, and it gave me a chance to reflect on my former beau. As some of you know, I lived in Manhattan from 1998 to 2000. I was poor, but I felt like I was at the center of the universe. Any New Yorker knows what I mean. Below is a shot of me on Stanton Street on the Lower East Side (LES), just a few blocks from (one of the places) where I used to live.

Despite the swanky boutiques and hip restaurants that have opened all around my old abode, I am proud to report that my rickety LES loft building remains the not-up-to-code eviction palace of a decade ago. The door is still covered with graffiti. There is still no buzzer system. The tattered “Fabrics” sign still points to the time when it was a textile factory. In fact, the only difference I could see is that the pay phone outside the door, which my friends would have to use to call up to me (because no one had cell phones yet!), has been yanked out.

Having visited about once a year since I left, I usually feel pangs of joy...followed by stinging rebuffs. This was a pang of joy. Another was Halloween evening, where literally 98% of the people we passed on the streets were in costume. No city does Halloween as unanimously or passionately. The atmosphere was magical. Plus, where else can you go to a random party populated by professional trapeze artists? Here are two of the most agile ones making everyone else look out-of-shape on the dance floor.

But before long, the rejection and disorientation began. It’s almost like the city is the kind of lover that strives to erase all memory of you once you’ve gone. How? By changing just about everything you adored – including your favorite restaurants, storefronts and bars. They’ll just disappear. So, to try to stay fresh, you make new discoveries on your trip, but a year later, you can’t even count on those. It can be demoralizing.

Here’s the perfect example. On Saturday night of Halloween weekend, we were meeting up with several friends for dinner. I suggested Bao 111 in the East Village and pulled up the restaurant’s website to show my boyfriend. He gave it a thumbs up, so we called to make a reservation for eight people. No problem, they said. But when we arrived at 111 Avenue C, the sign said Arcane, not Bao 111. Flustered, I thought, this can’t be right. I must have the address wrong. But I didn’t. It was just New York letting me know once again that once you’re out, you’re out.

As it turns out, Bao 111 had closed a month earlier, and the new restaurant simply took over the phone number. After getting over my mortification, I just followed the current New Yorkers’ lead and rolled with it. Fortunately, Arcane ended up being a great find, and the ebullient French-Caribbean owners were eager to please. My lime chicken was fantastic, and the evening turned out just fine.

The moral of this story? Once you leave New York, it moves on, whether you like it or not. You can no longer be an expert on the city even a few months later. So this time, I officially let it go. From now on, it’ll just be a familiar stranger who I run into and experience anew. The good thing is that I know I can’t fall for it again. Too expensive, too crowded, too many people. When you’re in a great mood, you love all eight million of them. But when you’re in a bad mood, you’re ready to commit homicide if someone bumps you.

That’s not right for me anymore. I want a place with fewer bumps and more room to breathe. And it looks like 2009 is going to be when I finally decide on where that is. Huzzah!

Cape Town Is "Marriage Material"

2008-12-11T00:17:00.000-07:00

That's the word from my boyfriend, who recently returned from 10 days in Cape Town, South Africa.

It seems that not only has he picked up the lexicon of my blog (scoring major points, I might add) - but he's developed his own expatriate fantasy as well. As he regaled me with stories of his trip, I was reminded of how I sounded after coming back from Buenos Aires last year. Flush with enthusiasm. Enchanted by the "dream life" I'd seen others living. Infected with new thoughts of what it's all about.

Not surprisingly, Cape Town and Buenos Aires share one thing that never fails to get Americans' attention: a staggeringly good exchange rate that makes everything damn cheap. Right now, one dollar gets you 10 rand in South Africa. To my surprise, that's an even greater steal than Argentina - and since that's my benchmark for living large on pennies, I was duly impressed.

But if the bargain factor won't get you, it seems Cape Town's beauty surely will. My friends Ali and Katie have raved about it in the past, and well, just check out my man's photos! With the distinctive backdrop of Table Mountain and the stunning coastline (complete with penguins!), Cape Town is a looker. A medium-sized city (3.5 million) with serious physical assets. My boyfriend was also taken by the friendly people, great restaurants and rapidly evolving culture.

We'll see how the infatuation progresses, but a return trip has already been thrown out - with both of us going this time. Thank goodness, because I think I'm experiencing an acute secondhand crush.

Close Your Offices...But Keep Your People

2008-12-08T14:43:00.000-07:00

As you probably heard, over 500,000 jobs were lost in November - the biggest one-month drop since 1974. With the exception of healthcare, layoffs are now a daily occurrence in every industry.

But do they have to be?

In a rather compelling blog post I read today - entitled "What's An Office For?" - the author proposes that companies should consider telecommuting before layoffs. In other words, why not shut down your physical offices and transition to a remote workforce to save money?

As a telecommuter myself, of course I'm biased, but it sure sounds like a win-win to me. Companies could cut their overhead dramatically, employees could bid a happy farewell to their gas and lunch budget - and everybody could stay afloat. Plus, let's not forget that research shows that telecommuting produces 22% higher productivity, 60% lower absenteeism and 20% less turnover. Hello!

Yet strangely, as the blogger points out, no one seems to be talking about telecommuting as a way to save the day (or the planet). That's sad. While it might not work for the Big Three auto makers or the manufacturing industry, it could rescue a LOT of other companies, especially those that are service-based or web-based.

As they say, human capital is the most important kind. People, not machines, are the source of creativity and innovation. Shouldn't they be prioritized?

Forget Red or Blue. How About Fat or Skinny States?

2008-12-04T17:02:00.000-07:00

Louisiana is the least healthy state, according to new rankings from the American Public Health Association. In fact, the South as a whole is in bad (that is to say, flabby) shape. The bottom ten states include Mississippi, South Carolina, Tennessee, Texas, Florida, Oklahoma, Arkansas, Nevada and Georgia.

Coming from LA, the land of power yoga, macrobiotic food and insanely fit people, I wonder about moving to a "fat state." As you know, I have crushes on cities in South Carolina (Charleston), Texas (Austin), Mississippi (Natchez), Louisiana (New Orleans) and Arkansas (Eureka Springs). Would I slowly abandon the healthy lifestyle I started here in California? Shrug off a jog because it's too hot - or there's a "12 free wings special during happy hour"?

And what about the lack of smoking bans in bars/restaurants in many such states? Having teared up like a funeral attendant in Arkansas' hazy bars, I seem to be rather sensitive now. Is that something you can get used to again after living in a smoke-free state?

I guess it comes down to how much the "norms" of your environment really influence your habits. I certainly weigh less, eat better and exercise more in California than anywhere else I've lived. But that could also be the product of the dawning awareness that hits many of us in our late 20s / early 30s.

At the moment, I am thinking (perhaps gamely) I could hold onto my waistline even in the South because the money I'll save in cost of living pays for the gym and Whole Foods (if there is one!) combined. As for the smoking in bars, that still stinks. Literally. Like my hair and clothing the next day. But there are other ways to socialize, right?

Do Freelancers Have More Job Security?

2008-11-25T11:49:00.000-07:00

Michele Goodman of The Anti 9-to-5 Guide made an interesting argument recently on her blog. She posited that freelancers have more job security than nine-to-fivers - and are actually better equipped to survive the current economic crisis . Naturally, this got my attention.

I'd read last week how the government has extended unemployment benefits by seven or more weeks, and it got me thinking (a little morosely) how freelancers who work on a 1099 "independent contractor" basis like me don't qualify for unemployment. That gave me a little anxiety. The phrase "lack of a safety net" came to mind.

But Michele's perspective turned my thinking around. Because the serious upside for a freelancer like me is that I can't get laid off, ever, and if I'm good, I shouldn't need unemployment because I have the ability to adapt to a changing marketplace. In other words, to apply my skills to new industries (like the booming green space, my newest foray) and "follow the money."

Here's an excerpt of the four things she says make freelancers the ultimate survivors:

* Our checks come from multiple companies rather than just one. If one client tanks, we replace them with another.
* We’re endlessly flexible. If one market dies off, we adapt. Diversification is key, even when the economy isn’t taking a nosedive.
* We’re old pros at interviewing and selling ourselves. Freelancers are constantly “interviewing” on a monthly, if not weekly, basis. Plus, we have the most up-to-date bios, resumes, and portfolios around.
* It’s still cheaper for companies to hire freelancers than employees. If a company has 100 hours of work that no one on staff has the time or expertise to complete, they’re going to outsource it.

One final thought that applies to everyone. Whether you're full-time or freelance, you have a skill set that goes with you. So even in an era of layoffs, just remember: you don't always need an employer to have employment!

Someone's Been Kissing My Crush

2008-11-20T14:10:00.001-07:00

Meg Cooch, that's who. But I can forgive her because she sent me this great scouting report on New Mexico after visiting in October for the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta.

Here's what she had to say:

J and I had a fabulous time in Santa Fe and Albuquerque. We spent two days in Santa Fe at an adorable bed and breakfast off the center square called Madeleine Inn, which is also home to the Absolute Nirvana Spa. We loved the fresh cookies daily plus wine and cheese at 5:00 p.m. in front of the outdoor fire.

Overall, the food in Santa Fe was amazing, the art fabulous though depressingly expensive and the people super friendly. October is a great time to go - high 70s during the day, low 60s/high 50s at night. The only thing that made us pause was that there is little nightlife beyond 11:00 p.m. or midnight. It is a pretty slow town, but gorgeous. Albuquerque was good as well - far less quaint, but they have a great area near the University of New Mexico, which felt funky and cool. Again nightlife was less active, although there is a strip of bars/lounges in downtown.

The balloon festival was a sight to behold - hundreds of hot air balloons in the sky. Watching the balloons glowing as the sun went down was amazing. One downer was that it rained two days in a row so we missed the mass ascension because we were flying out the next morning, but apparently rain is very rare, and they had never really canceled festivities before this year.

Takeaways?

--Less-than-kicking nightlife, which I had heard before and am debating how much of a factor it is to me. Probably not a major one at this stage.

--The spa culture and New Age sensibilities? Groovy. Bring on the zen, even the eccentricity, I say. I like places that embrace individuality, and I plan to get a little kooky in my old age.

--Not much rain. I'm used to that in California. No biggie. (In LA, we average 15 inches of rainfall per year. Santa Fe averages 14 inches per year.)

--And finally, from her lovely photo of the changing Aspen trees, I was reminded how much I miss seasonal change here in LA. It's a big draw to have that again. (I'll recant once I'm buried in snow.)

Bottom line: No real deterrents. Only fuel to my fire. My crush remains alive and well!

Thanks, Meg!

p.s. For more photos of Santa Fe in autumn, check out this blog I recently discovered (and plan to follow regularly): http://choosing-santa-fe.blogspot.com/. It's about a woman who decided to leave the big city (Boston, in this case) for Santa Fe in 2006.

It's the Economy, Stupid

2008-11-19T15:24:00.000-07:00

There's a new poll in the right sidebar. Take it...now!

Essentially, I want to know how the current recession (let's just call it what it is) is affecting your ability and/or desire to break up with your current city and jump into bed with your dream town. My hunch is that homeowners and renters will have very different responses.

Speaking to a good friend last week, she described feeling stuck as a homeowner. In short, she didn't think there was any way she and her husband could sell their home and move as a result of the down market. There would be no takers. Then there's those in "upside down" mortgages - meaning, who owe more than their home is currently worth - who couldn't sell even if there was a buyer because of the huge loss. An estimated 12 million Americans are in that predicament, according to this sobering article.

But renters may be more apt to move, I suspect. Layoffs and declining business could drive those not tied to a home to areas with better job prospects or a lower cost of living. For me, the economic crisis has only underscored why it just doesn't make much sense for me to live in the city with second-least-affordable housing in the US.

You see, LA and I just don't have the same financial values, and we all know that's a deal breaker in relationships. LA believes in million-dollar mortgages and mountains of debt. I don't. And frankly, I can't. I'm self-employed, which means my income can fluctuate. Therefore, the lower my overhead, the greater my ability to weather any storm.

Fortunately, excepting a handful of cities, anywhere I move is going to be cheaper than LA, and I can have the things I want (oh sweet, sweet spare bedroom) without paying (much) more. Now that's an equation I can get behind. Hurray for telecommuting!

Got a related story? Think my theory has holes? Please chime in. But most importantly, take the poll!

Do You Feel My Stress?

2008-11-16T16:25:00.000-07:00

Forbes does.

They’ve ranked LA as the fourth most stressful city in the US, based on criteria like affordability, population density, unemployment, gas prices, air quality and a few other things. (Rounding out the top five are: 1) Chicago, 2) New York, 3) San Francisco and 5) Detroit. In other words, a short list of where I won’t be moving.)

Here’s the description of LA’s “stressors”:

Individuals living in the City of Angels deal with a 7.5% unemployment rate, the second least affordable homes relative to income in the country and the worst air quality in the country. Angelenos also have to fret about health concerns and often need to stay indoors when the smog gets really bad. Throw in expensive gas and this car-dependent city has a lot to stress about.

Now, I knew LA was going to be high on Forbes’ list, which also includes some surprises like Salt Lake City and Providence, once I saw that affordability was one of the factors. I mean, we’re the worst value for real estate in the country, and we are just behind New York and San Francisco in exorbitant rental rates. More than gas prices (because I don’t commute), unemployment (because I am self-employed) or smog (because, I swear, it has never affected my health or activities), this is what causes me stress in LA.

When I look at renting a larger place here (at least $25/square foot in my neighborhood nowadays), or buying something the same size or bigger (still at least $400/square foot in my neighborhood), I simply can’t justify giving up my rent-stabilized apartment of seven years. The jump in price per square foot is just, well, stupid.

Which means, if I really want things like a spare bedroom and a better home office (which I crave the way reality stars crave fame), I can’t afford a long-term relationship with LA. Because if you can’t upgrade during a severe housing recession, when can you?

Try nev-er. Ooof.

Familiar Places, New Validation

2008-11-12T13:20:00.000-07:00

First off, I apologize for the long gap between posts. Work got busy, and then I came down with a severe case of election fever. I know many of you hear me on that.

But I’m back – and I pledge to post more regularly in the coming months. Fortunately, there will be much to report and analyze. Let’s just say that geographic longings have stirred, old flames have resurfaced, and new “city dates” have been scheduled.

Starting in January, be on the lookout for a rekindled romance with Charleston, South Carolina; an extended first date with Jacksonville, Florida (where I will be telecommuting from); and a weekend fling with the polysyllabic spelling bee stumper, Apalachicola, Florida. Yes, I will be a snowbird again this winter, thanks to the peripatetic career of my lovely boyfriend, who works in the film industry.

Until then, there’s still much to discuss – such as my recent dip back into the well with New York City (full post on that coming soon) and the fascinating, on-point recommendations on where I should live from FindYourSpot.com. As I teased in my last post, I was astonished to find that half of their suggestions hailed from two states that were already looming on my blog. It gives credence to their questionnaire, which I think anyone who daydreams of moving must take.

Which two states, you ask? None other than New Mexico, home to my leading crush, Santa Fe, and Arkansas, where I randomly and serendipitously found myself this summer. Turns out my love affair with Eureka Springs, Arkansas, was not just chemistry, folks. Believe it or not, it turned up in my 24 recommendations, which means that according to FYS’s formula, there’s long-term compatibility too.

Without further ado, here are the 24 places FYS thinks I should consider living based on my input:

1. Silver City, New Mexico
2. Salisbury, Maryland
3. Truth or Consequences, New Mexico
4. Holiday Island, Arkansas
5. Eureka Springs, Arkansas
6. Charleston, West Virginia
7. Fayetteville, Arkansas
8. Mountain Home/Bull Shoals, Arkansas
9. Milwaukie, Oregon
10. Shreveport, Louisiana
11. Natchitoches, Lousiana
12. Salem, Oregon
13. Hot Springs, Arkansas
14. Cherokee Village, Arkansas
15. Las Cruces, New Mexico
16. Hagerstown, Maryland
17. Morgantown, West Virginia
18. Las Vegas, New Mexico
19. Heber Springs/Greer Ferry Lake, Arkansas
20. Little Rock, Arkansas
21. Carlsbad, New Mexico
22. St. Helens, Oregon
23. Corvallis, Oregon
24. Frederick, Maryland

Now, I should remind you that among other criteria, I requested a temperate to warm place (meaning, no extreme cold weather), very low cost of living (below national averages) and a small population, as I’ve been feeling drawn to small towns. And as you can see, those three choices reflected heavily in my results. Knowing me, I will probably re-take the quiz several times using different criteria, but this was my initial stab.

A few reactions (with more possibly to come in subsequent posts)…

• Equal to the eerie satisfaction of seeing my affection for New Mexico and Arkansas validated for me was the initial bafflement I felt at seeing Maryland appear three times. But then I remembered Arkansas and checked myself. Because what I learned during my time there was that it’s unfair to prejudge any place you haven’t really given a fair shake. As an intern, I lived in the Maryland suburbs of DC for two summers, but I've not revisited since I shed my DC biases, nor have I been to the three towns in question. I'm guessing it's quite different (especially in cost of living) once you leave the burbs.

• I admit, I felt sheer delight to see five small towns in New Mexico pop up. I also had a bell ring with Truth or Consequences (population 7,163). Who could forget a name like that? Turns out I had read a profile of it in Budget Travel’s Ten Coolest Small Towns 2008 issue. Upon further poking around, I discovered that Silver City (population 10,545) had been featured in Budget Travel's list the year before. As for the other three towns, which I know little to nothing about, you better believe I'll be scouring for scoop. Anyone been?

• Given my growing intrigue about New Mexico’s quirky small towns – and especially the description of Silver City as “the new Santa Fe” – I feel compelled to incorporate them into my still TBD trip there. It really warrants more than a weekend at this point, so my boyfriend and I are hoping to find a week in the spring (after we return from Florida) to do a proper road trip. Stay tuned!