Hello from Frankfurt. We made it here with little news to share, other than we were sad to say goodbye to Dubrovnik, but I think we are both looking forward to coming home. We are craving showers and clean clothes (sans the disgusting smokey smell!) and Mexican food. Oh, and pedicures and our own beds and friends.
We are staying at a sleepy cheeseball hotel near the airport. Not much to do here. We already ate strudel and drank coffee. Now we have moved on to wine and internet, wahoo! Think we are just doing a dinner at a nearby restaurant (not even German food, unfortunately. Italian and that is all that is really around) and then calling it an early night by our recent definition.
Just call me Helga!
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Friday, May 30, 2008
Hvar, and our return to Dubrovnik
An update:
We spent one last night in Split, and then woke early the next morning to catch a two-hour ferry ride to the island of Hvar.
I had been emailing a man all day in a desperate attempt to arrange a wine tour in Hvar. Within a half day's time, this man, Alan, set up a private tour for Lisa and I on the island. At the ferry station, Alan told me to find a woman holding a sign with my name on it, pay her and gather more instructions then (sound like "Mission Impossible"?) True to Alan's word, the woman was there, waiting for us in a chic outfit and Fendi sunglasses. She asked if I was of Croatian origin and confirmed that a Mercedes van would be waiting for us at the bus stop near the ferry. Lisa and I boarded the ferry that morning, hoping that we hadn't been taken.
After a quick lunch near the ferry station in Stari Grad ("Old Town") in Hvar, we went to the bus stop as instructed. 12:00 noon came and went, our scheduled time to meet the van for our wine tour. I tried to dial Alan's cell phone from a nearby pay phone but I couldn't figure out the instructions in Croatian, nor did I know Hvar's calling code. When 12:30 came, I was about to tell Lisa we should get a cab when a Mercedes van came blasting into the parking lot, nearly peformed a donut in the parking lot and an older lady waved frantically at me through the window. Lisa and I shrugged our shoulders at each other and smiled.
A woman who looked like she could be Susan Sarandon's mother jumped out of the van and exclaimed in thick accent, "Thank God we found you! Are you Joanna?" and picked up our luggage and threw it into the back of the van. They had gone to the bus station in old town Stari Grad, and were glad that we had stayed put, given that there are just two bus stops in the entire town. Our guide's name was Jo and our driver's name Ava. After we settled into the van, Jo turned to us and asked, "Would you like some ice cream?"
It's always ice cream with these people! (And yes, we did have ice cream, as we do each and every day here -- tiramasu, banana, hazelnut, lemon flavored, you name it!)
Jo gave us a short walking tour of Stari Grad, which is clean and pure and charming like Dubrovnik, only much more serene and smaller. We then went to a local vineyard where a man named Francisco, or "Franc" gave us a private tour and tasting. But our real treat waited for us at the next vineyard, where Jo, Lisa and I had a lovely meal of cheeses, fish carpaccio, olives and bread in the home of the wine maker himself! Our guide there, Marija, served us full glasses of five different wines and then some, something one cannot experience in Santa Barbara. (Jo kept insisting that we were going to either sleep the entire way to our apartment or sing!) Mr. Thomas, the owner, stopped by to say hello as well. He was an old man and his hair was a bit wild and wind swept. His wine, the Plavac Mali, is apparently one of the top 300 wines in the world, or so we're told.
Jo was pleased to find out that we were Croatian, and she explained to each winemaker that we were, in fact, Croatian only, "their grandmothers did not teach them the language!" She was so pleased to find out that "we've returned to our country" and hopes that we bring our entire families here one day. A former journalist, Jo has lived in China and Australia and Zagreb and just returned to Hvar a few years ago. She lives in a small village and has nine cats.
Alan, the man in charge of our schedule, set up an apartment for us overlooking Hvar Town. Although I consider him a magic maker, he was not able to schedule kayaking for us the next day (booked). Instead, we woke the next morning and our landlord, a woman who spoke no English, led us down to a port where a boat waited for us and we took a one hour tour of the islands. It was too windy for us to sail further out or kayak, unfortunately.
Later that night, we returned to Dubrovnik. It was nearly 10:00 when we arrived but we knew our way. We let ourselves into Nicholas' home, pushing open the doors and bypassing the sleeping dog. Our luggage was much heavier after having purchased a few bottles of wine and we must have clinked and clanked our way up the stairs in the pitch dark. We found our studio apartment on the top floor and said, "Home!" and collapsed on the bed.
Thursday we woke at 6 a.m. to head to Bosnia for the day. We visited Medagorje and Mostar. We were able to catch nearly a full mass at Medagorje (our bus was just a bit late) and we climbed Apparation Hill, although we insist it must be a mountain! We climbed in our flip flops and baked under the hot sun. The terrain was extremely rocky and we heard a few rattles here and there, suspecting snakes, but not sure. By the time we trekked back down the "Hill" to the bus, our shirts were completely soaked in sweat. Ugh.
Next, Mostar. We walked the bridge in Mostar that was built in year 1,000-and something. The bridge was originally put together with just flour and eggs since cement did not exist at that time, but the bridge was destroyed entirely in the 1993 war and reconstructed in 2004. It is a symbolism of peace and pride. Our guide was a girl about our age who appeared a bit bitter about the war, but insisted that Serbs and Croats and Bosnians do get along now ("They all study here! They live here! They fall in love!") We then enjoyed a fantastic traditional meal at a cafe before catching our bus back to Dubrovnik.
Today, back in Dubrovnik, we have toured the Palace here and also the Cathedral of Dubrovnik. Each time I walk into a Cathedral, see beautiful flowers or a building with the world's history in its awnings and arches, I think of Grampy. In the Cathedral of Dubrovnik, I sat in a pew while Lisa wandered, and I thought of my grandfather, thought about what a good man he was and the life he led...Lisa must have the ability to read my mind, because a few moments later she appeared with a candle in hand.
"Jo, come, let's light a candle," she said. "For Grampy."
She lit the candle and placed it with the 75-plus other candles burning and melting and glowing and enduring under that ancient Cathedral ceiling. And we waited a moment, just a moment, and I thought of him, and couldn't help but cry a little.
We emerged from the Cathedral and I said to her, "So how about some ice cream?"
"I swear," she said, "You read my mind sometimes. I was just thinking that."
And so it goes, our last full day in Dubrovnik.
We spent one last night in Split, and then woke early the next morning to catch a two-hour ferry ride to the island of Hvar.
I had been emailing a man all day in a desperate attempt to arrange a wine tour in Hvar. Within a half day's time, this man, Alan, set up a private tour for Lisa and I on the island. At the ferry station, Alan told me to find a woman holding a sign with my name on it, pay her and gather more instructions then (sound like "Mission Impossible"?) True to Alan's word, the woman was there, waiting for us in a chic outfit and Fendi sunglasses. She asked if I was of Croatian origin and confirmed that a Mercedes van would be waiting for us at the bus stop near the ferry. Lisa and I boarded the ferry that morning, hoping that we hadn't been taken.
After a quick lunch near the ferry station in Stari Grad ("Old Town") in Hvar, we went to the bus stop as instructed. 12:00 noon came and went, our scheduled time to meet the van for our wine tour. I tried to dial Alan's cell phone from a nearby pay phone but I couldn't figure out the instructions in Croatian, nor did I know Hvar's calling code. When 12:30 came, I was about to tell Lisa we should get a cab when a Mercedes van came blasting into the parking lot, nearly peformed a donut in the parking lot and an older lady waved frantically at me through the window. Lisa and I shrugged our shoulders at each other and smiled.
A woman who looked like she could be Susan Sarandon's mother jumped out of the van and exclaimed in thick accent, "Thank God we found you! Are you Joanna?" and picked up our luggage and threw it into the back of the van. They had gone to the bus station in old town Stari Grad, and were glad that we had stayed put, given that there are just two bus stops in the entire town. Our guide's name was Jo and our driver's name Ava. After we settled into the van, Jo turned to us and asked, "Would you like some ice cream?"
It's always ice cream with these people! (And yes, we did have ice cream, as we do each and every day here -- tiramasu, banana, hazelnut, lemon flavored, you name it!)
Jo gave us a short walking tour of Stari Grad, which is clean and pure and charming like Dubrovnik, only much more serene and smaller. We then went to a local vineyard where a man named Francisco, or "Franc" gave us a private tour and tasting. But our real treat waited for us at the next vineyard, where Jo, Lisa and I had a lovely meal of cheeses, fish carpaccio, olives and bread in the home of the wine maker himself! Our guide there, Marija, served us full glasses of five different wines and then some, something one cannot experience in Santa Barbara. (Jo kept insisting that we were going to either sleep the entire way to our apartment or sing!) Mr. Thomas, the owner, stopped by to say hello as well. He was an old man and his hair was a bit wild and wind swept. His wine, the Plavac Mali, is apparently one of the top 300 wines in the world, or so we're told.
Jo was pleased to find out that we were Croatian, and she explained to each winemaker that we were, in fact, Croatian only, "their grandmothers did not teach them the language!" She was so pleased to find out that "we've returned to our country" and hopes that we bring our entire families here one day. A former journalist, Jo has lived in China and Australia and Zagreb and just returned to Hvar a few years ago. She lives in a small village and has nine cats.
Alan, the man in charge of our schedule, set up an apartment for us overlooking Hvar Town. Although I consider him a magic maker, he was not able to schedule kayaking for us the next day (booked). Instead, we woke the next morning and our landlord, a woman who spoke no English, led us down to a port where a boat waited for us and we took a one hour tour of the islands. It was too windy for us to sail further out or kayak, unfortunately.
Later that night, we returned to Dubrovnik. It was nearly 10:00 when we arrived but we knew our way. We let ourselves into Nicholas' home, pushing open the doors and bypassing the sleeping dog. Our luggage was much heavier after having purchased a few bottles of wine and we must have clinked and clanked our way up the stairs in the pitch dark. We found our studio apartment on the top floor and said, "Home!" and collapsed on the bed.
Thursday we woke at 6 a.m. to head to Bosnia for the day. We visited Medagorje and Mostar. We were able to catch nearly a full mass at Medagorje (our bus was just a bit late) and we climbed Apparation Hill, although we insist it must be a mountain! We climbed in our flip flops and baked under the hot sun. The terrain was extremely rocky and we heard a few rattles here and there, suspecting snakes, but not sure. By the time we trekked back down the "Hill" to the bus, our shirts were completely soaked in sweat. Ugh.
Next, Mostar. We walked the bridge in Mostar that was built in year 1,000-and something. The bridge was originally put together with just flour and eggs since cement did not exist at that time, but the bridge was destroyed entirely in the 1993 war and reconstructed in 2004. It is a symbolism of peace and pride. Our guide was a girl about our age who appeared a bit bitter about the war, but insisted that Serbs and Croats and Bosnians do get along now ("They all study here! They live here! They fall in love!") We then enjoyed a fantastic traditional meal at a cafe before catching our bus back to Dubrovnik.
Today, back in Dubrovnik, we have toured the Palace here and also the Cathedral of Dubrovnik. Each time I walk into a Cathedral, see beautiful flowers or a building with the world's history in its awnings and arches, I think of Grampy. In the Cathedral of Dubrovnik, I sat in a pew while Lisa wandered, and I thought of my grandfather, thought about what a good man he was and the life he led...Lisa must have the ability to read my mind, because a few moments later she appeared with a candle in hand.
"Jo, come, let's light a candle," she said. "For Grampy."
She lit the candle and placed it with the 75-plus other candles burning and melting and glowing and enduring under that ancient Cathedral ceiling. And we waited a moment, just a moment, and I thought of him, and couldn't help but cry a little.
We emerged from the Cathedral and I said to her, "So how about some ice cream?"
"I swear," she said, "You read my mind sometimes. I was just thinking that."
And so it goes, our last full day in Dubrovnik.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Split
We arrived in Split last night, two weary travelers, not having gone to bed until 5:30 a.m. the night prior. (We were happy to discover, upon leaving Dubrovnik's old town our last night there, that our landlord owns the bar next to our building...and so the night went on).
Although we arrived in Split with no plan on where to stay and it was evening, we needn't have worried. A grandma-type met us the moment we descended from the bus and offered us a "sobe" or room, for the night. We wheeled our luggage behind her, through the walls and down the smooth steps and around the market, until we went through the Split Palace East Gate, or as they call it: Silver Gate. Lisa and I are staying there, just inside the Palace, in a three-bedroom abode.
Split is an ancient city and is beautiful in a way much different than Dubrovnik. Its walls are crumbling and old and tired. They are dirty and the architecture is a wondeful college of roman and middle ages and early 19th century. The people of Split live here in a very romantic fashion, amongst the yawning columns and sore buildings. The excavation process and restoration has only been going on since post-World War II.
The stones and walk ways are so smooth, worn and polished and shiny from centuries of use, that we slide and slip our way throughout the Palace.
Today we took a private guided walking tour throughout the Palace and just outside the gates. Our guide was a feisty and proud native who spoke good English and loves her cigarettes. She had brown sugar eyes and orange hair that framed her face like a helmut. She took us inside the Church here and Temple of Jupiter. I was impressed with her detail and knowledge and stories.
She insisted that we must buy Italian shoes. They come cheap in Croatia.
People here eat ice cream and pizza before 9 a.m. We noticed this as we sipped our cappicinos and nibbled on omelet bites. If we had wanted to blend with the locals, we should have had an ice cream cone in hand.
We also strolled through the market, a huge affair of carts and stands and locals pushing through the crowd like mules. This market makes the Brentwood market look itty bitty. We strolled through rows and rows of cherrys and black berries and fields' worth of strawberries, bright and red and lush. We pass through a meat market row, where salami and meat and carcasses hung in the open air. Satin bras and panties and cotton clothing can be bought and bargained for, in mass quantities and various styles.
I am happy to have made contact with a tour guide in Hvar (our destination for tomorrow). If all goes according to plan, we will arrive in Hvar by way of ferry at about 11 a.m. and after a lunch near the water, a guide will find us and take us wine tasting for the day. I believe it is a private tour but that is to be determined.
It is fitting that I love the smell of lavendar so much. Hvar Island is known for its lavendar production and here at the market and throughout Southern Croatia old women sell lavendar -- oils, dried, in pouches, etc. We are told that when we reach Hvar we can smell the lavendar in the breeze, will view field of olive trees and vineyards...
Although we arrived in Split with no plan on where to stay and it was evening, we needn't have worried. A grandma-type met us the moment we descended from the bus and offered us a "sobe" or room, for the night. We wheeled our luggage behind her, through the walls and down the smooth steps and around the market, until we went through the Split Palace East Gate, or as they call it: Silver Gate. Lisa and I are staying there, just inside the Palace, in a three-bedroom abode.
Split is an ancient city and is beautiful in a way much different than Dubrovnik. Its walls are crumbling and old and tired. They are dirty and the architecture is a wondeful college of roman and middle ages and early 19th century. The people of Split live here in a very romantic fashion, amongst the yawning columns and sore buildings. The excavation process and restoration has only been going on since post-World War II.
The stones and walk ways are so smooth, worn and polished and shiny from centuries of use, that we slide and slip our way throughout the Palace.
Today we took a private guided walking tour throughout the Palace and just outside the gates. Our guide was a feisty and proud native who spoke good English and loves her cigarettes. She had brown sugar eyes and orange hair that framed her face like a helmut. She took us inside the Church here and Temple of Jupiter. I was impressed with her detail and knowledge and stories.
She insisted that we must buy Italian shoes. They come cheap in Croatia.
People here eat ice cream and pizza before 9 a.m. We noticed this as we sipped our cappicinos and nibbled on omelet bites. If we had wanted to blend with the locals, we should have had an ice cream cone in hand.
We also strolled through the market, a huge affair of carts and stands and locals pushing through the crowd like mules. This market makes the Brentwood market look itty bitty. We strolled through rows and rows of cherrys and black berries and fields' worth of strawberries, bright and red and lush. We pass through a meat market row, where salami and meat and carcasses hung in the open air. Satin bras and panties and cotton clothing can be bought and bargained for, in mass quantities and various styles.
I am happy to have made contact with a tour guide in Hvar (our destination for tomorrow). If all goes according to plan, we will arrive in Hvar by way of ferry at about 11 a.m. and after a lunch near the water, a guide will find us and take us wine tasting for the day. I believe it is a private tour but that is to be determined.
It is fitting that I love the smell of lavendar so much. Hvar Island is known for its lavendar production and here at the market and throughout Southern Croatia old women sell lavendar -- oils, dried, in pouches, etc. We are told that when we reach Hvar we can smell the lavendar in the breeze, will view field of olive trees and vineyards...
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Hello from Croatia
Lisa and I are in Croatia. We made it through the 10.5 hour flight (my sleeping pills helped) and two back to back connections in London and then Vienna. In Vienna they held the flight for us. We got off of our plane from London, stepped on to the runway, and met someone from the airline who allowed us to bypass security and come into the airport the back way. Due to this, we did not miss our flight as we suspected; instead, we were the first ones to board.
Nicholas, the man of the house where we're staying at (husband of Anamarija) met us promptly at the airport. He apologized for speaking poor English, carried our bags to the car, and drove fast along the streets that hovered just above the ocean. (He's hot). We've yet to meet Anamarija but I'm sure she's fantastic, as she was very friendly to me via email. Nicholas is easy to get along with, laughs a lot and tries hard to communicate. Our little studio apartment on the top of their three-story house has a TV, kitchen, full bathroom, and its windows overlook the sea. We open up the windows and throw back the shutters to let the ocean breeze in.
Yesterday we had drinks in an Irish pub at night (Irish pub. Ironic, I know, since we're in Croatia) and met a group of five friendly Croatians. They think Borat is funny ("Sexy time! I like you! You like me?...") They showed us around the city, to different bars and clubs, and at the night they were kind enough to give us a ride home. They range in age from 22 to 36.
So far we've walked Dubrovnik's city walls, visited a few monasteries (the city is littered with ém) and eaten a lot of pizza. We hop a bus tomorrow for Split, about a four-hour bus ride north. Later this week we are sea kayaking, heading to Bosnia to visit Medugorje and the city of Mostar, and hopefully doing a wine tour.
We are in paradise!
Nicholas, the man of the house where we're staying at (husband of Anamarija) met us promptly at the airport. He apologized for speaking poor English, carried our bags to the car, and drove fast along the streets that hovered just above the ocean. (He's hot). We've yet to meet Anamarija but I'm sure she's fantastic, as she was very friendly to me via email. Nicholas is easy to get along with, laughs a lot and tries hard to communicate. Our little studio apartment on the top of their three-story house has a TV, kitchen, full bathroom, and its windows overlook the sea. We open up the windows and throw back the shutters to let the ocean breeze in.
Yesterday we had drinks in an Irish pub at night (Irish pub. Ironic, I know, since we're in Croatia) and met a group of five friendly Croatians. They think Borat is funny ("Sexy time! I like you! You like me?...") They showed us around the city, to different bars and clubs, and at the night they were kind enough to give us a ride home. They range in age from 22 to 36.
So far we've walked Dubrovnik's city walls, visited a few monasteries (the city is littered with ém) and eaten a lot of pizza. We hop a bus tomorrow for Split, about a four-hour bus ride north. Later this week we are sea kayaking, heading to Bosnia to visit Medugorje and the city of Mostar, and hopefully doing a wine tour.
We are in paradise!
Friday, May 9, 2008
Chaos
Today is not the usual Friday. Today the office has been taken over, not with sleepy nine-to-fivers who are pretending they are working until they can quietly slip out to happy hour, but with herds of hungry, ravished, panicked people. Stampedes of ‘em!
Make-it-or-break-it deadlines this week have led to an influx in food in this place. Every day this week we’ve had lunch catered in—Greek food, Chinese food, pizza, sandwiches, cookies (mound and mounds of fresh baked globs of goodness!), apple pie, peach pie, catered in breakfasts of yogurt and coffee cake and granola and bagels. *whew!*
I am convinced my company is trying to make me fat. I will stay convinced until my HR “Health and the Workplace” newsletter is found in my inbox sometime next week.
Today brings out the best and worst in people. One co-worker props his feet up on his desk while he and I watch clips of Tom Cruise and Oprah. Another brags about the fact that she hasn’t gained weight this week, and lists out what she eats every single day. And I’ve taken to counting the number of times a certain person says “Correct!” in a conversation.
The biggest drama this afternoon was when someone came by our pizza party and proceeded to pick toppings off of the pizza, dipping their pale slimy fingers in and out of each pizza box, picking the toppings as though they were berries. Licking those mouse-like hands after every bite. *Shudder*
And let’s not forget it’s Mother’s Day in a few days, people. Our department is having a competition of sorts. It’s called: Who’s Yo Mamma? Participants bring in a picture of their mother and then we have to guess whose mom is whose. The two black people in my department refuse to participate because they know the odds are against them.
Another tray of cookies has arrived. Someone. Help. Me.
Jo. Signing off.
P.S. I’m in Arizona this weekend. Two weeks ‘til Croatia.
Make-it-or-break-it deadlines this week have led to an influx in food in this place. Every day this week we’ve had lunch catered in—Greek food, Chinese food, pizza, sandwiches, cookies (mound and mounds of fresh baked globs of goodness!), apple pie, peach pie, catered in breakfasts of yogurt and coffee cake and granola and bagels. *whew!*
I am convinced my company is trying to make me fat. I will stay convinced until my HR “Health and the Workplace” newsletter is found in my inbox sometime next week.
Today brings out the best and worst in people. One co-worker props his feet up on his desk while he and I watch clips of Tom Cruise and Oprah. Another brags about the fact that she hasn’t gained weight this week, and lists out what she eats every single day. And I’ve taken to counting the number of times a certain person says “Correct!” in a conversation.
The biggest drama this afternoon was when someone came by our pizza party and proceeded to pick toppings off of the pizza, dipping their pale slimy fingers in and out of each pizza box, picking the toppings as though they were berries. Licking those mouse-like hands after every bite. *Shudder*
And let’s not forget it’s Mother’s Day in a few days, people. Our department is having a competition of sorts. It’s called: Who’s Yo Mamma? Participants bring in a picture of their mother and then we have to guess whose mom is whose. The two black people in my department refuse to participate because they know the odds are against them.
Another tray of cookies has arrived. Someone. Help. Me.
Jo. Signing off.
P.S. I’m in Arizona this weekend. Two weeks ‘til Croatia.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Room-inations
Roomie and I are approaching our one year anniversary (awww). We're coming up on the tippity tail end of our one-year lease at our Brentwood Chateau. This celebration of sorts leads us into a couple of predicaments: She is moving in with her boyfriend and must find a suitable place, and I am left with picking up the pieces of a broken heart and finding a new Roomie (Roomie Deux!) or moving myself. *shrug*
My friend once told me that finding housing in Los Angeles that is suitable to live in is horrible. Really. She said that the projects of Chicago offer nicer amenities than Los Angeles. I'm reminded of how proud Roomie and I were to find our place. It was a Saturday in June and I had flown in on a last minute flight from Arizona, optimistic, perhaps naive, figuring I could find a place in a day or so. My boyfriend at the time sort of shook his head at me, like a parent might do to a child who says, "I want to grow up and be a garbage man!" or like like a nurse does to an insane patient who thinks he has wings. Or like a boyfriend does to a blond chick from Arizona who thinks finding an apartment in LA is easy.
As Borat might say: Not so much!
But for Roomie and I it was easy, I mean it. She was a random roommate and she was normal. We met at a Coffee Bean in Brentwood early that Saturday morning (just to make sure the other wasn't a freak) and played with our coffee and tea and giggled nervously as cars swooshed by. Finally, we agreed to go find a place. I only had a couple of days and we had to move fast. We drove around the neighborhood in her SUV and I held her laptop in my lap so we could pick up free wi-fi and scope out Criaigslist ads as we were out and about. She gunned her car through disjointed intersections, crowded with angry cars and pedestrians and I held on and I marveled and I wondered. "You gotta keep moving," she had said, "It's the LA mentality." So we moved.
Some of the places we saw made me feel dirty. One had what looked like shit stains (shit! stains! Ew!) on the carpet. The landlord smelled like tequila and the tiles in the kitchen, on both counter and floor, were retro, chipped and broken. The shower was green with mold.
"Are you going to bring in a maid?" I had asked.
Other places, we didn't see. The landlords ditched us and failed to return our desperate calls.
Finally, we ended up on our street, at our gate. It was the last showing of the day and we walked with a air of defeat. We met with our odd landlord, who sort of twitched when we looked at her directly in the eyes and I noticed she had blue eyeliner on the edges of those twitchy eyes, sort of an artsy punk wannabe look. She wore short shorts that displayed her thunder thighs and she huffed around on thick cork platform heels. Roomie and I exchanged nervous glances.
I don't recall the details of the place. I don't remember what it looked like when we first saw it. All I know is that it was sans shit stains. And the landlord appeared sober. Sign me up!
And it's been an unbelievable year. We pride ourselves to this day on having found a place in just one day. We won.
And here we are again, a year later, summer is fast approaching.
Wherever I do go, it's gotta be month-to-month. I might have sudden urges to wander and explore beyond these hills...
My friend once told me that finding housing in Los Angeles that is suitable to live in is horrible. Really. She said that the projects of Chicago offer nicer amenities than Los Angeles. I'm reminded of how proud Roomie and I were to find our place. It was a Saturday in June and I had flown in on a last minute flight from Arizona, optimistic, perhaps naive, figuring I could find a place in a day or so. My boyfriend at the time sort of shook his head at me, like a parent might do to a child who says, "I want to grow up and be a garbage man!" or like like a nurse does to an insane patient who thinks he has wings. Or like a boyfriend does to a blond chick from Arizona who thinks finding an apartment in LA is easy.
As Borat might say: Not so much!
But for Roomie and I it was easy, I mean it. She was a random roommate and she was normal. We met at a Coffee Bean in Brentwood early that Saturday morning (just to make sure the other wasn't a freak) and played with our coffee and tea and giggled nervously as cars swooshed by. Finally, we agreed to go find a place. I only had a couple of days and we had to move fast. We drove around the neighborhood in her SUV and I held her laptop in my lap so we could pick up free wi-fi and scope out Criaigslist ads as we were out and about. She gunned her car through disjointed intersections, crowded with angry cars and pedestrians and I held on and I marveled and I wondered. "You gotta keep moving," she had said, "It's the LA mentality." So we moved.
Some of the places we saw made me feel dirty. One had what looked like shit stains (shit! stains! Ew!) on the carpet. The landlord smelled like tequila and the tiles in the kitchen, on both counter and floor, were retro, chipped and broken. The shower was green with mold.
"Are you going to bring in a maid?" I had asked.
Other places, we didn't see. The landlords ditched us and failed to return our desperate calls.
Finally, we ended up on our street, at our gate. It was the last showing of the day and we walked with a air of defeat. We met with our odd landlord, who sort of twitched when we looked at her directly in the eyes and I noticed she had blue eyeliner on the edges of those twitchy eyes, sort of an artsy punk wannabe look. She wore short shorts that displayed her thunder thighs and she huffed around on thick cork platform heels. Roomie and I exchanged nervous glances.
I don't recall the details of the place. I don't remember what it looked like when we first saw it. All I know is that it was sans shit stains. And the landlord appeared sober. Sign me up!
And it's been an unbelievable year. We pride ourselves to this day on having found a place in just one day. We won.
And here we are again, a year later, summer is fast approaching.
Wherever I do go, it's gotta be month-to-month. I might have sudden urges to wander and explore beyond these hills...
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Death by Phone Call
I'm sipping my usual hazelnut life raft this morning and putting off the Wednesday Number Crunch Session. I've got other things to ponder this morning, namely, interoffice communication.
Now, they say that everyone communicates differently. There are the Mass Emailers, who enjoy sending email updates about anything and everything. Some of them aren't even work related. Some of them have subject lines like "Give This Puppy a Home!" and then I have to open the email and download a huge file of puppy pictures and feel like an asshole because I can't adopt the puppy. Mass Emailers (MEs) feel an urge to "get the word out." They are human fire alarms. Perhaps they were cheerleaders in a past life. Similar to MEs are the Serial CCers. I work with such a person who cc's me on every single email they send out. It doesn't matter if it has one word in it ("Ok.") or if it's relevent but as long as everyone's kept in the loop, they don't have to worry about doing their job because everyone else should be on top of it.
The point is, I could go on and on about the different types of Dilbert / Office Space / The Office communicators and people I deal with on a daily basis (ask about the Cinco de Mayo celebration we had on Monday) but I can't. I wanted to share the latest encounter: The Interoffice Caller (IC). The IC is potentially the most toxic and detrimental of all, especially if you're like me and have a phone from 1985 and you're struggling to figure out how to send calls straight to voicemail. The IC sits just a mere 12 feet or so away and knows my extension, and others', by heart. The IC calls to discuss important projects. The IC will call you when you're on a conference call and he or she can clearly hear that you're on the phone, yet they call anyway (sometimes two or three times in a row!) and proceed to leave no voicemail. Hell, the IC called just to chat about my weekend this past Monday. The IC called after they emailed me and, since I didn't respond within 30 seconds or less, they called just to ask if I received the email. That's all.
It's getting to be painful. Sometimes I'll turn my phone volume down super low and pretend that I am in deep thought and I can get away with ignoring the call that way. Or I can be passive aggressive about the whole thing and do an annoyed sigh when they ring and act all distracted. But that's not really my style. I suppose I could start calling THEM every 10 minutes or so and see if that works, but what if they like it?
Someone suggested I just shout over towards their desk, "I'm not here!" when they call. That might just be goofy enough to work.
Now, they say that everyone communicates differently. There are the Mass Emailers, who enjoy sending email updates about anything and everything. Some of them aren't even work related. Some of them have subject lines like "Give This Puppy a Home!" and then I have to open the email and download a huge file of puppy pictures and feel like an asshole because I can't adopt the puppy. Mass Emailers (MEs) feel an urge to "get the word out." They are human fire alarms. Perhaps they were cheerleaders in a past life. Similar to MEs are the Serial CCers. I work with such a person who cc's me on every single email they send out. It doesn't matter if it has one word in it ("Ok.") or if it's relevent but as long as everyone's kept in the loop, they don't have to worry about doing their job because everyone else should be on top of it.
The point is, I could go on and on about the different types of Dilbert / Office Space / The Office communicators and people I deal with on a daily basis (ask about the Cinco de Mayo celebration we had on Monday) but I can't. I wanted to share the latest encounter: The Interoffice Caller (IC). The IC is potentially the most toxic and detrimental of all, especially if you're like me and have a phone from 1985 and you're struggling to figure out how to send calls straight to voicemail. The IC sits just a mere 12 feet or so away and knows my extension, and others', by heart. The IC calls to discuss important projects. The IC will call you when you're on a conference call and he or she can clearly hear that you're on the phone, yet they call anyway (sometimes two or three times in a row!) and proceed to leave no voicemail. Hell, the IC called just to chat about my weekend this past Monday. The IC called after they emailed me and, since I didn't respond within 30 seconds or less, they called just to ask if I received the email. That's all.
It's getting to be painful. Sometimes I'll turn my phone volume down super low and pretend that I am in deep thought and I can get away with ignoring the call that way. Or I can be passive aggressive about the whole thing and do an annoyed sigh when they ring and act all distracted. But that's not really my style. I suppose I could start calling THEM every 10 minutes or so and see if that works, but what if they like it?
Someone suggested I just shout over towards their desk, "I'm not here!" when they call. That might just be goofy enough to work.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
I'm Sorry = $1
Chicago friends and I had breakfast this past Saturday morning in the South Loop at the lovely Bongo Room (yeah, you wouldn't think to go to a place called Bongo Room for breakfast but it was fantastic food!). Our waitress forgot my coffee, nearly dropped a bottle of hot sauce in my lap, the fork went flying off the table (but behold! My cat-like reflexes caught it in time!) and then she charged us wrong on a few items on the bill.When she brought us the check we noticed "Apologies" on there, good for a two-buck credit. Is that how much they're going for these days? Is that how they do it in Chicago?
Bottom of check (image is cut off) also said "Happy Holidays!"
Wanderer
Am I going through some type of quarter life crisis? I am not the same person I was a year ago, or two years ago, when I was scared to move to Los Angeles. At the time I wondered what I would do without my group of 25 friends and pub crawls and Arizona desert, the warm fluff of my dog, the summer heat.
I never thought I'd end up here in Los Angeles. And this is not to say I WILL end up here, as life is still happening and I am so young. But some days I wake up and wonder how I got here. And even more -- I wonder how I am so happy here, in this place that I always brushed off as a less than idealistic place to live. I always dreamed of Chicago! New York! Washington, D.C.! In my tunnel vision point of view, life had more to offer than this sprawling concrete city by the sea, and yet--and yet--Los Angeles crept upon me and these days I am glad to be here. Happy to have my red beach cruiser. Happy to be in charming Brentwood. Happy to wake up early in the morning, not because of insomnia or noise but due to the sunlight leaking through my blinds.
But still...I wonder what else is out there.
I told a friend I thought about moving, and she said, "Jo, what's the worse that could happen? You moved to Los Angeles and the worse did happen [the break up] and you're so much better off for it!
It was a sink or swim situation and I swam. I flew.
I never thought I'd end up here in Los Angeles. And this is not to say I WILL end up here, as life is still happening and I am so young. But some days I wake up and wonder how I got here. And even more -- I wonder how I am so happy here, in this place that I always brushed off as a less than idealistic place to live. I always dreamed of Chicago! New York! Washington, D.C.! In my tunnel vision point of view, life had more to offer than this sprawling concrete city by the sea, and yet--and yet--Los Angeles crept upon me and these days I am glad to be here. Happy to have my red beach cruiser. Happy to be in charming Brentwood. Happy to wake up early in the morning, not because of insomnia or noise but due to the sunlight leaking through my blinds.
But still...I wonder what else is out there.
I told a friend I thought about moving, and she said, "Jo, what's the worse that could happen? You moved to Los Angeles and the worse did happen [the break up] and you're so much better off for it!
It was a sink or swim situation and I swam. I flew.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Chi Town Baby
This past weekend was spent in the Windy City. It felt good to land there on Friday night, after lazily orbiting the cloud puffs above Midway until we were cleared for landing. My friend met me at the airport, umbrella in hand, looking ever the City Girl. We were loud on the train back to the city, our laughter echoing throughout the train car. There was me, tired and goofy from the long flight; she, patiently responding to my questions: Do you wear long underwear to work? Do you use an umbrella in the snow? What do you do about heels in the cold? Are you safe on the train at night?
I viewed Chicago with new eyes this trip. It's one of my favorite cities, that I know, but this trip I scrutinized and analyzed: Could I live in Chicago? I absorbed more details than I would have two years ago when my Arizona friend and I had an excellent weekend there; too much food, too much wine...all the details, lost in the wind and the blur of moments passing by.
A few Chicago observations:
1) The weather changes, fast. (Lots of layering, ladies!)
2) Everyone and their brother wears North Face jackets, sweat shirts, hoodies, yadda yadda.
3) Women don't wear nearly the amount of make up as they do in Arizona and Los Angeles. It's all toned down. Natural. It's ok to go out and about in sweats.
4) For the midwest, I noticed an awful lot of Mexican restaurants.
5) Chicago people are FRIENDLY.
6) There are these new-fangled modes of transportation they're using out there: Feet! It's a walking city.
7) Although smaller than Los Angeles, Chicago has plenty more neighborhoods. And unlike Los Angeles, those Chicagoans are sneaky about it. There aren't clues like changed street signs and fire hydrants and flags to let you know when you're in one neighborhood or the next.
8) Not really an observation but a Jo Feeling. It was strange walking the lake front and not hearing the roaring of the ocean, the lapping of the waves.
9) Chicago architecture allows me to marvel and wonder; I loved the old buildings and ivy and brick.
That's about it. I've got thinking to do. I probably won't even have time to think until I return from Croatia.
I met some people coming back from Chicago and for whatever reason, they've left me thinking, about my life and theirs. A girl on the plane, a lonely dancer, who moved to Los Angeles from Philly to pursue her dreams. She told me to make a list, to weigh pros and cons, about moving and big decisions. Although a complete stranger, she seemed tuned in to my reflective nature. I regret not giving her my phone number so that she might feel a bit less lonely out in this new city. Also, a comically awkward and straight forward man on my shuttle back to the parking lot. He nearly shouted his questions at the bus driver, and then stepped on to the bus, wearing this awful black and white track suit and cracking corny jokes that only I laughed at. He wanted to know where I was from, where I was going, what I did for a living. He's a writer, and it was nice to meet a writer out in Los Angeles that is successful and not in "the industry." I could have learned from him, and I should have given him my business card.
I viewed Chicago with new eyes this trip. It's one of my favorite cities, that I know, but this trip I scrutinized and analyzed: Could I live in Chicago? I absorbed more details than I would have two years ago when my Arizona friend and I had an excellent weekend there; too much food, too much wine...all the details, lost in the wind and the blur of moments passing by.
A few Chicago observations:
1) The weather changes, fast. (Lots of layering, ladies!)
2) Everyone and their brother wears North Face jackets, sweat shirts, hoodies, yadda yadda.
3) Women don't wear nearly the amount of make up as they do in Arizona and Los Angeles. It's all toned down. Natural. It's ok to go out and about in sweats.
4) For the midwest, I noticed an awful lot of Mexican restaurants.
5) Chicago people are FRIENDLY.
6) There are these new-fangled modes of transportation they're using out there: Feet! It's a walking city.
7) Although smaller than Los Angeles, Chicago has plenty more neighborhoods. And unlike Los Angeles, those Chicagoans are sneaky about it. There aren't clues like changed street signs and fire hydrants and flags to let you know when you're in one neighborhood or the next.
8) Not really an observation but a Jo Feeling. It was strange walking the lake front and not hearing the roaring of the ocean, the lapping of the waves.
9) Chicago architecture allows me to marvel and wonder; I loved the old buildings and ivy and brick.
That's about it. I've got thinking to do. I probably won't even have time to think until I return from Croatia.
I met some people coming back from Chicago and for whatever reason, they've left me thinking, about my life and theirs. A girl on the plane, a lonely dancer, who moved to Los Angeles from Philly to pursue her dreams. She told me to make a list, to weigh pros and cons, about moving and big decisions. Although a complete stranger, she seemed tuned in to my reflective nature. I regret not giving her my phone number so that she might feel a bit less lonely out in this new city. Also, a comically awkward and straight forward man on my shuttle back to the parking lot. He nearly shouted his questions at the bus driver, and then stepped on to the bus, wearing this awful black and white track suit and cracking corny jokes that only I laughed at. He wanted to know where I was from, where I was going, what I did for a living. He's a writer, and it was nice to meet a writer out in Los Angeles that is successful and not in "the industry." I could have learned from him, and I should have given him my business card.
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