Life has gotten a little overwhelming these days, and so has my cucumber patch. Back in July I planted two cute little cucumber plants, that have proceeded to take over the rock in front of them (meant to divert them from growing into the grass, the fence, the neighbor’s side of the fence, and a big lady statue that came with the house. As a result, we’ve been eating cucumbers every day since late July and making lots, and lots, and lots of pickles. Basically, friends and family can expect pickles as Solstichristmakwanzukah gifts and we will still have enough to get us through the winter.
I’d love to say that I’m thriving in the excitement of the 58 hours of work, home renovations (we plastered and painted BOTH bedrooms last weekend), and part-time freelance dance gigs. Generally speaking, I crave a busy schedule and function better when I have plenty of things to occupy my head space.
But I think last week I realized what my limits are. When you can’t find the time to go to the dentist, brush your hair, or feed your cats, maybe it’s become a bit too much.
If I’m to be my best self, all the time, I’m going to have to figure out what the balance is between busy and TOO busy.
I guess you have to experience the extremes before you can find that sweet spot where you have enough things on your plate to feel important, but also enough time and energy to putts around at home and pick cucumbers.
I love happy accidents on vacation. Like running into the Taste of Madison when you have nothing to do the night before a spontaneous Labor Day beer tour of South Central Wisconsin. And even though the barista put whip on my no-whip hot chocolate, the Starbucks across from the Capital Building was a nice place to get out to the rain for a bit.
Because of its proximity to the heavy metal-themed music stage of the Taste of Madison, I was embarrassed enough to have this picture snapped in front of the ‘Buck, which is why I opted to not give the thumbs up this time.
I received such generous support on my Facebook post yesterday regarding one idiot driver who perceived the bike lane on Halstead St. as a free ticket to exit his vehicle without looking in the side mirror. I mean, it’s not like bikes ride in the bike lane anyway.
Let me recreate the scenario:
I’m riding through Greektown during the lunch hour (against better judgement).
Car driver X opens his door at the precise moment I’m passing his car.
I swerve.
He continues to get out of his car.
I yell. “Jesus!”
He mutters “…sorry…”
“…sorry…”
I’d like to emphasize that the ellipses and all lowercase letters are meant to indicate the relaxed, nonchalant tone with with the driver responded. Awesome. However, I lived to ride again – and today I was decked head to toe in electric green. This afternoon, as I was riding home on Diversey a lady opened her door on me.
Let me recreate the scenario:
I’m riding West on Diversey wearing an electric green jersey, neon blue and green flowered helmet, matching sunglasses, and bright red shoes, with my super bright “Mr Blinky” light turned on.
Car driver Y opens her door at the precise moment I’m passing her car.
I swerve.
She continues to get out of her car.
I yell. “Jesus!!!! Lady!!!”
She mutters, “I saw you….”
Okay. Look:
*steps on soap box*
Bike lanes occasionally have bikes riding down them. Look in your mirror. Roads without bike lanes also occasionally have bikes riding down them. If you look in your mirror and see a bike coming, don’t get out of the car. Count to two, and let the bleeping bike pass.
I’m not a bike messenger. I’m not even a hipster. I’m just a girl who doesn’t have her own car, doesn’t want to pay for the bus, and likes to get a little exercise from time to time.
Through a series of unfortunate events, I’ve endured a couple casualties over the past two weeks. I’ve been worm-sitting for the Glenwood Sunday Market, and am sad to report that not everyone has enjoyed their stay with me…
In short, I killed them.
Ok, well, let me preface that with the fact that many of them are doing just fine, but I crammed them all in close quarters knowing full well that they were too crowded, and a few days later there were dried runaways on the countertop and a not-so-nice smell coming from the bin.
These worms are too crowded, and so were mine.
Then Nancy put the bin outside in really hot weather (she does not have an appreciation for smelly worms).
Then it rained.
All I have to say is, that Darwin guy was pretty smart with the whole natural selection theory, and bravo to the survivors who weathered those storms and are still alive and kickin’.
Moral of this story:
Even Master Composters screw up and kill worms sometimes. The only difference is that we know why we killed them. And we’re good at making worm babies to make up for the loss.
Disclaimer: This trip occurred exactly one year ago. Since Travelpod does not allow you to export blogs, I shall be bringing them to you in real time, just a year later.
August 11, 2010
view from our Villa
Puerto Escondido is a strange combination of hidden surfer meca, tacky resort town and third world country. As an example, on the dirt road to our luxurious villa is an OXXO selling Diet Coke and t-shirts saying “Puerto Escondido: play all day, party all night,” Hostel Shalom (a seedy camp sight where the likelihood for group sex exceeds the likelihood for flush toilets, and an abandoned VW Beetle out to pasture with three wild horses.
In short, Puerto Escondido is awesome.
Our hotel is situated on a bluff overlooking Carrizalillo Beach and our room is arguably the best view in all of Puerto… the internet connection that we’ve so enjoyed at other spots along our trip has been very non-existent until yesterday, so on my last night in Puerto Escondido I can reflect on our experience here with a little use of alliteration:
BEACH:
There are many beaches here in Puerto, the most famous of which is Playa Zicatella (the home of the reputed “Mexican Pipeline”). We did spend some time on Zicatella watching surfers, but our favorite beach here by far was Playa Marinero. It’s a short walk to the right of the surfer mecca and on open waters (instead of a bay). So there are some nice waves to play in but it’s not as dangerous for swimming as Zicatella. We spent three days on Playa Marinero and now proudly boast bronzed bodies and sand in places we never knew we had.
BEER:
What’s a day at the beach without a bucket of beer? Corona con limon, por favor. We went to the beach every day except one…. enough said.
BUGS:
It’s the rainy season, people. While this did not cramp our style in terms of beach-going or getting rained out, as a result of the constant humid wetness in the area there are a lot of bugs. Mosquitoes, flies, bees (lots and lots of bees), and bugs I’ve never even seen before. Geckos everywhere- which are neither bugs nor annoying, but deserve a nod. After investing in a handy bottle of “Fly Off”, the only bug spray in all of Oaxaca, our tans are slightly marred by the bug bites all over our legs, arms and shoulders. Maybe this is not interesting, but the mosquitoes in Puerto Escondido bite more than the ones in Chicago, but are far less annoying. The bees sting less, but are far more annoying. Food for thought should you decide to visit during the rainy season…
BEST MEAL:
By FAR the best meal on this trip (and quite possibly of my entire life) was at the Hotel Santa Fe on Playa Zicatella. Refined but unpretentious, our meal was elegantly presented, with amazing service, and the food was damn good. Be sure to have the stuffed avocado for an appetizer. I had the chilies rellenos. Nancy had coconut shrimp. The sun set over the beach. Save room for strawberry pie and coffee. There’s not much else I can say about this except that if you are ever in Puerto Escondido, you MUST eat here.
That leads me to my final B-word this evening:
BALLY’S
Total Fitness will be seeing a lot of me upon my return to the US-of-A.-
Disclaimer: This trip occurred exactly one year ago. Since Travelpod does not allow you to export blogs, I shall be bringing them to you in real time, just a year later.
August 4, 2010
(knock on wood) Nancy and I have had excellent luck with hiring private guides, and Mario Cobos (pictured above) did not disappoint. Although Mario has lived in the area for more than 20 years, he is originally from the Yucatan area and is a Mayan Indian, guide, yogi, massage therapist, artist, birdwatcher, adventure nut, and all-around nice guy.
Mario, Nancy, me and our little Dodge Attitude travelled to the top of a mountain this morning to visit Pluma Hidalgo, a mystical town that is famous for it’s coffee. To visit the Mexican countryside unaccompanied is terrifying, but Mario took us through the town, arranged ahead for a meal, and lead us on a hike through the forest down the side of the mountain to a deserted coffee plantation and 76 meter-high waterfall. Apparently the Germans who tried to escape prosecution after WW II were pushed north from South America into this area of Mexico, where they built coffee plantations and drove the native workers like slaves. Eventually a cash flow problem dried up the plantation and it sits deserted today.
Now, I consider myself to be a person of good health and fortitude, but that mountain kicked my ass. Mario turned around at one point and said “wow, you’re sweating.” No shit, Mario, thanks for pointing out the obvious. The thing about that kind of hiking is that you usually get exactly what you need when you need it. At one point walking back up I got pretty discouraged and downtrodden. You see, Mario is one of the fittest people I’ve ever seen and Nancy is also in much better shape than me. Half way up one of the switchbacks we passed a homestead and Mario greeted a woman standing at her fence about 15 feet above our heads. We made niceties and moved on, but then when we were about 25 feet up the road she called after us and offered us some fruit. The woman refused to accept payment. Even though we couldn’t eat it until later the gratitude I felt towards her kindness lifted my spirits and gave me the fortitude to go the next bit up the hill.
When we once again reached the top of the mountain and the central square of Pluma Hidalgo we were shrouded in a mystical fog and went into the only restaurant in town for homemade soup, mole, and a pepsi. Three meals and three drinks cost $160 pesos (about $14 USD) and Mario said we would be their only customers that day. As we were eating, a perfectly timed downpour washed the square and by the time we had finished the rain had passed.
The people of Pluma Hidalgo are poor. Extremely poor. But they are generous, kind, and friendly. They welcomed us not as tourists, but as friends, and appeared happy to share their way of life with us. I am humbled and grateful for the experience we had, and hope to some day see these smiling faces once more.
Disclaimer: This trip occurred exactly one year ago. Since Travelpod does not allow you to export blogs, I shall be bringing them to you in real time, just a year later.
August 3, 2010
To the beach! Our trip to the airport at Huatulco was an absolutely breath taking 35 min flight in a 12-seater tiny plane. On our arrival at an outbuilding at the Oaxca airport–“Terminal X” as I like to call it–was, in truth, a little desk with an Aerotucan sign and some chick (who showed up about 45 minutes late) with a net book, hand written receipts and a calculator. Our bags were searched by hand, and baggage handling, staircase moving, and air traffic control (in the form of a thumb’s up) was also handled a mano. Awesome. The flight was super cool and extremely preferable to the alternative-an 8-hour bus ride through a couple of mountain ranges.
Our first move in Huatulco? Well, after picking up the rental car it was straight to the beach. That’s right. We went to the beach. Near the equator. With no sunscreen. In my defense, we did stop at a farmacia and I felt that the $166 pesos for anything over 30-proof was just a shameless plot to take advantage of white people. In hindsight, maybe it would have been worth the expense–since after five hours at the beach, a couple of lobsters walked into the Mexican equivalent of Wal-Mart and only spent three dollars less for some 45-SPF banana scented sun screen.
Note to self:
next time I go on a tropical vacation, invest in sunscreen state-side…..
At any rate, we are embracing our raccoon eyes and red shoulders–although a little wiser today by lathering up with gringa lotion and ready to face la playa once again. This time, Nancy is a day older and a year wiser (it’s her birthday).
Who am I kidding?
Lauren Warnecke 
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