Love,

Mandi

I knew what was coming.

That guy in the orange shirt from Pineapple Express was going to hack his arm off at the elbow and I was going have to watch. The worst part was I couldn’t even hope it wouldn’t happen because I already knew it did happen. In real life. To a real man.

I didn’t realize until the last 10 minutes of the film, but that guy reminds me a lot of someone I know well. I’ve seen him so often in my travels in the eyes of countless wanderers and thrill-seekers – people like me.

Those borderline-crazy people who charge through life believing they’re a force of nature bigger than nature itself.  Self-proclaimed adventurers who know damn well that they’re not invincible and use that knowledge to squeeze every last drop of thrill they can from life. The risk of disaster, of pain, of death itself is what keeps one foot always seeking the next step higher, longer, bigger and further from the one before. There is no end until the End. 

As I watched the film, I felt like I was in that cave, too. Trapped.  Alone.

But it wasn’t until the last 5 minutes or so, well after the scene I was so terrified of had passed, that the bigger picture, bigger even than the film itself, just about bowled me over. It happened around the time when Aron is stumbling down the dirt path, having just emerged from the pool of water, and he sees the hazy outline of hikers in the distance. 

You can tell he’s struggling with all his might to, first of all, believe his own eyes. And second, to say the thing he rarely ever says. To not just say it but to scream it from the top of his dusty, barren lungs.  

Help, he bellowed I. NEED. HELP.

Some people say the scariest three words you’ll ever say are I love you, but I beg to differ. Just watch:

I love you, mom. I love you, brother. I love you, sister. I love you, friend. I love you, puppy.  I love you, chocolate.

I could spend all day telling people and things I love them without it taking much effort at all.

But to say “I need help.” Now that’s enough to send shivers wriggling down my spine.

Just admitting I could use a hand carrying a bag of groceries would be akin to chopping my own arm off. Alright, maybe not quite that painful (James Franco did a good job making it look pretty horrific). But I’ve spent pretty much every day of my life since I was a kid stacking weight upon weight on my shoulders and strutting around, showing the world how strong I was beneath it all. 

I know I’m not alone here. Anyone else out there ever listened to that Beatles song (you know the one) and not pretended they were singing the soundtrack to your life? Plenty are guilty of trying to do it all on their own, at least to some degree.  But I think this movie helped me realize now more than ever just how idiotic that is.  

How many times have I gone off without telling friends or family where I was headed? How many buses did I hop on in nowheresville, South America without letting a soul know my final destination or when to expect a call from me? What would have happened if I’d fallen off the face of Mt. Waynapicchu and no one heard my screams?

Where would my parents have even begun to search?

Since I rarely call anyway, I doubt they’d notice anything was amiss until days, maybe even weeks later. And who could blame them? It’s how I’ve wanted it. It’s how I’ve always wanted it. 

Hey, Mom, feeling sick this week. Oh, no, don’t worry. I’ll be fine. 

Hey, bro, went hitch-hiking with a semi-stranger today. Oh, stop worrying. Didn’t get ‘taken’ did I?

Hey, Dad, just walked home from the movies at 1 a.m. Yes, alone. Oh, shut up. I’m fine! 

Hey, family, just letting you know I got hit by a car on my bike this morning. No worries. I’m fine.

Hello world, I seem to have found myself pinned against a cliff and may have to amputate my own arm—you can start worrying now!

But, like Aron, no one would probably be around to hear me screaming if I ever did find myself in such a predicament. And it’d be my own fault. 

The great thing about taking chances and facing danger head on is the euphoric rush you get knowing you and only you got yourself across that finish line. That your body, your mind, your heart were all you had and all you needed to achieve whatever goal you set. 

I have watched my mother shoulder incredible burdens that probably would have sent Superman himself to his knees long ago, and yet she’s still standing strong. The difference between the two of us, however, is I think she realized long ago she couldn’t go it alone forever. Life would have surely crushed her if she had tried. 

Risking it all just to say you did it alone is undoubtedly one of the most selfish of all selfish acts. More often than not, it’s just not worth the end result.  Because the truth is if I ever want anyone to see me at my highest of highs, someday I’ve got learn how to share my lowest of lows, too.  

I know from experience this is much easier said than done. But I hope that when the next time comes to ask for help, I’ll be brave enough to say those three words. To shout them from the edge of whatever cliff I may be dangling from.

And when I do, I truly hope someone will be around to hear me.

C’mon, you know the one…

Keep that video playing as I tell you this next nugget of news: I have officially booked my first, real vacation to, of all places, JAMAICA.

I know, I know. It wasn’t on my list and it certainly wasn’t even on my own travel radar, but I challenge anyone to try surviving the misery that is a New York winter without staring at those ubiquitous subway ads touting white sandy beaches and frosty pina coladas without salivating all over your copy of AM New York. Salivating, I tell you.

I don’t know why but it felt a little like cheating to book a flight to bright, shiny Montego Bay. Isn’t this the place where they shoot cheesy destination episodes for floundering sit-coms and all those insufferable Jennifer Aniston RomComs? It’s got so many things that a year ago I, like so many other adventure travel enthusiasts, would have turned up my nose at. I mean, there are luxury hotels and five-star restaurants and tourists galore and toilets that work for crying out loud and…and…and…I was powerless to deny a deep, burning longing for it all. In the wise words of one Elizabeth Lemon:

I want to go to there. 

Don’t get me wrong. I’m down for nitty-gritty travel as much as the next 20-something quasi-hippie, and I was all but ready to book my flight to San Juan or Aguadilla before my travel companion suggested Montego Bay based on a friend’s rave review. I was dubious at first. But then I took one look at Google’s treasure trove of image results and pretty much booked my flight right then and there.

And so it’s decided. Smack in the middle of NYC’s sweltering July heat, I’ll be hopping on a flight to paradise and if that is wrong then, baby, I don’t wanna be right.

In short, I’m pushing 13 on a scale of 1-10 for EXCITED.

Soon. Very soon.

I’m also letting myself indulge a little. The pool for couch surfing hosts in the area is a little shallow and since I’ll be with two travel buddies this time, I’m depending on hostelworld.com for reliable and affordable lodging. It’s Jamaica. I don’t plan on spending any more time cooped up in doors than it takes to slather on another vat of sunscreen and pick out a new party dress. Good times will be had, my friends, and I’m not going to feel guilty about it.

As you can probably guess from the four-month (Jesus, has it been that long?) gap in my posts, it’s been a busy, busy time for me and I’m looking forward to hitting the pause button for a while . I’ll spare you the wah-wah-blah-bull and just say that if ever I’ve deserved a little R&R, it is now.

Besides, there’s so much to do in Jamaica other than going the obvious sun-bathing, boy-chasing, mixed-drink chugging route. There’s rafting, diving (maybe I’ll cure my fear of sea creatures?), tropical safaris, cave exploring and…I should stop before I start drooling again.

I’m just ready to set foot on soil that isn’t pre-caked onto the bottom of my sneakers or littered in pidgeon poo.

But I wonder if I’m the only one who feels a little guilty taking trips like this? Like I said, it’s my first real vacation since high school (if Panama City counts, which is questionable) and I was impressed at the decent rate we got on airfare. Shout-out to Air Fare Watchdog‘s daily dose of flight deals, to which, incidentally, I’ve now become addicted.

I’ll leave at that, folks. I’m not going to pretend this trip isn’t going to be a dream, but I know in my heart it won’t come close to topping this or this. Those experiences changed me as a person forever and there’s no denying it. But it’s time to carry on.

If I wanted, I could spend my whole life stressing out, trying to trek every corner of the globe even though I know I nor anyone else ever could.  But I’d rather live each day as it comes and trust my instincts to lead me where I should to go. And for me, right here, right now, my gut is telling me it’s high time I had a little more sunshine in my life.

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Also, I’m sorry for getting that song stuck in your head.

—–

Aruba, Jamaica, ooh I wanna take you to
Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama
Key Largo Montego,
baby why don’t we go
Ooh I wanna take you down to Kokomo,
we’ll get there fast
and then we’ll take it slow
That’s where we wanna go,
way down in Kokomo.

—-

1. Toronto

• Don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s because I talked with a really cute nice Canadian guy the other night? I also have an amazing pair of friends from Toronto I could visit and it just seems so close to NYC, I’m sure it’s easy to get to. Only problem is I have absolutely no idea what I’d do or see…any ideas?

2. San Francisco

• Or anywhere in Cali, pretty much. I have a handful of friends who moved there after graduation and all they do is rave about the weather, the people, the beach—everything. At this point, I’m kinda over the whole winter scene in blizzardy NYC and could use a little Vitamin D! Plus, I’m seriously going to track down the house where they shot exterior scenes of Full House.

3. Grand Canyon

• So what if it’s cheesy—I can’t just walk around living in this great big beautiful country and not see one of its main attractions, now can I? I remember how stunning the canyons in the Atacama Desert were in Chile and all I want to do is stand at the edge of a cliff and feel on top of the world again. Also, I pretty much haven’t been further west than Las Vegas in my entire life and I find that disheartening. I’d also love to see the Colorado Rockies.

4. Bear Mountain State Park/Trail (NY)

• A friend recently hiked here and said nothing but great things about it. It’s just a bus ride away and I’d love to do a day hike or something. Being back home in Georgia really reminded me how much I miss the sky. I want stars and crickets chirping and dirt paths and the whole nine yards. I just miss the smell of earth…is that strange?

5. Puerto R(rrrrrrr)ico

• OK, this really is my No. 1 pick but I’m too lazy to copy and paste it above (hey, at least I’m honest! ). You can argue up and down about whether La Isla del Encanto counts as a US destination, but that’s a whole other blog post. I just miss Latin America so much and at least I’d get a taste of it here. And speaking of awesome friends to visit, one of my good buds calls this beautiful land his home and I’m pretty sure if half the people are as awesome as him, I’ll be in good manos. Plus, have you experienced the Puerto Rican Day Parade in NYC yet? You know they know how to have a good time!

That’s it for me, though I could still think of a dozen more places I’d love to see. Here’s to traveling well in 2011!

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Problem is I don’t believe in new year’s resolutions. I know, I know.  The year’s over and new fuzzy puppy calendars are getting tacked onto cubicle and kitchen walls across the world as we speak, but I feel like if there’s anything I’ve learned in 2010, it’s that any old day could be your New Year’s Eve. Whether it’s a Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday, January 1st or September 1st, Life isn’t out there waiting for some clock to strike midnight or the ball to drop to give someone a chance to start fresh.

For me, I rang in a new year Feb. 1, when I walked away from a job and Georgia to take a chance somewhere else. I rang in another one a few months later, when I lost my job in June and another on July 19 when my grandmother passed away. It was a new year the day I started my third new job in August and the day last May when I bought Lil Blue and somehow became a “biker.” Hell, after all the trouble we went through to find our new apartment, I felt like popping a bottle of champagne in September when we moved in, too.

And I can’t think of a better example than my mother, who decided one beautiful, random Autumn day that she was going to stamp out her last cigarette. No confetti, no noisemakers, no fireworks or fanfare. Just a strong woman with a difficult choice and the guts to follow through.

So many opportunities to step over the side of what at times looked and felt like insurmountable challenges and prove that there was, indeed, another side. That even at the rockiest of rock bottoms, there’s always a way back up and that those who found success could tumble in an instant.

I know I’m not doing a very good job of it, but I guess what I’m trying to say is if I’m going to make a so-called resolution, it will simply be this: to not take one day for granted, to keep growing up even if it hurts (and boy does it ever), to  appreciate and love the people in my life who appreciate and love me in spite of all the reasons I once thought they shouldn’t, to learn to ask for help when I need it and to help others before they have to ask, to keep saving for rainy days without forgetting to enjoy the hell out of the sunny ones and, finally, to treat every day like it’s a new year.

Also, if you’re curious as to how my first NYE in NYC went, let’s just say I wish Steve Jobs would make it his resolution to give iPhone users a better break when their phones are stolen.

Oh well. Tomorrow is another day year!

Pre-NYE celebrating with some amazing friends.

The only "jacket" I packed was a flimsy fleece pullover. D'oh!

I’ll never forget sitting on my bedroom floor nearly five years ago, just 18 years old and about to embark on my first international

trip as a young adult. Lost in a sea of clothing and close to tears from the agony of trying to pare down a waist-high stack of tops to my top 10 must-haves, I slowly realized I knew next to nothing about Argentina, apart from the name of its airport and Salta, the town where I’d start my 8-week volunteer work. If you’re wondering, it never actually occurred to me to check the weather online—because seriously, when you’ve suffocated for weeks in the sweltering broiler that is a Georgia summer, you kind of lose sight of the reality that any other climate could possibly exist.

That, and I was pretty much clueless about travel in general. I’d only taken my first solo flight a few months prior to the whole sobbing-in-my-suitcase scene (see above) and that was just an hour and a half jaunt to Mississippi for Alternative Spring Break. Granted, that week did drastically change my life  and helped me grow a proverbial pair of crazy cojones that let me do things like this and this and this.

But trust me. If you’d seen me lugging my two 50-plus pound suitcases into that tiny tent at our volunteer campsite in Hurricane-ravaged Biloxi, you’d never have guessed I’d wind up writing anyone advice on making it through hectic holiday travel in one piece—luggage and sanity all in tact.

But, dear reader(s?), that’s exactly what I’m here to do. Sort of.

Despite my Southern upbringing, I’m not really into preaching (go figure) so I won’t bore you with 12-step guides to perfect packing or rants about skimpy Airline snack carts (pick up some friggin’ trail mix at Rite-Aid and call it a day, ya big babies).

What I will do is tell you how I managed to survive my journey between Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson and New York’s Laguardia airports—the two of the craziest hubs in this fine country I call home—despite a horrific blizzard, zillions of flight cancellations and my mother doing everything in her God-given power to keep me from ever leaving home again (and if you’ve tasted her white chili, you know she’s not afraid to bring out the big guns).

So, here goes:

1. LUCK is one helluva lady and her name is Mandi Woodruff.

By some stroke of pure dumb luck genius, I decided to book my flight home three days after Christmas and before New Year’s Eve—just enough time, I thought, to mentally prepare myself for ringing in 2011 in NYC and finish digesting the incredible volume of food I’d surely spend the previous eight days shoveling down my throat.

The snowy scene upon arrival at LGA's Delta terminal on Tuesday, Dec. 28.

As it turned out, Snowmaggedon 2010 chose to strike last Sunday, blanketing my beloved New York City in enough snow to make an emperor penguin sweat.  I watched from my warm, comfy perch on my parents’ sofa as the Atlanta’s 5 o’clock news ran down the list of dozens, then hundreds and, finally, thousands of flights that were to be canceled as late as Tuesday.  CNN had people working Hartsfield, Laguardia and JFK airports like they were the scenes of a great natural disaster—’round the clock news coverage, with anchors shining bright lights in weary travelers’ faces as they camped out and prayed for a miracle.

Maybe I paid off my air travel karma when Delta lost my luggage on my first trip ever to NYC back in ’07 or maybe I just got freaking lucky, because other than a one-hour delay in my Dec. 28 flight, I made it out of ATL without a hitch.  I could have had it much, much worse and I’m grateful I got home at all.

Also, shout out to @Delta for live tweeting flight cancellation updates. Also, their website makes it incredibly easy to check your flight status. Just punch in your flight # and date of travel and you get instant updates on cancellations, delays, etc. Now, if they could make push notifications to your cell with those kind of updates, that’d be even better. I have the Delta iPhone app, which I use to download my boarding pass electronically (and love!), but it didn’t show any delay in my flight. I wouldn’t have known it was delayed if I hadn’t double-checked on the website.

2. PACKING is my middle name.

If I’ve learned one thing through all my adventuring, it’s the lighter I pack, the less I have to lose and/or break my back lugging all over God’s green earth. I’ve given away enough of my clothing and other detritus accumulated from 23 years’ solid hoarding that it’s not a huge challenge anymore for me to fit eight days worth of clothing into one carry-on suitcase and a small backpack. Now, I could wax poetical about how we as human beings rely too much on “things” when we should really be making do with a BPA-free water bottle and organic alfalfa sprouts or some crap like that, but really it boils down to one thing:

I’m cheap.

The hell if I’m gonna pay an extra $25 bucks to check a suitcase when I could squeeze everything I need into the plane’s overhead compartment and the underside of the seat in front of me.  Eat your heart out, Delta.

Before.

After.

If you want specifics, I do subscribe to the whole “rolling” technique, which I think keeps my clothes fairly wrinkle free and gives me extra room to squeeze as much as possible in there without popping the zipper. For this trip home, I managed to take about 10 tops, two pairs of jeans, four dresses, two pairs of shoes and the obligatory undergarments and toiletries without even sitting on the lid. Granted, I was going home, where I knew I’d already have bulkier items like hair dryers and plenty of spare clothing, which simplified things. If you want pointers on international travel packing, that’s a whole other battle plan, folks.

The biggest pro of not checking a bag is skipping baggage claim—my No. 1 biggest airport pet peeve—and heading straight for the nearest exit.

3. AMAZON.COM, baby. Amazon. Dot. Com.

Just a couple of clicks and a few tweaks to my shipping settings and most of my Christmas gifts were sent directly to my sisters’ house in Georgia. Not only did it free up space in my suitcase for just about everything, it also saved me the worry of breaking the fragile stuff. Plus, they all came boxed up and ready for my stellar god awful wrapping.

For larger gifts (like my dad's bike), waiting till you get home to shop last minute is totally acceptable. Also, my father is 12 years old.

4. KEEP CALM, carry on.

Anyone who’s moved away from home will tell you that dealing with airport security and over-weight baggage fees are a walk in the park compared to the game of human tug o’ war that begins the moment you set foot on your home turf. Old friends must be seen, family must be visited, road trips to old childhood haunts must be taken (OK, for me that pretty much just means Chick fil-a) and all the while you’re supposed to be baking, cleaning, catching up on TiVo, helping mom with the shopping and relaxing. For crying out loud, it’s enough to make a body want to curl up under a heated blanket and hibernate till  someone shoves a glass of champagne and noisemaker in your hand for the NYE countdown.

Rather than drive myself to the brink of insanity by running all over the state of Georgia during my well-deserved vacation time, I preplanned a few visits with some close friends, had my step-dad make a Chick fil-a run while I finished some working-from-home stuff and simply refused to compromise on spending as much time as possible with my family.

Good friends = Good times.

One of the best moments I had all trip long was my first night at home, bundled up on my back porch with my little brother, swapping stories as we watched the Earth’s shadow plunge the moon into darkness.  There were no horns honking, no clocks ticking, no invisible chains yanking me from task to task. I simply existed in that space, breathed in and out and felt the calm in each and every moment.   Now that is what a holiday is supposed to be like.
And last but not least,

5. LAUGH, often.

Family fun on Christmas Eve.

No one said traveling during the holidays was gonna be pretty. Travelers are cranky, airport personnel are cranky, and even flight attendants get snippy if you make them repeat the drink list more than once (for the record, my ears were popping at the time). After all, the whole idea of airports is that everyone is there because they would much rather be somewhere else in the first place. But If I’ve learned one travel survival tip I’d give to anyone,  it’s to keep smiling (not in a creepy way) and never stop looking for those funny moments—they’re buried like gems in even the coldest of holiday travel shit storms.

Some examples:

Not funny:

• Working late + a mysterious lack of taxis + rush hour traffic left me only 45 min to get from my apartment to my gate for take off. 

Funny:

• Flustered by the hot guys working airport security, I forget my belt and sweater on the conveyor belt and am forced to wobble back in half-tied sneakers to retrieve them from aforementioned hotties.  Randon TSA pat-down? Sign me up.

Not funny:

• A screaming infant seated directly behind me for the duration of the flight.

Don't judge a book by it's cover, dude.

Funny:

• I’ve been a reading new novel (Fear of Flying by Erica Jong) for a while and didn’t think twice before whipping it out to distract me from said infant.  But with every small bump or turn the plane made, the dude sitting next to me threw me nervous side-glances as if I were about to bend over and barf on his shoes.

Not funny:

• My mother and I, under the influence of a bottle of Chardonnay and far too many Christmas M&Ms, drew up an ambitious list of baked goods and meals to prepare throughout the week that would have left the Barefoot Contessa running for the hills. The result: two non-stop days slaving away in the kitchen like madwomen covered head to toe in food stains.

Funny:

• Mom: “I keep smelling something burning…”
• Me: “Yeah, it’s like melting plastic or something.”
• Mom: Reaching into oven to check the hash-brown casserole and sausage rolls. “OH, SHIT!”
  
• Pulling out the casserole dish, which is sitting in its decorative and now slightly smoking wicker carrier.

Not Funny:

• Emerging triumphantly from the baggage carousel at Laguardia’s Delta terminal, I am greeted by a quarter-mile long line for taxis. After two hours standing in my flimsy Converse sneakers and barely able to wiggle my toes, I’m close to tears when it’s finally my turn to board my yellow chariot home.

Funny:

Welcome home.

• Fifteen minutes later, the cab turns onto my block, where I am confronted by waist-high mounds of snow on either side and not a single cleared path through which to wheel my rolling suitcase. To the tune of the driver’s derisive laughter, I heave my suitcase over the peak of the dune standing between me and my warm, cozy apartment and—most ungracefully—hurl myself after it. My shoes and luggage are still drying out but when I went out for groceries this morning, I was greeted with a life-sized, 3-D snow angel at my doorstep.

Wishing you all safe travels and happy memories this holiday season.

xMandi

——————–

PS: I don’t normally do product reviews, but for Christmas I got a new travel pillow (actually, it’s my FIRST ever travel pillow if you can believe it) and I must say it was definitely a nice alternative to bunching up my jacket around my neck.

This is it: TravelRest – The Ultimate Inflatable Travel Pillow

I have to admit, I felt super dorky pulling it out and inflating it on the plane. It also was a bit tricky to get comfortable initially because you have to sort of figure out how much air you like in it. Mine was way too inflated to start so I had to deflate it, which drew more attention to it because of the whistle-like sound as air blew out. I did get a decent nap on the flight home though, which is rare for me on such short flights and quite nice. You have the option to wear the pillow across your body like a guitar with a strap that goes behind you, but I already was elbowing the poor girl next to me enough just trying to position the stupid thing comfortably that I didn’t want to push my luck any further. All in all, I give it a 3 of 5 stars and will reserve a real review once I’ve used it again and get more used to it.

I talk a lot of game about how I rarely get homesick or yearn for the comfort of my mom’s comfy couch, home cooking and my puppies’ wagging tails. But in all my traveling, I never have managed to stay away from our warm little house in Locust Grove, Ga. at Christmastime, when the stars are so bright the grass turns silver and my parents wage a friendly war against the neighbors for the gaudiest most festive Christmas lights display on our block (see above for a taste of my parents’ artwork).

Last year, I had the chance to stay in South America, to see how far my last few pesos and heart could take me. I still wonder how my life would be different if I hadn’t come back, but it’s not as if I had much of a choice. If ’round the world millions celebrate this month in the name of an infant who saved mankind centuries ago, December to me is synonymous with nothing other than Home. To be on the other end of the world while my mother rolls out the dough for our famous sugar cookies alone and my brother and father share Christmas dinner without me is something I’m not sure I’d ever be able to stand.

And it’s because of them, my family, that at the end of the year when the air turns to ice and the scarves come out, I feel an unmistakable tug in my stomach—like a bird’s animal instinct to fly South for the winter, I pack my bags wherever I am and come hell or high water, I find my way home.

Never far from mom's side during the holidays.

And whatever the answers to all those “What If’s” of hanging south of the equator might be, they’d never be worth missing the holidays with my family. I’m not kidding myself though. I’m sure that if even a fraction of my future plans unfold as I hope they will, I’ll eventually be faced with a Christmas separated from loved ones by both miles and timezones.

There are millions out there right now doing that very thing and whether it’s wander lust, work or just unfortunate circumstances keeping you from your loved ones, I hope you’ve found love and comfort wherever your journey has steered you.

I’m back in the City now, which welcomed me and all its other prodigal children with about a gazillion feet of snow and frigid winds that did nothing to make me miss my family any less. I’ve got a separate post up my sleeve on the art that is holiday travel, but for now all I’m feeling is grateful for each day I had back home, that I even have I home to go back to and people who want me there. Honestly, there’s no place I’d have rather been.

Happy holidays.

Cut to now, a year after I surfed my last couch in Lima, Peru and I am finally opening my home to travelers here in NYC. I had to wait until my roommate and I were settled into our new place in Astoria (if you need a refresher on that particular drama, click here), but as soon as I changed my couch-status on the site to “Definitely available!” you wouldn’t believe the avalanche of requests that started pouring in. Denmark, Peru, Mexico, Canada, Germany…you name it. I don’t think for a second the increased interest has anything to do with my awesome profile or great references (I do have a pretty rockin’ profile pic though) — I just happen to live in a little corner of one of the most traveled destinations in the world. ‘Nuff said.

Playing tour guide isn't always easy...but it is pretty damn fun.

Though, my hosting experience didn’t start out without a few bumps. I was a little disheartened when my would-be first CSer ended up falling ill last month and had to cut her trip early, never making it to Manhattan at all. But I got a great request from a girl called Marine from France not too long afterward and on impulse I accepted. In doing so, I broke one of my own rules about Couch Surfing, which is to never surf with or host someone who doesn’t have any references. Marine is relatively new to the site (I’m pretty sure I was her first host) and she had no references at all, nor much of a profile to go on.

But in my defense, (for the worried, responsible folks out there) I did think Marine’s message sounded extremely sincere and in a follow-up phone call I could tell from her voice that she was polite and genuinely nice. I don’t know…sometimes you just gotta go with your gut when it comes to who you choose to open your home to, and I’m so glad I took a chance on Marine.

So yeah, about that bumpy start…

La petite fille dans la grande City! (Dieu only knows if I translated that correctly...)

I had agreed to pick Marine up from the Port Authority bus station (if you’re not familiar with it, it’s pretty much smack dab in the middle of Times Square and one hellacious place to land if you’ve never been here before and don’t speak fluent New Yorker yet) late last Friday.  Due to very crappy cell phone service (thanks for nothing AT&T), I turned up two hours late. Eeeeeekk…

I felt horrible. It was close to midnight when I sprinted from my office’s holiday party and barreled down 42nd street like a madwoman, hoping against hope Marine hadn’t already hailed a cab and booked it to some hotel by then. When I found her, looking a little harried but none the worse for wear, I think we were both equally relieved. She was understandably miffed that I showed up late, but I’ve been in that position so many times before. My host in Cusco wound up totally forgetting about my early morning arrival and I spent three long hours in a freezing bus station before he arrived. Luckily, he turned out to be one of the greatest people I met all journey long.

That’s just part of the give and take of Couch Surfing. You forfeit the predictability and (yes) reliability of hotel concierges and 24-hr car service in exchange for free lodging with a sweet, albeit frazzled, 20-something NY transplant with a semi-comfortable couch and all the time in the world to show you her home…and in return, you get this:

And this…

And a little bit of this:

And last but not least:

And man did we see the CITY. With only one full day to spend in Manhattan, I knew I’d have to do some careful planning to give Marine a really great experience without all the hassle and confusion most tourists experience (read:  me) their first time to NYC. Just to give you an idea of our itinerary, I’ll post a list. Keep in mind  all this was completed between midnight Friday and midnight Saturday.

Call it the 24-hour “Mandi’s NYC at a Sprint” special, if you will.

• Times Square.
• Herald Square
• Empire State Building.
• Rockefeller Center (ZOMG. People. Everywhere. Can’t. Breathe. Must. Escape.)
• Radio City Music Hall
  • Marine: What are zee Rockettes?
  • Me: (Stopping in the middle of 6th ave to kick my legs up in the air)
  • Marine: Oooh, yeah!
• Central Park—ice skating, duck pond, random Spidey, SantaCon…
• Carrie Bradshaw’s stoop. (If you have to ask, you don’t need to know).
• Bryant Park.
• New York Public Library
• Grand Central Station
• Union Square Christmas Market. (Jesus. Crowds. Again. Is. This. Hell?)
• Chinatown
• Little Italy
• Back to Herald Square
• Back to Times Square (Dear God, why me?)
• Queens for a short rest
• Brooklyn Bridge night stroll
• Party in the BK
• Subway adventures back to Queens
• Utter exhaustion
• Collapse.

I wish someone had snapped our pictures Sunday morning when we finally dragged ourselves out of bed. On second thought, I take that back.

Although the achy legs, the worn out soles of my fave Chucks, the sore throat and the bruise from getting elbowed by some dude angling for a shot of his kids in front of the Rockefeller tree…they were all worth it in the end.

I’m glad to have met Marine and if anything she’s opened me up to continuing as a host here. Hers was a special case, though. I know that not all travelers need 24-hr guidance, but Marine didn’t speak English 100% and I wasn’t about to throw her out into that tourist-ridden madhouse called Manhattan by her lonesome. With just one day to see the city, she would have spent more time staring at maps and worrying about subway routes than really, truly experiencing the wonder that is New York at Christmastime.

Dropping her off at the bus station on Sunday afternoon (she’s working as an au pair in D.C.), I felt a vague tugging sensation in my stomach, like my body expected me to hike a bag on my shoulder and hop onto the next bus outta town. But this time, I was the one to stay behind, watching someone else carry on their own adventure. And it was my pleasure to see her go, hoping I might have contributed to some small part of her journey in a positive way.

And like so many of my own hosts have told me, hosting a couch surfer is like seeing your city through brand new eyes. If anything, I loved NYC even more than I already had, knowing that even though I’ll leave it someday,  I’ll never forget what it’s given me so far.

And anyway, isn’t that what Couch Surfing is all about?

**Merci beaucoup Marine for the lovely photos!

Last year I spent Thanksgiving on the opposite end of the world. In Chile I was, for the first time, away from everything that has made this holiday my favorite since I used to hold court at the kids’ table, double fisting it with a glass of sparkling grape juice and all the pumpkin pie I could carry.

But by November in Santiago, we were already roasting in the heat of an early summer and it was hard to get in the holiday spirit when people were throwing pool parties and flouncing around in spaghetti straps. I’d never appreciated until then how little things like falling leaves, cozy scarves and Starbucks’ menu of pumpkin-spiced everything really helped trigger that giddy holiday joy that sets in sometime after Halloween each year.

But for my first Thanksgiving away from home, I knew I had to make it special. My expat boss was hosting a potluck dinner on his farm just 40 minutes outside the city, and before I knew what happened I’d signed myself up to bring a big batch of my aunt’s famous sweet potato souffle and, with luck, a pumpkin pie.

Only problem was I barely knew the Spanish word for pumpkin let alone how to track down things like evaporated milk and nutmeg. And come to think of it, I’d never seen anything remotely resembling a pie crust in Chile. Add to that dilemma my own dismal track record using ovens in South America (oh, the many batches of chocolate chip cookies that have wound up in the bottom of la basura) and just the thought of trying to recreate timeless family recipes without my mom’s careful coaching and an afternoon trip to Kroger sent my nerves on overdrive.

Oh boy.

Those two words bounced from ear to ear in my head as, a week later, I walked dazedly through the colossal labyrinth that is Santiago’s farmer’s market — La Vega.  I generally had a blast losing myself in the sea of haggling customers and stalls bursting with everything from cooks bent over giant pots of piping hot shelflish to display cases brimming with a wide assortment of severed animal limbs. On this occasion, I steered clear of the meat market and went straight for my favorite veggie guy. His stall was somewhere in the middle of the chaos where, on my first wide-eyed visit, he’d won my business with a wide grin and a display of fresh produce so pristine it instantly made you want to throw on an apron and whip up something delicious.

By that time, I pretty much knew the vocabulary I needed to get the essentials, but I found myself stumped with how to describe yams. I figured I’d know them when I saw them so it didn’t cross my mind to look up the translation before heading out. Bad idea. There were bins upon bins piled high with potatoes but none of them seemed to be screaming “I’m sweet and orange inside!” to me.

I weighed a few in my hands, thinking I’d be able to differentiate by the texture of their thick, knotted skins but I was at a loss. I’m used to regular potatoes that are much smaller than their sweeter, bulkier cousins. But all of them looked the same to me and all seemed to be scarily gi-normous. When I told the seller I was looking for potatoes that were orange inside, he just started back at me with an utterly bemused grin on his face. To him, I was just another silly gringa clutching a shopping list (which, for the record, no one ever seems to need in La Vega) like a life raft and begging him to understand.

Clearly he thought I was nuts. Speaking of which, I’d just remembered I needed some pecans for the crunchy, delicious topping for the souffle. But one step at a time, I reminded myself. After turning over a few more potatoes, he obliged me by slicing off a bit of the peel so I could see what color they were inside. I saw white potatoes, purple potatoes and even a red one (still stumped on that one) but nothing close to orange. Luckily, the process of elimination seemed to do the trick.  As soon as he realized what I wasn’t  looking for, it only took him a few moments before the sweet light of recognition went off in his eyes.

“Ah, los camotes!” he said.

Laughing, I just nodded. Sure, camotes! That’s what I meant all along. Whatever you say sir, so long as “camotes” get me near some yams.

As it turned out, camotes indeed were sweet potatoes. But unfortunately, he was fresh out. I had to venture to a few more stalls before I was finally directed by a haggard-looking woman to a sad little cart filled with a dozen or so lumpy, dirt encrusted yams. Feeling triumphant, I bought half her stock and thanked her profusely. Then I set off for one of the best (and my favorite) parts of La Vega — the nut stalls.

Every type of nut a human being could dream of was just steps away—in barrels, in bins, in boxes and bags, all waiting to be scooped up with miniature shovels and tossed into handy plastic sacks. I was truly spoiled, usually scoring a quarter kilo of walnuts and almonds for less than a couple bucks.

I was sure this would be the easiest part of my shopping trip. How hard could it be to pick out some pecans? I casually made my way down the line of bins, filling my bag with some salted almonds as I went. It wasn’t until I reached the end of the row that my happy, nut-buying smile withered and I realized there wasn’t a pecan in sight.

Nor were there pecans at the next stall, nor the next, nor anywhere else I looked.

The next time anyone asks me to name a true “American” food, I won’t have to stand there, stumped, as I wonder aloud if mac ‘n cheese or hot dogs count.

Pecans, I’ll say resolutely. PECANS.

Dismayed but not defeated, I figured walnuts would work perfectly fine and got a bagful. Thankfully, a one-armed infant could make sweet potato souffle under the right supervision, so I didn’t have much else to pick up. Sugar, butter, milk, spices. Easy, peasy.

A few blocks away, at the giant Wal*mart-esque shopping market called Jumbo (Yes, Jumbo), I snapped up most of the remaining ingredients. By that point, I’d tossed the idea of tackling a pumpkin pie so I was only concerned with the souffle. Having triumphantly found some grated nutmeg [which I learned was called molida but not until after I repeatedly told a perplexed sales clerk I needed to find nutmeg cortada (chopped)], I screeched to a halt when I got to the dairy section. Milk in South America is sold mostly in cartons rather than jugs, something I hadn’t really taken note of before since I’ve hated the stuff since I was a kid and rarely buy it.

A little thrown off, I shrugged. It’s milk, I thought. Pretty straightforward. Just get the one that says “Leche.” But, of course, there wasn’t just leche. There were at least five different types of milk on those shelves and not one of them had a picture of a cartoon cow or some handy tagline like “Hey gringa, this is just milk!” on it. After a few minutes of back and forth, I found myself torn between leche condensada and leche pasteurizada. In the end, I went with pasteurizada but I was juggling so many things in my hands that somehow the condensed milk made it into my cart and the others went back on the shelf.

Of course, I didn’t realize this until I made it home but at that point I was tired, sweaty (you try lugging ten pounds of produce for thirty blocks) and I’d had about enough. I’d just been forced to wait thirty minutes in line at a packed specialty bakery store for a package of ever-elusive brown sugar, and I couldn’t take anymore. I figured I’d compensate by using half as much sugar and muttering a few prayers over the pan as I slid it into the oven to bake.

Thankfully, when all was said and done, the dish came out perfectly. And the smell of those sweet potatoes bubbling in all their vanilla and nutmeg deliciousness was just what I needed to remind me of the thing I was missing most—home.  I may not have been able to recreate my family’s rowdy dining room, with its chorus of clinking wine glasses, my uncle’s off-color jokes and the din of football announcers in the background. But with that souffle I, at least, felt a little closer.

Oceans away, at a farm in the middle of the mountains, I sat crowded around a very different table. Kids splashed in a swimming pool, it was a balmy 75 degrees and the closest thing to the NFL I saw that day was my date battling my boss’ 12-year-old son in ping pong.

But when the food was ready and we all filled our plates, I was pleasantly surprised to feel quite at home. That I wasn’t with my family suddenly wasn’t so sad anymore. I was surrounded by friends I never would have made if I hadn’t taken a chance and who, now, I couldn’t imagine my life without. Things were different but, at the end of the day, I had more to be thankful for than ever before.

This year, I’ll be away from home again for Thanksgiving but New York City doesn’t seem that far from Atlanta when you compare it to Chile! And I’ll surround myself once more with close friends for a potluck dinner. I can’t wait to see what part of Home each of us brings to the table. I’m going with my aunt’s souffle again (such a crowd pleaser) and I might take a stab at my uncle’s sausage stuffing if I’m feeling brave when I head to the market later.

Wherever you find yourself this Thursday, I hope you feel at home.

And in the spirit of giving, here’s the recipe for my aunt’s simple and absolutely delicious sweet potato souffle. Enjoy.

*******

Sweet Potato Souffle

6 medium sweet potatoes (baked and scooped out) OR 2 large cans (16-18oz) sweet potatoes
1/2 cup sugar
2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/3 cup milk
1/2 cup butter

1/3 cup brown sugar
1/3 cup chopped pecans (or walnuts! haha)
2 Tablespoons flour
2 Tablespoons butter

Bake in preheated oven at 350 for 30-40 minutes

I know what some may be thinking. I’m just a 23-year-old with barely one foot in the door of working America and here I am blasting off about problems I probably don’t understand.

Well, I beg to differ. Not only did I get my first full-time job this year but I also lost my first full-time job this year. Just like millions of Americans, I went to work one day a mid-level employee with dental insurance and walked out with a box of my belongings and a pat on the back. I’d been hacked off in a round of layoffs that hit my coworkers and I with all the force of a blunt axe. I had been with the company for just three months, having packed up my life in Georgia and moved to New York for the opportunity to work for a consumer magazine that had recently bounced back from bankruptcy. Unfortunately for an unlucky 10 percent of their gobal work force, not many people were consuming it anymore and the company continued to flounder.

So, I spent my summer sweating bullets in my bedroom, cursing our tempermental A/C as I punched out line after line of countless cover letters. When not even a pound of freeze pops could beat the heat wave that settled over the city like a wool blanket, I retreated to a nearby coffee shop, where I worked on a freelance gig a good friend was generous enough to offer me. It paid $50 and was the only income I made all summer.

I’d only been working a few months so, as you can imagine, I didn’t have much in the way of savings. I was still paying off my brand new bed and I’d treated myself to a much-needed cell phone upgrade as soon as I got the job, so that fat little bill was waiting for me every month. And if there’s one slogan I can get behind it’s this: the rent in this city is indeed too damn high.

But don’t worry, everyone said. You’ll get unemployment!

And they said it just like that, exclamation point and everything, as if it were some bright shiny tugboat boat there to drag me to dry land. I was told something along those lines as I sat before HR and my editor and signed my own occupational death sentence. I was lucky to get a tiny severance package at all and then the great state of New York City would see me through until I could get back on my feet.

Except, New York City didn’t see me through. I spent countless hours jumping through voice-operated hoops in the Department of Labor’s labyrinth of a phone system, using my most patient voice to calmly explain to them my situation while they grumbled and sighed and did all they could to get rid of me.

Sorry ma’am, but you’re not eligible for unemployment. Sorry ma’am, there’s nothing I can do. Well, maybe if you call Georgia’s department of labor they can figure it out….Sorry, sorry, sorry.

If anyone was sorry each day I spent obeying the commands of disemobodied operators’ voices, it was me. Sorry I hadn’t woken up at the crack of dawn or else maybe I would have spoken to an actual human rather than being told by an operator that I would need to make an “appointment” for a representative to call me back—tomorrow.

The weeks melted into months and my 23rd birthday loomed ahead like some great big sinkhole in the middle of a one-way street.  It was at the beginning of August, marking the last month I’d be able to afford my rent and then I’d be flat, and I mean flat broke.  I did all I could to understand what I needed to do to fix the DOL’s mistaken claim that I was ineligible for benefits. But every person had a new explanation for why I didn’t apparently make the cut. I sent them tax forms, I had my mother fax pay stubs, I called Georgia’s DOL out of desperation and when they answered (on the FIRST ring), even they told me New York should be taking care of it.

For two months, I tried to convince myself everything would work out. I wouldn’t even need those benefits because surely I’d have a job lined up in no time. I knew the market for my line of work was as sad as ever, but that never stopped me before and I had no intention of breaking my stride. If one good thing came of my unemployment, it was having time to go home to join my family in saying goodbye to my grandmother, who was always proud of me and encouraged me in all I did.  If anyone believed I could tough it out, it’d be her. So, I squared my shoulders when I returned to the city and threw myself back into the job hunt. I had second interviews lined up for two great prospects and if only I could just get benefits for a couple of weeks, I could get by until one of them turned into an offer.

And, so I found myself on the week before my birthday sitting in the apartment that felt more like a prison cell each day, armed with the phone and a stack of paperwork, determined to make the DOL see reason. The last person I’d spoken with had given me hope I might get at least a few weeks of my benefits, but I wasn’t holding my breath. When I got a real voice on the phone, I plead my case, summarizing the highlights from the multiple conversations I’d had with other representatives and shared my confusion as to where I’d missed a step. Yes, I sent them the proper forms. Yes, I was sure I’d filed for unemployment each week. He put me on hold for a few minutes, came back and continued to ask me questions I’d answered a hundred times before. After fifteen minutes, he sounded as if he’d shrugged his shoulders and was thinking more about lunch than anything else as he dropped bomb after bomb on me.

Nothing I have here is saying that you’re eligible for benefits. Boom. That’s all I can tell you. Boom. No, not even partial benefits. Boom. Is there anything else I can help you with today, ma’am? Boom Boom Boom.

Quaking in silent fury, I hung up.

Was ANYBODY in that office working in tandem? It all seemed so disorganized, so mishandled. How could banks and freaking auto companies cash billions in U.S. bailout money with the drop of a hat but I couldn’t get a few hundred bucks just to keep a roof over my head?

Shaking and spitting with rage, I called in for reinforcements—my mother. I was so sick of going over how ridiculous it all seemed, I couldn’t even gather the words to rehash my conversation with the DOL. The weeks of stress and barely contained frustration broke through with all the power of an avalanche and I finally let myself break. Sobbing, cursing, choking with anger, I told her I’d rather go hungry than waste any more of my time banging my head against a brick wall that refused to budge.

So I quit expending energy on the dead-end DOL and put my all into landing a job. I decided I didn’t need the government’s money bags to see me through. I could do it on my own, just like I have been for the past five years, with nothing but ambition and guts and support from my family and friends to carry me.

And, you know what? I did. I landed a job the day before my birthday. Full-time, back in the newsroom, benefits and all. I cashed my first paycheck and paid my bills on time and I rejoined the working world as if I’d never left. No politicians, no golden parachutes and no flimsy campaign promises necessary.

Two weeks after I started, I noticed a spike in my bank account. Out of thin air, six weeks worth of unemployment benefits had been deposited without notice from the NY State Department of Labor. I felt vindicated in a way, having fought all summer trying to convince them of the truth—that I was just as entitled to benefits as anyone else—but I knew then, more than ever, that I can never expect any government to fix my problems for me. Yes, I’ll keep casting my vote and yes, I do believe that slowly (very slowly) our economy will turn itself around like it always does. But in the meantime, I see no reason to get caught up in the BS that defines political campaigns. They can keep their bumper stickers and their rallies and shout to the rooftops from their soapboxes all they want. What I want is for no one to have to go through what I went through, and I know I didn’t have it half as bad as those struggling without work and with families to feed.

When pols come up with a fancy slogan that’ll put kids to bed with full stomachs, send them to great—not just good—schools and give parents the pride of knowing they’ve provided for their families, I’ll be first in line at their campaign parade. Until then, why don’t they put their great big heads together and get some work done?

When Congressmen and women clambered out of session to hit the campaign trail for reelection in September, leaving  mountains of unfinished work behind and millions of people who, like me, had given up waiting on a tiny golden parachute of our own long ago, this article in USA Today said it best:

“Don’t these much-honored lawmakers have any work to do? The answer is: Plenty, but they are often more interested in keeping their jobs than doing them.”