Author: Just Visiting

Categories
Europe

How to Flush a UK Toilet & Things I’m Getting Used To

After getting my order I realized crumpets weren't what I thought they were. Turns out, they're like a much fresher/yummier "English Muffin" as known in the states.

I’m officially one week into my three months here in London and already I feel like I’ve been here for years. It probably has a lot to do with the fact that I’m working at the same company, with the same partner I’ve worked with for almost two years. Or maybe it’s because of how similar London and New York really are (especially since I work in a British office and live with a Brit back home). Or possibly because I’ve already been out with friends both new and old four nights. Or maybe even because the girl whose apartment I’m staying in left me a handmade guidebook to her place and neighborhood, and labeled everything with post-its.

 

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Yes I ate that entire Cadbury bar for dinner my first day in London. Thanks Elena!

 

Post-it guide to the wardrobe

 

Whatever the reason, I’m glad I’ve settled in so easily and there’s no shortage of things to keep me busy. Especially the TV in my bedroom that keeps me cozy indoors on these rainy days we’ve been having.

But there are a few things I’m still trying to get used to.

1. Why does flushing a toilet require so much work for some of us Americans? Most of the pubs I’ve been to have a simple button, thank God, but in the flat and at work I just couldn’t get the hang of these flush handles my first two days here. I literally had to Google “how to flush a British toilet.” So for anyone else who’s been dumbfounded by these insufficient flushers, here’s some help:

— Make sure you apply just the right amount of assertive pressure on the handle in one swift, decisive movement that’s not too fast and not too slow. So let’s say like, a half second.

— If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again, but not too quickly or immediately. Doing that over and over again won’t help speed up the unimpressive water pressure, but will in fact [probably] break the toilet.

— Once you succeed at seeing more than a teaspoon of water flow into the bowl just remember that you’re not done yet! Hold the handle down for a few seconds until you’re confident you’ve done the toilet’s work for it.

It really is weird. Once you get the hang of it it’s like “why was I struggling with this in the first place, it’s really not that different from what I’m used to in the US?” But hey, shit happens.

2. Staying in the bathroom world, I’m gonna go all female now so you men reading this may want to skip down to number three. TAMPON DISPOSAL. I’ve been told over and over not to flush tampons in England, which to me is just flat out disgusting. Once used, those things should have minimal exposure to anything. Not sit wrapped in layers of super-absorbent toilet paper in the trash can for days. They should flush down the toilet effortlessly and magically disappear into the most disgusting realm of the underworld, never to be seen again. But after seeing the struggle these toilets have just getting rid of a few sheets of toilet paper after a simple pee, I decided I better not be the one who clogs up the toilet with a clunge sponge. Apparently the old pipes of London can’t handle modern day proper hygiene, so it’s forcing us ladies to be all gross and stuff. Barf.

3. Actually, I guess all of my unpleasantries are bathroom related here, so please forgive me for the lack of photos. It’s only been a week and I’ve already realized that it definitely sucks being a raging drunk with a baby bladder. I mean really, the tube stops running around MIDNIGHT? I understand that the buses run 24 hours, but if I’m already cutting it close sprinting from the tube station to the flat with my legs crossed while holding my crotch, you can bet your ass I’m going to piss myself on a bus that takes twice as long to get home. I guess on the plus side this 1130 cutoff time has kept my drunken mistakes in check.

But in all reality London is great and it should be a very comfortable three months living here. I’ll just need to find some more localized watering holes to spend my weekends before I end up napping under a bridge along the Thames. And maybe take an extra pair of underwear just in case.

Categories
Europe Iceland

Black Out Like a Local in Reykjavik

In a city where the sun doesn’t even wake up until 10AM, it’s no surprise that the party rages well into the wee hours of the morning. I can’t even imagine what it’s like in the summer when daylight lasts 24 hours.

Prior to last week I’d never heard about this world-famous Reykjavik nightlife. And coming from New York I wasn’t convinced that it would even leave much of an impression on me. Of course this was all before the weekend hit and the bar culture left me feeling a bit more buzzed than the alcohol.

I’ve read and heard that Iceland is a culture where people don’t really frequent the bar during the week, but on the weekends they party. Hard. So we ducked into Ob La Di Ob La Da for a beer on a Wednesday and found ourselves in a room full of men intensely watching the Arsenal v Liverpool match in almost complete silence. It was a little intimidating, but just as the final whistle blew 90% of the place cleared out. The three of us finished our beers to some shitty American pop music and nonstop yawning while discussing our plan to call it an early night. While we were finishing off our beers a group of drunken Canadians came bursting in and within 10 seconds the lights went out, strobes came on, a disco ball started spinning, and Bon Jovi lyrics were on the screen. It was the quickest transformation from a sports dive to a karaoke haven I’ve ever seen. And it was certainly enough to keep us around until being kicked out when the lights came on at 1AM.

Sober as a tree
Sober as a tree: When you need to prove you’re not as drunk as people think you are, stand on one leg and hold both arms out to the side, and tell them you’re “sober as a tree.” If you don’t fall, you’re not too drunk. Keep drinking.

 

We went out again on Friday night and this time the bar—and every bar on Laugavegur—was filled with locals. So we kicked off the night with a traditional Icelandic shot of Brennevin, though the Premium version, which put up a pretty impressive battle all the way down my throat before [very] slowly finding its way into my stomach. It fought hard to make its way back out, and the beer chaser did absolutely nothing but amplify the disgusting burn. We were informed that Brennevin is a traditional Icelandic liquor made from fermented potato and flavored with things like cumin and caraway. They say it’s similar-ish to vodka, but I think it was pretty comparable to hell. I’ll stick to my shots of whiskey.

When I arrived at the pub around 11pm I was amazed at how sloppy people were. They weren’t just drinking to be social, the entire bar was drinking to forget the horrible decisions they were about to make. It was as if the entire city was on a mission to get blackout drunk (and in a rare turn of events, I didn’t feel like joining them). Stumbling, leaning on walls, rambling the worst pick-up lines ever mumbled in an attempt to take somebody, anybody home. And the men didn’t take the polite brush-off or the downright bitchy cold shoulder very well. In fact, one guy tried to tickle my sideboob when I rejected his drunken slurs and didn’t understand why I was appalled.

 

Icelandic beer
Delicious Icelandic beer

 

Despite the frigid weather causing my inability to dress in anything more fancy than the sweater, fat jeans, and “boots with the fur” I wore every night we went out, locals were dressed rather sharp and on the prowl. But as soon as I noticed how wrecked everybody else was, my desire to get wasted and party down completely diminished.  I knew I wouldn’t be in good hands and the outcome of the evening could be downright scary given such a potently drunk surrounding. So I made my way home and to bed by 1am partially because I had to be up at 730 for an all day excursion and snowmobiling trip.

Iceland was fantastic but I think I appreciated it much more for the nature outside of Reykjavik, not so much the inter-city nightlife. But there’s still a strong part of me that feels like this was fate, discovering an entire country of people who black out as naturally as I do, almost as though it’s just another ordinary night. Could this possibly be a place where I could go about my business and not get judged? Or perhaps it would just be a giant shit show where I’d end up stranded with other blacked-out alcoholics, frostbitten and stuck to a glacier when the sun comes up at 10.

I guess I’ll have to give Reykjavik nightlife a second shot when I’ve prepared myself for nonstop partying. Maybe I’ll go back in the summer and pull some all-nighters.

Categories
Europe Outdoor

The Hunt for the Northern Lights in Iceland

Dressed and ready to sit in the cold for 4 hours

When I booked my flight to Reykjavik I had one goal: to see the Northern Lights. But after stalking the solar activity and weather forecast the week prior to jetting off, I wasn’t too convinced we’d get to see them. Our first night in town was cloudy, but we woke up to clear skies on Wednesday. So we called up Volcano tours and arranged for the three of us to set out on a hunt for the Northern Lights just outside of Reykjavik.

We drove about 30 minutes outside of Reykjavik to escape the city lights before pulling into a desolate area on top of a hill that I’m pretty sure I’ve seen in a horror film. There were two abandoned houses and no signs of civilization for miles, but luckily I had enough layers on to survive for at least a week in the wild. Cameras and tripods in tow, we got out, set up our shots, and waited. For about two hours.

Lights of Reykjavik
The lights of Reykjavik while awaiting the Northern Lights

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Waiting…

At one point the tour guide started pointing at this glow in the sky, thinking it may be the start of some solar activity. Negative. So we sipped hot chocolate and waited some more.

False alarm.

Then out of nowhere he started pointing at a glow that was invisible to my naked eye, but sure enough it showed up on camera!

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IT STARTS.

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It only took a few minutes for the colors to intensify, and for me to jump up and down screaming like a little girl who just got a pony for Christmas. And for the next two hours the lights continued swaying across the night sky as we snapped photo after photo. Mostly green, but a bit or red and purple worked its way in there too. It was definitely one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever witnessed in my life, and the fact that it lasted well into the night was incredible luck on our part.

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Marcus peeing out the Northern Lights

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Proof that I was there, thanks to Marcus's photography skills
Proof that I didn’t just Google and repost all of these Northern Lights shots, thanks to Marcus’s photography skills

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Categories
Europe Living Abroad

My First Living Abroad Experience

So my next big trip is coming up super soon—just TWO WEEKS from today to be exact!

I work at an ad agency that offers this program called a life swap. Basically, it’s exactly what it sounds like. You swap lives with someone who works your same position in another one of our offices around the world. You keep paying your own bills, live in each other’s apartments, work each other’s jobs, and essentially just live each other’s lives for up to three months.

After a bit of begging planning, my Art Director partner Marcus and I have been lucky enough to have the opportunity arise to swap with a creative team in London starting February 4th!

This is my first extended stay in another country and I’m a little bit worried that I won’t want to come back. Right now it kind of feels like my semester abroad that I never had the opportunity to do in school. I’m already planning many, many, (perhaps too many) weekend trips to catch up with friends all over Europe, and I’ve even got my mom (who swore she’d never leave the country) coming to visit for about ten days in March, where we’ll also be spending a long weekend in Paris!

But perhaps the best part (do I sound like a late night TV ad yet?) is the two weeks of actual vacation I’m taking on the tail end of this trip. I’ve been saving up for a while now so I should be able to have a proper end to this incredible opportunity. I’m not positive where I’ll go, but I’m pretty sure it’ll be a good mix of adventure, tourism, and relaxing on some beaches if the weather cooperates. Regardless of where I end up, I’m hoping to spend my final night meeting the girls we’ve swapped with face to face in London to exchange stories.

So we’re kicking off this journey on January 29th by spending four nights in Reykjavik, Iceland, where with any luck we’ll see the Northern Lights! Fingers crossed!

I’d say I’m starting off 2013 the right way, and if everything goes according to plan it’s going to be an amazing, unforgettable three months that I can’t wait to share with everyone!

PS. I told you I’d be back, London.

Categories
Press

Just Visiting is BACK!

I’m a few days late, but Happy 2013!

I’d like to start my year with a confession: It’s been a while since Just Visiting has been at the top of its game. Okay that’s a lie, it’s never been at the top of its game. I let my day job easily defeat my dedication to this site. But a new year means a new start, and over the past six months I’ve put a lot of hard work into getting Just Visiting back up and running better than ever before.

First thing’s first: a MAJOR site redesign! I’ve worked long hours with friends and colleagues to design and build something that I feel fits Just Visiting. Of course it’ll forever be a work in progress, but I think it’s well on its way to a much more user friendly experience, and more importantly, MUCH better content.

Secondly, I’ve begun investing in better camera equipment so hopefully I’ll be able to take (and share) even better photos. And I CAN’T WAIT to start playing around with video using my new GoPro Hero 3!

Also, I’ve recently enrolled in a travel writing class that I’m fairly certain will help me craft my stories so that they’re much more interesting and informative to read.

And last but not least, what would a travel blog be without any traveling? So I’m kicking off the brand new Just Visiting with a BIG trip! Check back tomorrow for the official announcement (hint: I’ll be packing enough stuff to live off of for three months)!

I can’t thank those of you enough who’ve followed my journeys over the years. And for those of you who may be seeing this site for the first time, I promise to do my best not to disappoint! Here’s to kicking off 2013 the right way—traveling new places, meeting new people, and going on all kinds of adventures!

 

Just Visiting Blog:

New Site

 

On Facebook:

JVFB

On Twitter:

Twitter.com/JustVisiting

 

 

Categories
Food + Drinks Mexico Review

Authentic Mexican Food in Not-So Authentic Cabo San Lucas

Belching and on the brink of vomiting, but we kept going like champs.

I almost feel like a jerk for posting this because it’s going to be the most visually unappealing post I’ve ever shared. Not because the pics are particularly gross, but because 1- the blurry photos just don’t do the flavors justice, and 2- this weird thing happens when there’s food in front of me. I stop paying attention to my settings and just randomly snap pics because I’m in such a hurry to eat. So more often than not they come out blurry. But this experience was just so delicious, I couldn’t NOT share it despite the crappy pics.

If you love Mexican food like I do, there’s a good chance it won’t take too long until you find yourself feeling sad inside thanks to the local cuisine in the highly Americanized Cabo San Lucas. So instead of settling for tourist friendly beachside enchiladas drowning in sour cream, drive about ten blocks North of the tourist zone for a sit down meal at La Fonda. Holy mouthgasm. You won’t be sorry. And it’s cheap.

Up until this epic evening we’d eaten a lot of sub-par food in Cabo. The guacamoles were too creamy and bland, the entrees completely overpowered by seafood (which I guess could be a good thing if you like seafood tacos, I’m more of a beef and beans kinda gal), and generally lacking that authenticity that we were craving. Even at the highly recommended Villa Serena I wasn’t overly impressed for my birthday dinner (again, probably because I don’t love seafood dishes).

On our last night there I busted out the iPad, desperate to stumble upon some authentic hidden gem close by. That’s when I came across La Fonda on TripAdvisor, and after three seconds of looking at the menu decided we were going to eat like ravenous meat-deprived carnivores for the last supper.

And feast we did.

The restaurant was tucked away on Calle Miguel Hidalgo, and frankly a little hard to find (probably because we didn’t have a map). We drove around for a good 25 minutes before almost giving up. We were all hangry, and no matter which way we went we found ourselves back on Lázaro Cárdenas. Every wrong turn was one turn closer to defeat. Then out of nowhere we saw the tiny parking lot with friendly waiters standing there like they’d been waiting all night for us to arrive.

It was one of those restaurants where everything on the menu sounds delicious. The decor very traditional Mexican with bottles upon bottles of Tequila at the bar. The waitstaff was friendly, and almost more excited than we were for us to try their food. It felt like home. Or at least the Mexican version of home I’ve always felt I belonged in.

We ordered like we hadn’t eaten in weeks, getting appetizers and entrees to split amongst us all. Despite our oversized appetites, our bill only came out to $80 in the end. Money very well spent. I’d love to leave you with a website or something, but apparently they don’t have one. So if you don’t believe my taste buds, check out La Fonda on TripAdvisor.

I’ll leave you with some pretty shitty pictures that I really hope don’t deter you from giving this place a taste.

Disclaimer: A photo of the black bean empanadas are missing. They mysertiously disappeared before I could pull out my camera.

We were seated with a free sample, or rather, a tease. An excellent tease.
We were seated with a free sample, or rather, a tease. An excellent tease.
I love you even when you’re blurry, guacamole.
Queso fundido con chorizo. Nothing like a big dish of melted cheese and spicy meat.
Three quesadillas: pumpkin, shrimp, and huitlacoche (a mushroom that grows from corn).
Poisonous beans, refried and topped with “the secret adobo,” served with grilled tortillas. Oh, apparently poisonous and secret adobo means f’ing delicious in Spanish.
A Guadalajara special: drowned torta filled with carnitas. Though not very photogenic, it was tasty.
A Guadalajara special: drowned torta filled with carnitas. Though not very photogenic, it was tasty.
Some sort of chicken and veggies stacked between tortillas dish that a vegetarian ate and loved.
Some sort of chicken and veggies stacked between tortillas dish that a vegetarian ate and loved.

 

 

Categories
Mexico

My Five Birthday Wishes in Cabo

I love my birthday. Despite 18 years of K-BFA education and 12 years of working, I’ve never actually gone to school or work on August 10th. And I’ve spent 10 out of my last 12 birthdays traveling. This year, I chose a more relaxing beach getaway with some friends, but I still had five wishes for my big day. The first was that I didn’t have to get behind the wheel, and the second was that I eat lots of guacamole. Sherri made sure that happened by making an early morning run to Costco.

My first time eating mass quantities from Costco and it’s in Mexico. WTF.

Yes we were in Mexico, and yes, she bought—gasp—PACKAGED guacamole. Two of them. But she also bought about 496 miniature chocolate brownies, a liter of Nutella, flan the size of a large deep dish pizza, and two bags of pretzels and chips that were taller than Belinda when stacked on top of one another. So all was forgiven. Plus, I can’t say that I wasn’t eager to shove layers of chocolate, flan, and Nutella in my mouth for breakfast once the guacamole was gone. Oh yeah, it happened. Over and over again.

Costco-sized flan with a chocolate cake underneath.

I had a slight hangover from the night before at Baha Junkie where I forgot that I was turning 27 not 21. It was ladies night and alcohol was free. Yes, FREE. The most dangerous word in my vocabulary. The vodka started flowing like it was spring break and I was convinced I was just drinking watered down juice. That is until I was dancing on the bar, spinning the wheel of embarrassment in an attempt to get free shots. Of course I landed on “booty stamp” which sobered me up instantly. I was only hours away from my 27th birthday and I was acting like a college girl. I realized nobody was paying attention to me, I wasn’t the life of the party, I was just a mild embarrassment. So I kept whatever dignity I had left and hopped down off the bar, after getting my booty stamp of course.

Well it SEEMED like a good idea at the time.

Of course I forgot that entire portion of the evening until laying on the beach the next day and seeing this gem on my backside.

The bartender could tell I was a little weirded out so he stayed away from my booty.

My third wish was to spend the day relaxing on an uncrowded beach, so after breakfast we drove about 35 minutes to get some sun and get rid of our headaches at Palmilla Beach. I’d forgotten to rinse my camera from the saltwater the day before and my camera started acting up so I was only able to get a few pictures. Happy birthday to me, right?

I tried to tackle this pelican. Failed miserably.

Palmilla Beach was a much smaller, less crowded beach than Medano Beach. The swimming area was protected from the harsh waves by a string of rocks crawling with black crabs. There was a concrete walkway leading to a handful of thatched umbrellas (free of charge might I add) set up along the beach. It looked like there was only one other group of tourists, and just a few locals picnicking, fishing, and gulping down fresh mango juice from the woman who pushed her tin cart through 100 degree heat. The sun was stealing what little water was left in my dehydrated, hungover body, and the saltwater was sure to zap up the rest. Our liters of ice water warmed up quickly, and we only made it a few hours before heading back to the pool at the apartment.

The waves that threatened the cove.
Starting to look tan! Or burnt…

My fourth birthday wish was an authentic Mexican dinner, so the girls and I decided upon Villa Serena just a street away from the house. Sadly I’m more of a beef and beans kind of girl, and this place was primarily seafood. But we all ordered and shared, and overall I’d say it was an average Mexican meal. Not really anything to write about, but that could just be because I was really craving some beef.

Their guacamole basically tasted like mashed avocado
Chile Relleno, beans and rice. Pretty good, but missing the beef.

Lastly, my fifth wish (I really sound like a greedy bitch, don’t I?) was that we start off a night of drinking at Cabo Wabo. Ever since I’d heard that the man (Sammy Hagar/Van Halen) my dad used to play on repeat after every Ozzy Osbourne album during my entire youth had his own bar in Cabo, I added it to my “semi-embarrassing places I must see” list.

Inside Cabo Wabo. Kind of felt like Florida or something.

I was stuffed from dinner and still exhausted from the night before. I just wanted to go home and get into stretchy pants and call it a night. But it was only 8pm. Determined not to feel old, I marched straight up to the bar and ordered a Long Island Iced Tea to get the night started.

Playing catchup with my Long Island Iced Tea

Usually Long Islands get me very drunk very fast, but this one, nothing. That’s what happens when I drink after eating, it’s impossible to get drunk for like, four hours. And what kind of world would this be if I celebrated my birthday sober? So I went back up to the bar and told the bartender I need his strongest drink and I need it fast. He mixed up some fruity concoction that was a tad bit on the sweet side for my liking, but I shut up and drank it. Still sober. Then it was time to ignore my hatred of tequila, because trying a shot of Cabo Wabo at Cabo Wabo was also on my list.

Yep, still don’t like tequila. But don’t let my face fool you, Cabo Wabo is actually pretty smooth.

Cabo Wabo was definitely a hangout for the slightly older crowd. We were among some of the youngest people there, and sadly we were seated watching our elders with rocking perms dance all around us. The memorabilia covering the walls was pretty awesome though, and after a few more drinks we finally got the nerve to bust out some dance moves of our own. I was just praying for Slash to walk out on stage and show these guys up.

Our average-joe cover band for the evening.

I ended up maintaining a responsible, age appropriate buzz before heading home around 1am. The top was off the Wrangler and once we got away from the city lights I was mesmerized by the blanket of stars in the sky. I stood up on the seat, flailing out the top of the Wrangler while yelling some gibberish at the universe about my birthday (don’t worry, we were on the 5mph side streets and Sherri was the 100% sober driver). When we got to the house I made myself one last birthday cocktail and laid on the edge of the second-story balcony, staring at the stars. Belinda and Sherri went to sleep and I vowed to stay on that balcony until I saw a shooting star. I was a couple of days early for the Perseid Meteor Shower, but just as I was about to pass out give up, a bright golden star shot across the sky. And just like that, another very happy birthday went down in the books.

 

Categories
Mexico

Warning: Landmarks May be Smaller Than They Appear

Warning: famous landmarks may be smaller than they appear on the internet

Despite my general lack of motivation to do much of anything while in Cabo, we made the trip out to the infamous arch at Land’s End, or El Arco as the locals call it. The arch is probably the most recognizable landmark in Cabo San Lucas, and it sits perched upon the southernmost tip of the Baja California Sur Peninsula where the Pacific Ocean and the Sea of Cortez meet. It’s definitely a tourist trap, but only if you let it be.

Heading out to Lover’s Beach on our “glass bottom boat”

Strong riptides and rocky coastlines make most of Cabo’s gorgeous beaches unswimmable. Medano Beach is the most popular with tons of resorts and nightlife nearby, but it’s also swarming with tourists and crowded with water sports. We spent about 10 seconds there before hopping onto a $10/person “glass bottom boat” for a ride out to the arch. I use the term glass bottom loosely because a 3ft x 1.5ft window does not make a glass bottom in my book.

Silly me to think that a glass bottom boat would have an entirely glass bottom.
Who needs a glass bottom when you can hang over the edge and dip your camera into the water?

We made our way through the gulf and the tourist boats seemed to multiply by the second from every wave that crashed around us. We saw the arch, and I wish I could make this sentence a little more exciting but honestly that’s how it left me feeling. It was cool, but much smaller than I’d thought. It probably would’ve been a lot cooler if the boat would’ve dropped us off on land rather than giving us a quick peak from 100 yards away. I’m just glad we only paid $10 to check it out.

I don’t know why I always thought the arch was much larger. Story of my life.
Typical tourist shot waaayyy in front of the arch
I wonder if I was supposed to tip him for taking these pics?
Oh yeah, we passed this lone sea lion too, who’d found the perfect napping spot.

We were dropped off at a small beach nestled between two gigantic rocks not far from the mainland. The place was overrun with sunbathers, snorkelers, and boats, so we ventured on over a small cluster of rocks for a bit more privacy.

No, just no. But you totally should’ve seen the front.

Belinda and Sherri set up shop on a secluded stretch of sand just on the other side of tourist hell, relaxing in the shade of towering rocks that resembled the canyons of Wall Street—only prettier. I tackled the deceivingly inviting blue water, and after several losing battles (just to be fair, the waves played nasty with wardrobe malfunctions, face plants, and mouthfuls of saltwater and sand), I needed a break from the bitch that is the Sea of Cortez. Even Belinda, born and raised on the beaches of Australia, got knocked off her feet more than once. I decided it was time for me to moved on over mountains of rocks towards Lover’s Beach.

A nice climb, not too daunting.
Right after I snapped this pic a huge wave came and completely wiped me out.
The cave on the way to Lover’s Beach. Saw a few empty beer cans and graffiti in there. Damn kids.

The smartest thing I did all day was break away from the tourists in search of Lover’s and Divorce Beach. I let go of all my vain concerns about jiggly body bits and set out in nothing but my bikini, sunglasses, and my camera strapped to my wrist. I figured the less shit I had on me while navigating between slippery rocks and angry waves, the less likely I was to break a limb.

Is beach missing a C? Or is this just some horrible kerning?
This kid was fun as hell to watch. I thought about asking for lessons but again, jiggly bits.

I’d guess that it took about 25 minutes of strategic rock hopping to reach the small but serene Lover’s Beach. And best of all there were only two kids surfing and a few canoodling European couples (how fitting). The water was even more lover-ly; it didn’t seem like it wanted to pillage you and hold you hostage at all. I made my way up from the water and onto the tan sand of paradise only to realize it was actually quite rocky on my bare feet. But I had made it this far, I had to tough it out and make it to Divorce Beach.

Lover’s Beach from the boat. The passage between the two rocks leads to Divorce Beach.

After about ten steps it became clear that what looked like a quick, easy jaunt was more like walking on hot coals and shards of glass. I don’t know if the rocky sand was cutting or burning my feet more, but it hurt. Seeing that I had the distance of about two city blocks ahead of me, I picked up the pace. And my thought process went a little something like this:

“Shit, should I turn back around? Should I sit down on my butt real quick and rock from cheek to cheek, just until my feet cool off?” I sped up even more, and now my jiggly bits were in fact, jiggling. “What if I trip and fall and burn my face off in this scorching fire glass? Is there any shade ANYWHERE?”

It took a lot of uncontrollable cursing and unwarranted bikini jogging (yes, just like a scene from Baywatch, but minus the hot bikini babe and plus Slimer from the Ghostbusters), but I made it to the Pacific Ocean just in time to save my feet from amputation. Once semi-cooled down, I realized I was the only person on this side of the beach. Suddenly all was right in the world again. So quiet, peaceful, and relaxing. Watching the power of the waves could only be described as one of those “mother nature’s a badass” moments.

The beautiful, powerful waves at Divorce Beach.
I need to try surfing, like soon.
Appy Boob day! 27!
No tourists for as far as the eye can see
End verdict: Divorce Beach > Lover’s Beach

I stayed at Divorce Beach for a good hour or so until a few more people found out about my secret. Most of me was enjoying the scenery, but my blistered feet were dreading the sprint back across the fiery pits of hell. Luckily I must’ve burnt off the layer of skin that has any feeling the first time around, so the way back was a cakewalk. Yay for third degree burns!

 

 

 

Categories
Mexico

I Got a Pair of Balls for my 27th Birthday

A huge part of growing up for me has been learning to admit that I actually do have weaknesses. A few of mine are that I suck at being sick, I don’t know when to put the glass of whiskey down and call it a night, I have a literal addiction to junk food, and I can’t really control the tears upon waking up from anesthesia.

And then there’s driving.

I’ve had a nine year love/hate relationship with driving. It’s kind of like that abusive relationship that makes you fear for your life whenever you attempt to take control, but when it’s good it’s OH-so-good.

I waited until I was 18 to get my driver’s license. I failed my driving test the first time (nailed the parallel parking, failed the actual driving part) but got it the second time around. I only drove within a 20 mile radius of my house. The same routes between home, work and school, over and over again. I never left my comfort zone and therefore always remained terrified of driving down any unfamiliar road. Except for that one time that I jumped behind the wheel in Pennsylvania and woke up to the sound of a horn as I gallantly steered my way out from underneath the semi. But that’s a whole nother story.

I only had my license for three years before moving to New York City and I haven’t needed a car since. I drive every once in a while when I go back to Ohio for a visit, and I’ve only recently discovered that my comfort level improves significantly when I’m behind the wheel of an SUV rather than a compact car.

Cabo was supposed to be a trip where nothing really too extraordinary happened. That was until the whole subject of renting a car came up.

Since we were staying in a house 20 minutes outside of downtown, Sherri made the suggestion. Sure, I thought, but I’m not driving it. I want a lot of things for my birthday but dying is not one of them. Then she told me her license was expired and Belinda revealed that she has never had a driver’s license to begin with. My initial instinct was “no. I’ve never driven outside of Toledo, OH, there is no way in hell I’m going to try driving in Mexico.” But then I realized how ridiculously immature that sounded and I couldn’t believe I was being such a huge vagina. I take risks all the time, and here I am too much of a sissy to do something that 16 year old kids do every day. I’m 27. It’s time to man up, grow a pair, and drive a fucking car.

When we got to the rental agency I decided fuck it- it’s literally been a lifelong dream of mine to drive a Jeep Wrangler with the top off through the desert, so why not now? If I’m going to die on a Mexican highway I’m at least going to do it in an awesome car.I was finally getting pumped about driving when they told me the Wrangler wasn’t available and I immediately started pricing out the cost to take taxis all week. I wasn’t ready to tackle Mexico in a fucking Jetta that looked like I could total it by hitting a cactus. I think they sensed my panic because they told me the car would be available in a couple of hours if we want to take the Jetta just for a bit. So we did, and I drove it all of about 100 yards down the road for some food before coming back for the exchange.

My best “I’m so terrified excited” face at the car rental agency.

I guess I should’ve Googled some stuff like street signs and important Spanish words, but it probably wouldn’t have done much good. I think I was the only person who knew what a stop sign was (nevermind the red light that I completely blew through, let’s just pretend that never happened). Not to mention the fact that nobody in Mexico follows the speed limit. I would be going 80kmph in a 40kmph or 100kmph in a 75 and people were flying by me.

Okay this car went perfectly with this house.

It’s worth noting that when I’m nervous I drive with my hands clenched at 10 and 2, hunched over the wheel like a little old lady. You can bet I did a lot of that which was definitely not helping my already horrible game I was trying to spit at the Mexican men. And I can’t listen to loud music or hold an actual conversation without screaming. In the neighborhood we were staying in there were speed bumps every 15 feet that would even make tanks nervous. Some were traditional speed bumps, others small ditches and lost countries. It’s a damn good thing we were in an off-road vehicle.

“Hurry, take my pic while I’m actually driving. No one is going to believe me. Oh wait, let me at least try to look relaxed. What’s the opposite of 10 and 2?”

But I did it. Not only did I convince myself to tackle one of my biggest fears and drive in another country, I actually really enjoyed it. I drove about 45 minutes from the airport to the house and back, and a few trips into town here and there. Yes I made Sherri drive on my birthday (so what if she had an expired license, it’s Mexico). And best of all, I got to check “driving a Jeep Wrangler with the top off through a desert” off of my bucket list. My 27th birthday will forever be the time that I finally stopped being such a sissy and realized that driving really isn’t that scary at all.

Looking like a total badass…parked in the driveway.
Seriously, who smiles like this while parked in an SUV?
Categories
Lodging Mexico

$300 For Another Amazing Birthday Getaway

It’s that time of year again. That time when I celebrate the welcoming of my existence for an entire month and refuse to work on the actual date of August 10th. It’s birthday month!

This year’s kind of a big deal. No, it’s not my 21st or 30th, but my whole life I’ve had this notion that this would be the year I’d finally have my shit together and it’d be the best year of my life (I’ve also always felt that I was going to die at age 34, so hopefully my premonitions are completely effed). But I wanted to set the stage and start off on the right foot.

I’m turning 27. Old enough to know what the hell I like and what I want. I know that I like Mexican food. And I know that I’ve never been to Mexico. So why wouldn’t I go spend a few days on a beach in Mexico, shoveling guacamole into my mouth ALL DAY LONG? If that doesn’t sound like a happy birthday then I don’t know what does.

I wasn’t looking for a cultural experience this trip, nor was I looking for much of anything that required excessive planning or strenuous physical and mental effort. And it would be nice if I could convince some awesome people to come along with me. So I chose Cabo San Lucas.

My bank account hasn’t quite recovered from Thailand just yet (where’s my bailout?), but that’s where frequent flyer miles and friend-of-a-friend deals came in. Flights were running about $650 RT but thanks to my habit of plastic abuse I got one for just $113 out of pocket. I somehow managed to convince two of my friends to tag along so I knew that was going to make the hotel even more affordable, but I didn’t know just HOW affordable. My friend Sherri came to celebrate her August 2nd birthday, and as it turned out her mom’s friend owns a vacation home down there. He let us rent it out for $100 a night—which pretty much makes him the coolest person ever. A PRIVATE HOME FOR A HUNDRED DOLLARS A NIGHT. Divided by three. That was music to my cheap little ears! That meant no tourists, no screaming children, no feeling super old around the younger 20-somethings at the pool, no awkward moments after realizing the guy you’re flirting with is only 18, and no shared bedroom because it was a freaking HOUSE!

Yep. All this space for three girls. Did I mention he only charged us $100 a night?
The view from the balcony. If you look closely between the two rocks on the left, you can see the infamous arch—which was MUCH smaller than expected. Story of my life.
Not a bad spot to enjoy breakfast.
I napped all over this living area.
The dining area and the incredible view.
I may or may not have had a tequila-fueld heart to heart with this wooden Pope man.
One of many beautiful sunsets from the balcony

 

All in all I only spent around $300 between the flight, rental car, house, food, and drinks for five days in beautiful—yet extremely hot—Cabo San Lucas. I gained 7 lbs from eating like a maniac, danced on a bar, got a “booty stamp,” almost fell off a second story balcony, saw a shooting star, and unexpectedly checked something off my bucket list. But more on all of that later. Happy birthday month to me!