When it comes to the world's must-see destinations, Machu Picchu is on everyone's short list.  Personally, I spent two nights in Cusco, Peru which included a private day tour of the Sacred Valley, then embarked on a four-day, three-night Inca Trail hike, and one post-hike night in Ollantaytambo, Peru.  There are things I would not change for the world, and others that I'd tweak if I had to do the trip again. Here are ten things I would keep in mind when planning a vacation that maximizes not only a visit to this World Wonder, but its incredible surrounds.

Pisco Sours, anyone?  I didn't regret getting tipsy on Peru's  signature cocktail, or purchasing the legal limit of the nutty liqueur in the airport prior to my return flight to the United States.  Greens Organic and Inka Grill, both centrally located near Cusco's Plaza de Armas historical center, provided authentic cuisine that catered to my vegetarian diet and offered Llama Burgers (yes, that's right!) for my omnivorous counterparts curious about the flavor of Peru's most notable beast.  And if you're feeling super-adventurous, it's highly likely you will encounter "cuy" being skewered and roasted more than once.  Why yes, that does mean guinea pig!

There are two ways to get to Machu Picchu: Take a train, or hike there.  I chose to hike, simply thinking that the Inca Trail would be a good follow up to 2014's Half Dome summit, completing the hike would add notch on the old ego belt, another check on the bucket list of things I can destroy before my body inevitably declines.
 
But hiking the trail allows you to witness the story of Machu Picchu, instead of simply tuning in for the finale.  The ruins staggered along the path lead you along pathways traversed through history, and is an experience in and of itself.

It's the same, singular Inca Trail.  All treks must certainly be created equal.  Is that what you're thinking?
 
That's debatable, I suppose, but not only did I have an incredible experience (hilarious and knowledgeable guides, premiere campsites, amazing home-cooked Peruvian meals and snacks catered to accommodate all diets all along the trail and a professional entourage of staffers), I am so RELIEVED I booked through Llama Path, for a number of reasons I learned amidst lessons in history and architecture.

While I am not 100% sure this is 100% accurate, it matches what was explained to me by our trekking guides and what my group observed:
 

(a) If you book a local trek operator, they pay taxes to the Peruvian government and you are not only a tourist, but you are subsidizing the country you are visiting.  Non-Peruvian companies (ahem, Canadians) do not pay taxes and therefore the money you paid doesn't stay.
 
(b) With tourism being one of the biggest industries in Peru AND the fact that our 13-tourist group had two guides, two cooks, and seventeen porters, it is VERY important that these hard-working individuals be treated well.  This is not yet a developed country, and while the crew labors to carry everything from our backpacks and tents to their own cooking equipment, anyone who works as a service provider deserves excellent treatment.  I am grateful that Llama Path provided enough food to overfeed everyone - employees and trekkers - in our group, and that there was such an excess of food, they could share with employees of less-hospitable companies.  They also have a "hotel" for porters in Cusco, so that their employees may rest and have a place to stay between scheduled hikes, whereas many other operators leave their porters high and dry.

While paying slightly more for the experience, it was evident that not only did we have superior experiences to other trekkers, but we were also contributing to a true livelihood for the employees, not simply sustaining poverty.

 The Machu Picchu stamp makes every list for interesting souvenir stamps, but what is even cooler is that you can collect stamps all along the Inca Trail.  Umm... yes, please!

Did you know you can also totally climb that mountain behind Machu Picchu?  It's called Huayna Picchu and they sell permits to climb it for two timeslots daily.  You can obtain these permits through your trekking company or directly from the Peruvian government (if you are visiting Machu Picchu exclusively, without hiking the Inca Trail). On average, it takes about two hours round trip, offers an insane view of Machu Picchu, is not as scary as other blogs would have you believe, and after 4 days on the Inca Trail TOTALLY grants you bragging rights!

There are a million stories I should share before this one.  I went and saw the cherry blossoms in Washington, DC.  Aaaamazing.  I ate my face off in New Orleans, and wanted to share "A Vegetarian's Guide to New Orleans" since legitimate food guides in that vein are severely lacking online... but I guess travel doesn't make me want to write, at least at the moment.

I just stepped back (or maybe out?) of the first little heartfelt whirlwind I've allowed myself in ages.  I last said goodbye around 7 hours ago, got off the phone about 3 hours ago... and I'm a little sad.  We have plans to hang out in two weeks (you know, unless I bail), but as I told him on the phone, "It just feels like the last day of vacation. I'll be ok, but I'm not ready to leave."

He said that was an appropriate way to describe how things are changing.

But really, we had clicked.  I found him online (which, I usually avoid like the plague, but one of my coworkers was going on dates and I simply thought it would be fun to go on a date, even if I expected it to be terrible).  I was messaging heavily with three other men, when after a few brief exchanges, Rob sent me his number and told me to give him a call.  After the hour-long conversation, it was fair to say I was excited to meet him.

Our first date lasted 15 hours (as the good ones often do), six weeks ago, and continued in similar fashion weekend after weekend until this morning.  It's been a while since I've felt anything for anyone in a long time.  To be honest, it's been a while since I've allowed myself to feel anything for anyone.  When I said it's "Time to love again," I didn't hold back.  This isn't to say I wasn't cautious or that I jumped in head first (and, you know, I noted a few red flags), but finding someone who makes you laugh and that you want to snuggle with is a rare thing.

Last week, I was a little confused when he was saying "Goddammit, I like you. That's the only problem!" while referencing me to others as HIS chick and HIS babe.  I visited him Thursday evening, and we parted, with an amicable "See you!" mentality, I headed to the shore with my friends, and as I was driving to drop my friend off in a town close to where he lives, he called and I swung back over.  But a few shots of whiskey, and he freaked out again.  In short, it's too serious, it's too couple-y when he doesn't want to be attached.  And this has nothing to do with me: he thinks I am awesome, and he'd "wife me up" if he was looking for that... but he doesn't want an every-weekend girl, or more than that.

And he told me he has love for me, which I believe, but wants to scale it back.  He wants to do him, and be unrestrained by my desires.  (I believe him.  When I was in my early twenties, I told someone the very same thing, so I understand that it's impossible to invest in another person, despite truly liking them, when you want to do you).  So, we still have dinner reservations at Philly's restaurant week in a couple of weeks from now.  He said I could bail if I want to, but he still wants to bring me.  I think, by then, this sting will fade.  I'm not even feeling as if he is wrong, but it's sad to have your fun squashed or your vacation abruptly ended.  I live at home (which I don't want), was recently interviewing for a position in the San Francisco Bay Area (which I am still interested in), and was merely playing life by the ear awaiting lightning to strike, and the next wave of life to pull me out to sea.  I didn't expect that the most exciting thing to happen this summer would be to fall for a Jersey Boy.

In reaction, I told him that it doesn't have to be True Love, but that out there somewhere, some psychologist theorized "Physical Attraction / Intimacy + Emotional / Mental intimacy = Romance."  He liked that, and as an afterthought, perhaps that final spoke, "Commitment" that yields True Love (when properly executed) is best neglected anyways.  Because Commitment, with pulling back emotional intimacy yields "Emptiness." (Though commitment to emotional intimacy, without physically intimacy is still good: Friendship).  Again, the sting is still there, so I'll give it a week to marinate.

The funnier little twists of fate are that, in the interim, I did two little psychic readings (my thing?) that were independently scheduled separate from dating.  I went to catch a live taping of "The Daily Show with Jon Stewart" in New York City, and my friend asked if I wanted to pop into another friend's crystal-magic type shop.  A numerologist was there, and impulsively, I handed over my $25.00 and asked for a reading.  She began to tell me my most compatible signs, and I asked her about Rob's birthday.  At first, she frowned, and said "Well, I never tell anyone to call things off based on the numbers" but then perked up when she realized he's a "Capricorn 2" (whatever that means) and she said "2015 is the year of Capricorn" (she's right - I Googled it - though I still don't know what it means) and that I'm in a "2 year."  She was, in fact, delighted, and told me to stick with him for the time being, because I clearly had manifested someone who would provide me a good year.  And then, while just down the shore this past Saturday, I visited Cora's, a well-known "psychic" booth in Ocean City, NJ (in between Rob visit one and Rob visit two).  The reader flipped over a Knight Tarot Card, then immdiately followed with a Queen. She told me that my last relationship would never have worked because a Queen needs a King.  Her next card flip was a King, and if I hadn't shuffled the cards myself, would have thought she was faking me out.  "A King will enter your life soon" then she told me she was getting the initials "J.R.... J.R.... J.R.... Or he's a junior, maybe..."  I said "I've actually been seeing someone whose initials are R.J. and he is named after his dad."  The reader told me "HE is your king."

I suppose I'm just over-analyzing. What I should do is walk away, but who can walk so easily away from someone who, not only do I like, but also likes me?  I think what I'll do is just do me.  Make 100% selfish decisions, go on my 100% selfish vacations, and put my life in a position that when I AM ready for True Love and not just True Romance, all of the i's are dotted and t's are crossed, and I'm not simply vacationing in someone else's life (and arms), but living.

Thank you, handsome Rob.  You are a King, and you have a little place in my heart.  I'm bummed to say goodbye to the snuggles, though! xo

Las Vegas.  I've been there more time than I can count, for work, for play, and more often than not, ambiguous reasons that can most likely be categorized as ants in my pants.  What stays in Vegas usually stays in Vegas, but my latest antics are too good to keep under wraps.  They are coming at a slight delay since my birthday shenanigans were back in December (and after the spectacular dvd was presented to my family, my coworkers, and a bunch of friends on a Friday night), but here it is, the birthday gift that keeps on giving... Ending up on stage with comedy hypnotist, Marc Savard.

Hint: Pay special attention to the back row, slightly left of center ;-).

Whew... As my friend and Vegas compatriot, Allison, beautifully synopsized: "Guys, I swear, I was with her the whole time. She had nothing to drink beforehand."

What I genuinely have to credit to this Vegas trip, unlike prior visits, is that this one was MY genuine vacation.  I brought two of my best girlfriends, skimmed through shows that sounded interesting (yes, we also saw Cirque du Soleil and David Copperfield, though none of us ended up on stage in either of those shows) and explored the parts of Sin City that I've never been to before.

For the first trip, I escaped the confines of The Strip as we explored Red Rock Canyon (and the edge of the Pacific Plate?) and the INCREDIBLE Neon Museum, a gallery of vintage signage from Vegas's golden years.  Of course, the Vegas that is supposed to stay in Vegas will (and while there may possibly be a club where you can dance with Elmo, watch midget bowling, and the male exotic dancers begin their act female, I certainly wouldn't know where to find it...)

It's been a while since I've updated this thing.

This time last year, a pack of then-strangers Googled me (which they confessed a few months later) and found, with intrigue, that I was NOT "one of (them)" based on this website.  I was slightly embarrassed.  In fact, in recent conversations with these not-so-strangers any more, I was like "Oh my God, you must have thought I was pathetic" and the general responses ranged from "I was mostly just fascinated by the photos" to "Not so much. It just looked like you'd been through a really rough patch."

Well, these individuals have become my confidantes (balanced with an arsenal of local lifelong friends) and a year has passed, and it's time to get life on the road.

The recent temperature drops that remind me that winter is coming and I'll soon be trudging through knee-deep Pennsylvania snow, combined with the boredom and general apathy that comes from living a passionless life have given me a kick in the butt that it is time to throw my heart into the next big thing.

It has been an interesting year.  I've checked off a few bucket list items, which vary from executing my northwest USA roadtrip, summiting Half Dome and Cadillac Mountain, getting the Catullus V quote I've loved since eleventh grade tattooed on my tricep, attempting to get fit, and finally getting those Past Life Regression -slash- Life Between Lives Hypnotherapy Sessions (both to improve my soul and piece together some very human questions).

To be completely honest, these things are rarely on my mind, but they do follow up succinctly to my last post from about a year ago.  And, perhaps, more honestly, I haven't spent much time thinking at all between working two jobs, using weekends for getaways and hanging out in Philly instead of meditation or reflection.  The cold has slowed me down and I've been overeager to run home to my blankets, Netflix, and the wheels of my mind.

That Soulmate Thing: Yes, his name is Matt.  The other day, Facebook suggested that I may know him. (Thanks, Facebook!  I nearly forgot him) and suddenly a wave of sickness just sort of rushed over me, as I recalled all the things I was willfully blind to within that relationship.

Matt and I dated for a year and a few months until a drunken conversation with his friend Julian prompted him to wake up the next morning and dump me while still in bed {and then proceed to sit and cry for ten hours in my apartment about how he "knew he may regret this someday" and that he didn't want me to date someone else because it would make him jealous... and the statement that cued the trauma, that he "didn't know what was wrong with (him) because (I was) perfect"} then post sad and lonely Facebook statuses about missing me, yet refusing to discuss it with me.

At the end of the day, there was something wrong with him (in a relationship context), which my human mind discredited as the occasional "weird" occurrence and discredited, in my eagerness to merely love and care for the one who I felt like I'd "known for a million years."  

But there was something wrong with me as well:  I IGNORED RED FLAGS.

We all have a soulmate.  In fact, read "Eat, Pray, Love" and Elizabeth Gilbert's marriage and Bali-dwelling "love" are separated by a relationship with her soulmate (oh so handsomely played by James Franco in the film... and who wouldn't mind a Franconian soulmate? NOT EVEN JULIA ROBERTS!)  Granted, until both your souls' perfect into the higher levels, you will never have a blissful (human) life together and you will simply be designed to cross as teachers to eachother. 

I think, if I had not felt that infinity with Matt, how long would we have lasted?  One month.

** As a quick FYI for those wondering what I learned in my PLR and LBL sessions (if you believe in all that), despite being soulmates, Matt and I are on opposite sides of the spectrum as far as soul aging is concerned.  He's in the second level, while I'm towards the end, an "old soul."  I don't really like this disparity, but what can you do?  Of the three past lives I explored, we were romantic partners in two of them.  Neither made it to fruition - I was murdered at 25 years old while living in Spain (which he witnessed), and in another life, I was thrown into prison while he (or... she) was pregnant with our child, whom she raised with another man until my release many years later.  And then he (she) watched me die "of the fever sweats... the typhoid!"  DOOMED.  (Eyeroll).

SO WHERE AM I NOW?

I just remembered how much better life is when you love something.  Someone.  Anything.  Everything.

Having a job that you are lackluster about is good when you are merely trying to pay bills and get your life in order, but not when you remember you have a future and the thrill of what loving what you do can bring in.

Living with your parents... has some positive something or other (it's free, and there's occasionally food in the fridge?) but it's in a small town miles from where my dreams are, and for the most part, even where my friends are.

It makes me eager for that freedom from the mundane that I am so apt to sink my teeth into, but have been recently neglecting.

But I want my own apartment, somewhere that I love where I can hostess guests at my own leisure and decorate to my own taste.  I want to wake up every day and do something I am passionate about, not just once a month, but every day that time allows.  And I want to sink my heart into someone again.  The feelings spark beneath the surface, and I've been giving them opportunities to flourish.

This time, though, my wits are about me.  I will find someone who, when they meet someone who they are excited about, swears to be the best them they can be and does what they can to contribute to a healthy relationship and with my best interest regarded.  And I will do the same.

It's time to love again!  As my new tattoo says, "Vivamus atque amemus!"

(And if you are looking for some good news, yes I met my forever-this-life man and my son in my LBL session as well.  So when you find out "It's a boy!", you heard it here first ;-)).  Ok, or maybe I'm being cheesy. :-P

Ugh, life is such a pain in the butt!

A. Pain. In. The. Butt... Exclamation mark!

You know why? Because hindsight is 20/20, and even worse, because "I knew it all along." FML, amiright?

So here is my big internet confession: Every few years I pick up a new hobby.  For example, going to punk rock concerts (2000-2001), LOVING New York (2004-2006) and traveling the planet (duh, always) topped my list, but a few years back in my global jauntings, I encountered a fellow whose reaction made me go...

WHOOOAAAAA super magnetic pull and at the same time an echoing, reverberating, booming, "NO!"  He was from the nation of Wales, which for a brief blip in time was on my radar for the simple reason that said Welshman grabbed me, kissed me, said if he didn't "he'd never see me again" (which I took dramatically and he meant just literally) and invited me on a trans-Atlantic journey into the future.  And despite the "NO!", I got involved.  He was cute, but he wasn't young Brad Pitt cute or anything.  He was just a guy with a sweet face, a bad accent and a mouth that continuously spilled out musings that echoed my own thoughts, which at first I thought was brilliant, then later, I thought was idiotic. (Note to self: Hearing one's own thoughts out loud has a shelf life).  Long story short: Should've listened to the "No."  Not only did I get the "No" once, but I viewed some photos that tipped me off to the "No" a second go-round.  But I thought my intuition was crazy, pushed it away, and BOOM.  

Well, anyhoo, after this brief experience, I took to Google to research what the freaking hooha that strange pull was and two answers came up: "karmic debt" and / or "soul mates".  Down the rabbit hole went I into a whole new world with a whole new hobby: metaphysics, spirituality, and other new age nonsense (2010-present, and no I don't need you to buy me crystals, thanks).  BUT (and the big 'but' that it is) is that soul mates show you your true self.  They are a mirror.  They teach you lessons.

Lesson from Soul Mate #1: "My thought process is incorrect."  (DAMMIT!)

So, I started listening to the whispers of the universe and now, in not-so-subtle hints, a direct command told me: "Move to LA. He's there."  It was James Earl Jones in "Field of Dreams." (I'm serious, and yes, I think people who quote "the universe" are weirdo hippies as well, but I'm the exception, not the rule).  LA was always high on my list of places to move anyways, so I thought, "Ok, universe, show me what's up."

I began opening myself up for this alleged "he" to find me: Online dating profiles, talking to strangers at bus stops, meeting friends and their friends and their friends, then seven months later, I made my way to the barbecue.

And I felt That Freaking Magnetism again. (This time without the "NO!") But the barbecue ended, and he didn't get my number, and I went home scheming up ways to see him again and I thought of friending him on Facebook and eventually I thought "If he wanted my number, he would've asked for my number" and I gave up... and then, he found me.  And a date for drinks was set.

"Is it weird that I feel like I already kissed him before?" I asked my friends. "Yes," they said.  "I feel like I've known him for a million years" and they said, "Well, you've known him for a couple of hours" and I don't remember how we started kissing on the first date, but by the time we made it back to my apartment (hey, nothing happened, busy-bodies) he pulled back, looked me in the eyes and said "I feel like this could be something really serious..." and then on the second date, "Hey, have you ever read 'The Five Love Languages'?" (because that's a second date question, but "Yes", for the record).

Things came up in conversation as the days and weeks and months passed, and eventually I learned of his previous long-term girlfriend of six years, a relationship that started in high school.

"Six years?  Why'd you break up?"

"I moved to LA.  I thought of moving out here with her, but realized we had changed. A lot of it was long distance," he said.  And the break up was years ago.  In the early months, I asked most of my important relationship questions and moved ahead trusting this was a man-with-no-issues-and-no-baggage.  But every now and then he'd mention her, the ex, and how he had to have a rebound or how she was a "bad girlfriend" and I'd ask "Are you over her?"

It's not that ever, once, I doubted he had feelings for me. He'd email photographs home to his mother of us kissing (tres embarrassing!), gush about me to his very best friends, and get tipsy and coo into my ear "You're so pretty".  It was hard for him to sit in the same room and not tumble into my arms, to sleep in a bed and not wind his long arms around me, and when I asked him to describe our relationship, he'd stated "satisfied", "content" and most of all, "happy".  And if I had to tell you who liked who more, I'd say him by a millimeter.  He loved our relationship, thought the world of me, but...

"Are you SURE you're over her?" I'd ask, on the rare occasion he'd talk about her bad girlfriending or say but not say that the emotions he had for her were stronger than the emotions he had for me, that those emotions were the "real love" though he loved being a part of us much more then he loved being a part of them.

My instincts said he wasn't over her, but his mouth insisted that he was (and it wasn't a lie, because his mind seemed to believe it), and I thought "If you can't trust your partner, who can you trust?"  I took his word for it.

And then, one night, he climbed into my bed, wrapped his arms around me in a suffocating spoon.  I asked several times if he was ok.  He said yes, and I thought "Well, he doesn't want to tell me" and I dozed off, crushed by the embrace.  There was no reason to suspect his problems were with me or the relationship, and in the weeks before he'd voxed kisses at me and took screencaps of me dozing off while on Skype and he lamented that an adorable photograph of us hugging was not on display to the world on Facebook, and there was no worry that I was anything less than the apple of his eye.

But, in the morning he woke, and said "Babe, I have to tell you something and you're not gonna like it..."

I forgot how he said we should stop dating, but I remember everything else.

"I don't know what's wrong with me. You are the sweetest, nicest person..." (Note to breaker-uppers: Never say "I don't know what's wrong with me."  It begs an answer.  A very long answer.)

"I know someday I might regret this," he said.  ("You will," I thought.)

"If you get a new boyfriend, I will be jealous, the way I was with her when she got a new boyfriend." ("Was this while we were dating?"... Oh my God, this was while we were dating).  And then, he told me that it wasn't he who had left her, but she who had left him. Over and over, six times before he waved the white flag, and in the time they were together, she'd only see him a few times a year, more often than not, blowing him off.

That isn't LOVE, I thought.  And... YOU AREN'T FREAKING OVER HER!!!!

But then, I put that thought away.  I asked "Are you attracted to me?"  He looked at me like I was crazy.  I asked if there was something he didn't like. "No," he liked it all.  He cried on me for 10 hours, and I cried on him 10 hours right back.  I went to a free tarot card reading. I told him what she said: that we are soul mates.  "Well what do we do?" he said, but he had already broken up with me.  And we talked, and we said our "feelings" for eachother were the same, but it was his "thoughts" that were different, and yet, he insisted that it was his feelings that were wrong.

Cue... Life Meltdown #47.  The headache long outlasted the heartache, and my physical reaction to the "lies" long outlasted them both.  

And his thoughts were wrong.

It's not that I don't believe him when he said he is "over" her.  I just don't think he knows what it is to be over someone.

I told him all my exes are married.

"Oh my, does that bother you?" he asked.

"No. Sometimes, I'm curious, but no more than I am with random people I went to high school with."

And had he told me, I would have worked with him to get over her, but he lacks the communication skills to do so, or the ability to think of me as an individual outside of the relationship enough to do so... Not because he doesn't "love" me, but because his primary care was preserving my love for him, not rocking the boat, not making waves, instead of caring about the health of our relationship.  Or, I would've known he wasn't ready to love again, wasn't healthy and wasn't introspective, and taken my love away.

In fact, I've been her before, in a previous relationship.  Years past that relationship's expiration, I told that ex he needed to move on.  I had told him while we were dating that I wasn't serious, that I couldn't see myself marrying him, but the fact was that I was young and hedonistic and had no future and wasn't that attracted to that particular ex myself.  I bet money on the fact that she wasn't that attracted either, but who knows those things when they are young?  Not everyone.  Or I would have facilitated some kind of inquiry or asked her myself, if he really wanted to move past her.

I thought, for the longest time, that the lesson was "Have patience", but as is my nature, I fight for explanations and "Have patience" didn't cut it.  It wasn't the lesson.

I felt his energy nuzzle into my back a few weeks ago, for days on end.  I had written him off, but his energy was pressed into my back.  I was weirded out, but of course an internet forum (you hear that? an internet forum; it must be true) affirmed this can happen.  

And so, he will move forward until he moves on, someday crashing into a wall at a million miles an hour and he will see himself.

But then, it dawned on me.  My anxiety isn't from heartache or needing answers or being unable to move on.

It's simply, I saw this coming.  I didn't know the answers but my gut knew something was there. Something with her. Something he wasn't even admitting to himself.  And I stood there, on the tracks, watching the train barrel towards me and failed to move.  I stood there, knowing the train was coming, but deciding that it wasn't.

"Trust your gut."  Oh, dear soul mate, that is the lesson.  I missed it the first time and the second time and you came across space and time to show me and that's the lesson.

"Trust your gut."

And now, I wish for you, sweet soul mate, self love and self esteem and send you well wishes that someday you may know the love that I know, which isn't obsessive or addictive or fantasy.  It's just simply wishing the best for the other person's life, but you'll get there.  "Be patient" isn't the lesson, but you'll get there.

And perhaps, even better, you will learn the lesson that I learned from that Welshman: Your thoughts aren't always correct.

There's always next lifetime!

I'm currently on a post-accident hiatus.  Check back soon!

Maybe you didn't know this, but in 2009,  I spent over six months in the Land Down Under.  Australia and New Zealand are the only countries I know about that issue Americans under 30 working holiday visas, and I needed a break from life for a while.  So I did what any confused, modern-day escapist with cash in the bank would do: I bought a one-way ticket to Oz.

While it's not the cultural adventure that Europe or Asia is and in so many ways is Bizarro America, I'd still love to share why Australia is a special place in so many special ways.

* THE WILDLIFE *

Within a week upon arrival, an Australian friend (mate?) turned to me and said "Do you want to play kangaroo golf?" 

"What is that?" I asked.  

"Well, basically it's just golfing on a golf course, but kangaroos are hopping around, wild".  UMM... YES!  I forgot to cash her in on this incredible offer, but I do need to speak on behalf of the rumors that Australia is basically just a giant beach with kangaroos hopping around.  It's totally true.

Just kidding.  It's got a giant desert in the middle!  Duh. :-)

Truth be told, I never once spotted a wildly roaming kangaroo, but I did go to every freaking zoo that country possessed.  The Perth Zoo.  The Steve Irwin Zoo (aka "Australia Zoo").  Some animal sanctuary.  The incredible and amazing TARONGA ZOO, which also happens to boast my favorite view of Sydney.

I love that Australian zoos allow you to get up-close-and-personal.  I fed giraffes and elephants, CUDDLED koalas >_< (I'm like a giddy Japanese schoolgirl with this memory), and chased around wombats and wallabies until my heart exploded.

The insane amount of native cuteness gets two thumbs up.

And while my frequent trips to the zoos guaranteed I'd get to love on Aussie animals without a hitch, I also can't lie and say I NEVER saw animals in the wild.

One fine day, my non-Aussie friends and I hopped a ferry to Rottnest Island ("Rat's Nest" if you want to translate it from Dutch...).  "Rott-O" is known for great biking and being the home to quokkas.

Gosh, quokkas are cute.  They're little rodents with teddy bear faces and unfortunate rattails, and Australians basically regard them with the same disdain I reserve for squirrels, but, you KNOW. They only exist in this one place on earth.  It's not like I tried to pet a shark or something.

* THE INDIAN OCEAN *

Let's clear the air.  My childhood was filled with trips to the Jersey Shore.  That's right.  You've seen it on MTV?  And until my eyes laid sight on the beaches of San Diego just six years ago, I had a hard time wrapping my mind around other people's obsessions with the beach.

Oh yes, that floating garbage dump with the sand attached?  You like it?

But LOOOOOORDY, even the West Coast of the US has nothing on the West Coast of Oz. (But neither does the rest of Australia, sorry mates). 

The first trip I made to Cottesloe Beach, I was confused why all the swimmers were avoiding the same part of the ocean.  "Oh, they're avoiding the kelp," I was told by the Aussie accompanying me.

"But how do they know there is kelp?"  

Well, the reason is simple.  You can see it.  The ocean is clearer than a swimming pool and no matter how many times I walked out into it, the amazement that I could SEE my TOES never wore off.

Not only is the water crystal clear, it's also perfectly warmed by the blazing sun.  The sand is soft and white and the surf is something I actually allowed myself to get swept up into.  It's the only body of water on earth I find preferable to dry land.


* AND MORE *

Australia has so many things that I can't find elsewhere in the world.  They have, without any doubt, the best-tasting pineapple on earth.  How?  How is this pineapple so good?  I don't even know that I like pineapple in the US.  And, the night sky is GORGEOUS.  It's not just happenstance they've printed the Southern Cross on their flag, the sky is beautiful.  Is it the depleted ozone that transforms the watered-down blues of the Northern Hemisphere into the heavy, so-close-you-can-touch-it blanket of velvet overhead in the South?  I have no clue, but there is not a moment while I've been north of the equator that the sky has blown my mind the way it does compared to the hours I'd spend gaping at it.

Of course, the cities are amazing.  I had the most amazing time gallavanting through Sydney for 12 days, climbing the Harbour Bridge, taking the ferry around and snapping photos.  And Melbourne, with it's eclectic architecture and back alleys and satisfying restaurants. (Australia does fail the US on the cuisine front, but the US probably fails France and Italy, so no judgements!). And Perth, the edge of the earth, the home that found me when I needed a soft place to land.

Happy Australia (Straya) Day, mateys!  Get pissed and have a heaps good time!  (Oh yes, my last little shoutout is to your butchery of the English language.  No worries, I speak your language.... so smile, and hand me a Vegemite sandwich?)

Well, it's certainly been a week of firsts, and life isn't an adventure if you aren't diving headfirst into the new and exciting, but this week my life has completely gone askew from what I had predicted I'd be writing about, oh, say three days ago.

This past Tuesday, January 22, 2012, I was out on assignment covering a bicycle tour of Los Angeles.  Was this my first time biking?  Definitely not.  Was this my first time touring Los Angeles?  If only.  Was this my first time admiring Will Smith's former TV-home?  As if!

For better or for worse, it was my first time busting my face.  And what an adventure that was!

I thought I was doing fairly well trailing the bike tour guide, Kim, as she wove through West Hollywood and Beverly Hills, off to Holmby Hills and Bel-Air, down through Brentwood to my home neighborhood of Santa Monica.  Sure, my thighs could feel the burn heading through the hilly parts of town, but the minor huffs and puffs were balanced with walking the grounds of Greystone Mansion and excellent guiding, so by the time we were on LA's westside and the hills flattened, I was reminded by Kim "We do the tough stuff first. It's all smooth sailing from here". (Not an actual quote by Kim, but that was the sentiment...)

Unfortunately, that promise came too soon, as there was one hill left: the downward slope of the Santa Monica Pier.  And what the other hills didn't have (crowds of people), the pier had plenty.  The sun was shining and the weather was well into the 70's, so everyone and their mother was out.  I was heading down the pier...

... someone cut me off...

... I reacted by slamming on the hand-brake...

... I have zero clue what happened next.  But I was on the ground and everything hurt.  As Kim told the police officer who appeared within seconds asking if I lost consciousness, "She popped right up."  (Well, there's some good news).  I recall opening my eyes, all I could see was WHITE, I spit something out that - in reflection - may have been tooth enamel, I closed my eyes, I'm fairly certain people dumped water all over me, I opened my eyes, everything was spinning... A lady burst onto the scene who worked for the City of Santa Monica, spoke with the police, a Santa Monica medic arrived, then 7 or 8 different EMT's and paramedics surrounded me... 

I WAS IN AN AMBULANCE.

Kim and her trainee shouted after me they'd take care of the bikes and see me at the hospital.  And the ambulance was off...

In the back of the ambulance, the EMT worker (let's call him "Bob" because I can't remember if he introduced himself or not), applied pressure to my chin.  He said it was bleeding.  Ok, Bob, if you say so.  I was like "Bob, dude, look at my gnarly hand!"

He asked what hurt most.  "My TEETH" (Oh God, all I could think about was my teeth).... "and my PINKY FINGER!"

"You're lucky you were wearing a helmet.  This would have been really serious otherwise" - UH OH, wrong thing to say to a bleeding person in the back of an ambulance!  Thanks, Bob, for THAT unpleasant thought!

"Not your chin?" - "My chin doesn't hurt at all" - "Ok, sometimes people feel the minor injuries more than the major injuries. (Ok, right, Bob, look at my finger!) Does your neck hurt?" - "It all hurts, so yeah".  UH OH, wrong answer!

Apparently, if you tell an EMT that your neck hurts, they are obligated to take out a "collar", which is about 4 inches tall and an inch thick and immobilizes your neck, then strap you down on a gurney, which is like a plastic surfboard that immobilizes your spine.  I turned to Bob and in full honesty said "If the CIA wants to torture people into confessing, they should strap them onto one of these."  THAT'S how uncomfortable a gurney is.  In minutes, we arrived at Santa Monica Hospital, and Bob and the ambulance driver checked me in.

And then we waited.  And waited.  I think it was 90 minutes, because apparently my first stop was a CT scan and maybe there was a line?  I kept wiggling my legs.  They strapped me down tighter.  "I'm nauseous," I told them.  "Let us know if you need us to turn you," Bob replied.  "Can I sit up? My legs are fine."  "No, you may have fractured a vertebrae in your neck.  If you sit up, you could paralyze yourself from the neck down."

Bob, oh Bob, you say the most reassuring things.

So, somehow in the waiting room, as I stared at the only thing I could see: the ceiling, my stomach grew increasingly nauseous, the shock and adrenaline wore off and being immoblized was taking it's toll on me, I did what came natural.  I started to cry.  And I cried and I cried.  And I didn't know why.  And Bob told me "Hey, you're in a hospital.  That's what people do".

At last, my friend Rachel arrived and they moved me into the CT Scan Room.  Rachel, by complete coincidence, is a volunteer at Santa Monica Hospital, but on a "boring floor" (her opinion), so getting to witness all the action of the ER was the highlight of her life.  The bed began to rise and my head disappeared into the machine, but then the nausea kicked in.

"I'm going to throw up!"

"Are you?" the technician asked.

"I think".  The machine moved me back out.  A barf bucket (thank the lord for the ER, barf buckets must be everywhere) was under my nose in 0.001 seconds.  I threw up a little.  The collar was restricting the natural pathways of my gag reflex.  I took a breath.  Then, I threw up a lot.

I apologized to the tech.  "It's ok, sometimes people throw up ON me.  Head trauma does that to you".  Ohhh...

Rachel piped up something about "equilibrium", the tech chucked my chuck in a bin labeled "Bio-Hazard" and they took the scan.  No spinal damage.  No skull damage.  No brain damage.  Maybe a minor concussion.  The collar could be removed! Sweet, sweet freedom!

I was moved to a hallway, where we encountered my next caretaker: an EMT who I allege liked Rachel, Rachel alleges liked me, and we came to an agreement that her blood-and-guts fascination coupled with my doped-up musings (did I mention they gave me Hydrocodone?) and our combined cuteness (I rock the bloody look, what can I say?) probably made us preferred to screaming babies, old people with old people problems, or anyone who is crazy-gross.  This EMT gently cleaned and bandaged my hands and my cheeks, then he and Rachel chatted extensively over my chin.  My crazy chin that felt no pain. That was getting everyone all hot and bothered.  That they were going to stitch up.  That I had no idea, at the time, contained a laceration an inch and a half wide and an inch deep, and was interesting to Rachel because she could see all the layers of skin and fat and "it was almost to the bone". (Rach waited 24 hours to drop that bomb).

Then, the doctor arrived, jabbed me full of anesthetic, and went to work on my chin.  I could see him.  He was right there IN MY FACE, sewing away.  Rachel's face hovered behind him, in awe.

They wrote me some scripts and sent me on my way, with the instruction, "Dentist tomorrow!"

When I got home, I finally realized what all the fuss was about. My shirt, my sports bra, my chest and even my pants were COVERED in blood that must have dripped from my chin.  The wound admirers were right: the skin that no longer existed on my left palm and pinkie finger really were nothing in comparison.

So that left me with one remaining task: "Dentist tomorrow!"

I was completely terrified, with the combined wiggling and gaping hole, that something was wrong with the source of my one vanity, my teeth.  But thankfully, the dentist, who was basically a rock star of dentistry, made me feel great.  He said two teeth had chipped enamel (easy fixes), no root or nerve damage is apparent (though they'll keep an eye out for it), and one tooth needs bonding & filling, but he will follow up.

Then, he started spritzing me with Novacaine (I was high on vicodin as well, and I thought he was just spritzing water) and started drilling (which, again, didn't feel a thing) and bonded my one tooth up until he can unhinge my jaw and get in there for some permanent work.  Between the chin stitches and apparent jaw-ligament bruise/strain (what did he say?  ugh, don't take meds and try to remember the details), my mouth couldn't really open in any way that was useful.

All in all, I'm in pain but made it through today with Advil, ice packs and just the antibiotics.  Hopefully, in two weeks time, I'll have forgotten any of this has ever happened.

But here are my firsts:
(a) First time wiping out (and bleeding on) a site listed in the National Historic Register.
(b) First time riding in an ambulance.
(c) First time getting a CT scan.
(d) First time having "dental trauma", and, as the dentist stated, "This is the first time you've ever had a drill in your mouth, isn't it?"

Can't wait to find out what the scars look like!  And also a big thank you to all my lovely baby-sitters and care-takers.  You're the best. :-)

Today, I went to my first and last movie premiere.  I meant to stalk Arnold Schwarzenegger over at The Grove earlier while he was doing press for his new film, "The Last Stand", but their intern (or whoever does their "Access Hollywood" press releases) screwed up the time on the announcement, and I MISSED it.

So instead, off to the hot mess that is Hollywood to appreciate the freezing temperatures and cavalcade of C-list celebrities in pursuit of my childhood idol, The Governator himself, Mr. Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Attending the premier for "The Last Stand" was the suggestion of a former colleague, Pam, who thought we had snuck off to the "Access Hollywood" filming without her. She caught me off-guard, because I was like "Dude, of course not... Wait, what time was it?... CRAP!"

So it was Hollywood or bust.  And there in Hollywood, we stood for three hours.  And there in Hollywood, I nearly gave up... Supporting actor, Johnny Knoxville, had yet to make an appearance and Jamie Alexander and Rodrigo (last name ???), two individuals I have zero interest in, headed straight to the press section anyways, totally ignoring the stuffed fan bullpen that contained me.

I admitted to Pam I just wanted to bail, but despite the fact that she too was catching hypothermia, she put up a good fight. "But he's your dad's favorite" she argued with me; "But I'm stupidly wearing ballet flats and I'm cooolllld" I'd whine back. She gave me one convincing argument: "Look. Two cars are pulling up.  That could be Johnny Knoxville and Arnold.  If it's not, we leave".

Car One opened their doors.  Out popped nobody special.  "It's NOT Johnny Knoxville!"  I began to pack it up, as Car Two pulled forward.  All of a sudden, people were going wild.

"Arnold?"  I hadn't even gotten confirmation before I climbed onto the barricade, screaming "Arrrrnold!!!I I LOOOVE you!"

AND, like the class act that he was, Mr. Schwarzenegger about-faced from the paparazzi and made a beeline for the block-long, caged-off fan frenzy.  He started at one end.  I prayed he wouldn't just say a few hello's, give a few autographs, that the lucky people forty feet away from me wouldn't be the only people to have an up-close-and-personal moment with Arnie...

SCORE!  He turned and headed along the barricade.  Shaking hands. Signing autographs.  A true politician, indeed.  I was part of the mob who managed to snap a few blurry photos and miss-his-hand-BUT-grab-his-sleeve, YEAH!, I flippin' touched the man.... I TOUCHED ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER! ... And then, I made a mad dash for the warmth of my car.

I will never go to a movie premiere again.  It was cold.  People were squishing me.  I was really bored, and sometimes frightened by the fake Johnny Depps (yes, two of them).  "The Grove" better get their act together pronto, in case someone else I love needs to do some promoting... but... ARNOLD.  I touched ARNOLD.  Booyah!