Hollywood Grand Tour

Apparently my first day at Disney exhausted me because I slept late (for me) the next morning. I set my alarm for 6:30 a.m. and could have slept later despite my excitement for that day's Hollywood/LA Grand Tour (as advertised by the tour company). (As a side note, while initially researching this trip months earlier, I'd originally planned to stay in Los Angeles for at least a night (or two) and book a day tour of the major sights. When I finalized my itinerary, however, I opted for Anaheim (and Disney) as the safer, cheaper, prioritized choice, and I didn't regret it. Hey, I still got the Hollywood tour and a convenient pickup from my Anaheim within-Disneyland-walking-distance hotel.)

Anyway, I got up slowly, grabbed breakfast downstairs, and rushed back to my room for final preparations. By then it was 8:30 a.m. - my estimated pickup time - so I needed to hustle. I guess I'd readjusted my clock to California time because typically (as in San Francisco) it would be me waiting 20 minutes ahead of schedule, but this time my tour guide Rick and tour mates were waiting for me, exactly at 8:30.

Once again - as with Yosemite - I got a shotgun seat in the van. Once all 11 passengers (including a middle-aged mom and teen daughter from Orlando that I paled around with in Hollywood) were picked up at their hotels, we entered the freeway for our first stop: Venice Beach. Thanks to the atypically light Memorial Day traffic, we were there slightly ahead of schedule. The freeway was clear, keeping us on time, and Rick's laidback attitude (no yelling at passengers to hurry up) had a relaxing effect throughout the tour. 

Venice was exactly as my research suggested: a bit seedy, a little dirty, mildly scary and entirely bohemian. We arrived at 10 a.m. when many of its vendors were setting up and opening their boardwalk shops, so I saw it come to life. There were several joggers, bicyclists, rollerbladers, and even a few surfers, giving me Beverly Hills, 90210 flashbacks. I intentionally wore flip-flops so I could push my bare feet into the California sand. At one point, I made the mistake of stepping into a dank, filthy bathroom stall and walked through a puddle of water. Then and there, I decided to hold my bladder for a safer pit stop and carefully dried and attempted to disinfect my feet with hand sanitizer (not wanting to include a foot fungus as one of my California souvenirs). 

I enjoyed the next stop - Santa Monica Beach - much more. I skipped the pier's rides and junk food (figuring correctly that Disney would do it better) but bravely ventured into the cold Pacific Ocean and asked a nice-looking elderly couple if they'd take my photo to commemorate my visit. Unfortunately they were stumped by my smartphone, creating a terribly awkward moment in which I instantly regretted bothering them. The picture of me standing in the Pacific Ocean was (eventually, after much hullabaloo) successfully taken, but I'm scowling (as per usual) rather than smiling. (Dang!) 

We moved on to Beverly Hills' Rodeo Drive shops, which I stepped in and out of curiously but tentatively, in the same way that I suspect a Victorian woman would browse the internet. I alternately cringed and giggled as I checked the exorbitant price tags (you can take the girl out of the country...); it was thrilling to see how the so-called other half shops, but I was content to window shop (as was my wallet). 

Next up was LA's Grove and Farmer's Market, which I circled multiple times as I tried to choose (with the help of Google) a quick, affordable lunch spot. I finally settled on the busy Marmalade Cafe and a turkey wrap and Caesar salad (after first being served someone else's meal).

The Hollywood Boulevard and its Walk of Fame were totally overwhelming. Rick warned us before we stopped to watch out for hustlers, including those with Michael Jackson lookalikes and costumed superheroes, who take your photo or hand you a CD and then demand money. I was excited to see Judy Garland's and Marilyn Monroe's signatures and hand prints at Grauman's Chinese Theatre, but snapping photos among the crush of other photo-snapping tourists was frustratingly difficult (if not impossible). I actually couldn't wait to get my socially-anxious claustrophobic self out of there (though I had an otherwise wonderful tour that was over before I knew it).

I desperately needed a nap after all that stimulation, so I was happy to be back in my comparatively quiet (if you could tune out the thumping party next door at Bubba Gump) hotel room in magical Disneyville at 4:30 p.m. after my one-day-only Hollywood voyage. I knew I'd need to rest before embarking on my final day (also my birthday) in California.

I'm With Her

I hope no one asks me which presidential hopeful I'm voting for next Tuesday. (As if there's more than one viable candidate...)

It's not that I wouldn't gladly tell you that I'm proudly, enthusiastically casting my vote (more than one, if I could) for my former First Lady and Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton (of course). It's that I hope anyone who knows me (in real life or online) and what I value knows that I could never, would never vote for an inexperienced, ignorant, racist, xenophobic misogynist such as Donald Trump.

To me, his candidacy is a prank gone too far. I never would have believed a few years ago while watching his tacky yet entertaining Celebrity Apprentice that this businessman/reality TV host with zero political experience would be a legitimate opponent for arguably one of the most experienced (if not the most) candidates in history, a woman who has devoted her life and career to making her country better, while he's devoted his life to making himself wealthy (at any cost).

Since he inexplicably received the Republican nomination, I've hoped against hope that his stubborn penchant for unscripted loose-cannon speech would take him out of the running. Somehow, despite video and newsprint evidence (here's a primer) of shockingly sexist and racist statements and actions (straight-up sexual assault, people!), Republicans (including evangelical Christians, which I'll never understand) continue lobbying hard for Trump. (My morning commute is littered with Trump lawn signs in my conservative, gun-crazy neck of the woods. Not a single Clinton sign in sight.)

I'm not, by nature, a fervently political person. In fact, it pains me to write this, but the truth is I didn't vote in the last presidential candidate. (Which is a bit ironic because I don't oppose President Obama in any way and, in fact, think he's one of the classiest presidents of all time. Plus I love Michelle!) The only explanation I can give for forfeiting my voting privilege is that I was still reeling from the two-pronged assault of my 30th birthday paired with a fairly devastating breakup earlier that year. Simply put, I was in a funk. And when you're depressed and struggling to tackle daily life's most basic tasks, other, bigger things (like presidential elections) seem entirely beyond your grasp. (And besides, does one vote really matter? At the time, I probably didn't think so.)

Four years later, I'm a happier, healthier, wiser feminist desperately seeking a president who will make my world better. (Isn't that what it inevitably comes down to with politics?) It's personal now. I was outraged and offended as I watched all three presidential debates (DVR'd, of course, because you know I don't stay up that late) and compared the two candidates. I saw and heard Trump constantly, disrespectfully, arrogantly interrupting both Hillary and the moderator, talking in rambling circles, running over his allotted time, harping on Secretary Clinton's husband's presidential actions (NAFTA ad infinitum), and basically spending a lot of time saying very little. Clinton, on the other hand, spoke calmly and intelligently, remained on topic, and rarely interrupted Trump or the moderator.

Their polar opposite approaches reinforced my feeling that Trump has bought the Republican nomination rather than earned it through experience and knowledge. Clinton, on the other hand, is knowledgeable and prepared. We'd be fortunate to have her as president.

I've never felt as strongly for one candidate and so utterly opposed to the other. Nothing would keep me from voting  next week (again, more than once, if I could) for the first female president in U.S. history. I hope you'll do the same.

Disneyville Day 1

I caught a late (8:55 pm) flight out of San Francisco into Orange County, grabbed a pre-ordered shuttle (I'm a planner) to the Anaheim Days Inn, and settled into my next home away from home, which was nicer than anticipated. I was a short walk away from Disneyland, but also just minutes from the Anaheim GardenWalk mall, which boasted a Cheesecake Factory, PF Chang's, California Pizza Kitchen, Bubba Gump Shrimp, and outdoor shops. So all in all, as a carless tourist, I was well located...except for the thumping music emanating from Bubba Gump every night that made dozing off a challenge (despite my exhaustion).

I bounded out of bed early the next morning and headed downstairs at 6:45 for my complimentary breakfast in the hotel's cramped dining nook, which was supervised by a female employee who took her duty very seriously, watching each move I made and each food item I selected (much-needed coffee, toast, yogurt, oatmeal, fruit and waffles) and cleaning the floor around me while I attempted to navigate the tight-quartered kitchen. I ate quickly (for more than one reason), checked Google Maps for directions, packed my backpack for the day, and headed down the street on foot. Unfortunately, it was in the wrong direction. I realized my error (fortunately) after walking several minutes in a misty rain. Once I turned around, I encountered a horde of fellow Disneygoers and followed them to the park entrance, about a 15-minute walk from my hotel. 

 

I arrived at 8 am, had my bag searched by security, and exchanged my voucher for a two-day pass. I decided to start at California Adventure, Disneyland's newer park with several Pixar film-related rides (Cars, A Bug's Life, Toy Story, and Monsters, Inc.), and devote my second day (my birthday) to the original Disneyland (built and operated by Walt Disney) resort. Being the nerdy planner that I am, I came prepared with a typed and printed checklist of each park's must-do rides and attractions ( I might have even mapped out my meals...) and when and where to grab FastPasses (cards that give you a return time for a shorter line). 

My first move was a beeline for the Hollywood Tower of Terror's FastPass. But to my surprise, the line had a 15-minute wait, so I made the ride (and its random rises and drops) my warmup. I grabbed a World of Color show FastPass and moved on to a series of essential rides: Soarin' Over California (my favorite: a simulated ride that flies riders over IMAX big-screen scenes of Yosemite, San Francisco, LA nightlife, Lake Tahoe, and Malibu), the California Screamin' roller coaster (my stomach needed a break after that one), Toy Story Midway Mania! (a carnival shooting game), and Radiator Springs Racers (where I benefited from the shorter single-rider line). 

I was shut out of the Frozen live show (FastPass holders only), but I stayed from opening until closing (naturally, as planned), had an all-around amazing time, and did everything else I wanted to do at least once (Tower of Terror and Soarin' twice). The end-of-night World of Color show was spectacular with its colored water effects, but the crush of people around me invoked panic. I was happy to flee to my solitary hotel room at the end of the night, lulled into magical Disney dreams, with visions of one more Disney day ahead.

Bay City Rolling

After visiting Monterey, Carmel, and Yosemite, I had two remaining days to spend sightseeing in my base city, San Francisco. From months of research, I concluded that a double-decker tour bus was the most efficient and affordable way to do so (a rental car was neither desired nor practical in this hilly city with limited parking). I had plenty of time to get dressed, eat breakfast, pack my bag, and mail postcards before I "hopped on" the bus at 9:30 (courtesy of a 9 am shuttle pickup at my hotel) near Fisherman's Wharf. 
 

Since the timing was right, I hopped off at Union Square for an insightful one-hour guided Chinatown walking tour with an enthusiastic middle-aged male guide (and received an added bonus - a freshly-baked fortune cookie from the factory - during a stop there). It was then I began feeling the effects of an uncharacteristically sunny 70-degree SF day, shed my fleece jacket, and began the first round of sunscreen application. (Despite my diligence, I woke up the next day with red splotches on my forehead and upper chest caused by riding atop the bus.)

 

My next stop was the Fisherman's Wharf's Pier 39. The tour company gave me a free 7-D Experience coupon that I was determined to use (I love a bargain and never pass up a freebie), so I made a beeline for that and decided to browse for lunch options afterwards. The simulated ride was fast and fun, but not one I would have wanted to pay for. Basically, you buckle yourself into a moving seat wearing 3-D (7-D?) glasses, shooting zombies on a giant screen, many of whom jump out at you, for approximately two minutes. No surprise, since I suck at gaming, that I finished last among my fellow riders (a bunch of kids and their parents). 

Lunch was more successful. I opted for the obligatory clam chowder in a sourdough bread bowl (you know, the meal everyone says you have to eat in San Francisco), which turned out to be worth its hype. I don't think I'd ever had clam chowder before (except maybe once out of a Campbell's soup can), and definitely not like that!
 

After lunch, a bit of shop browsing, and a look at the sunbathing sea lions (which you can smell before you see), I'd tired of the pier's crowded theme-park atmosphere (more to come at Disney) and moved on to a different kind of circus: Haight-Ashbury. I was excited to walk the iconic streets, which literally housed Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin back in the 60s. It truly is a time capsule back to the psychedelic era. But what I didn't love was being approached by someone with a CD (a scam I'd been warned about) and stepping over and around homeless people (a sight I'll never get used to seeing). After snapping photos and browsing shop windows, I was ready to get back on the bus after 20 minutes of wandering. 
 

 

Instead of getting off at Golden Gate Park (the next stop), I opted to exit at the Palace of Fine Arts, a familiar landmark not far from my hotel. I walked across the street to Crissy Field, where I'd happily watched kite surfers and glimpsed the Golden Gate Bridge on my first afternoon in the city, spent quality time there, grabbed takeout down the street, and returned to my hotel for the night.

On my last day in San Francisco, I had a set agenda: Golden Gate Park, Sausalito, and North Beach. My plan to start with Stop 3, North Beach (home of the Beat Museum, City Lights Booksellers, and Allen Ginsberg's hangout, Caffe Trieste), hit a snag because the shops hadn't opened, so I moved on to Golden Gate Park, one of my SF must-sees. I couldn't get lost (so to speak) there because of my time crunch, but I allowed myself an hour to walk in the Rose Garden, around the de Young and California Academy of Science buildings, and the Japanese Tea Garden. It was a peaceful place, one I would have loved to linger in, but I stuck to my allotted hour and returned to the bus stop to wait. I must have just missed the bus...or it was seriously delayed by Memorial Day weekend traffic...because I waited more than 30 minutes for the next bus, losing precious touring time. 

Turned out, that was the story of the day. I could actually hear the clock ticking in my mind, counting down the hours until my airport shuttle arrived. When the bus finally showed up, the next stop, the Golden Gate Bridge, merged into wild holiday traffic, ruling out a walk along the pedestrian path, and making me wonder if I should play it safe and skip the included one-hour Sausalito tour. It was only 1 pm, however, which left approximately four hours. I didn't want to waste an opportunity, but I didn't want to be stranded either.

I took a gamble and rode into Sausalito, but there was no way I was getting off the shuttle with an estimated 45-minute wait (and a throng of anxious tourists clamoring for a ride back). Between slow traffic and a transfer delay, I lost precious time. An hour, in fact. As a result, I didn't get to North Beach until 3:45 pm. My pre-trip fantasies of leisurely browsing Ginsberg's haunts, paging through bookstore offerings and sipping a cappuccino went up in a cloud of diesel fumes (it's not easy to stroll when on the verge of a panic attack). 
 

But I made it. I saw the essentials, grabbed that Caffe Trieste cappuccino to go, and was Ubered back to my hotel, where I grabbed my stored bag, and had time to eat dinner before my airport shuttle arrived at 6 pm. I bid farewell to San Francisco and flew south, Disney-bound.

Yosemite

Day 3 of my California adventure was all about Yosemite. (Side note: Months before the trip, while researching my options, I'd considered booking a multi-day escorted Yosemite hiking trip, but the expense would have equaled the total cost of my entire California trip (and I would have seen nothing except Yosemite), making that a no-go. So I opted for the most affordable, least panic-inducing option: an escorted Yosemite daytrip. (I was not interested in driving myself. Have I mentioned my big-city driving phobia? Yeah, I'm working on that.))

I was so excited and afraid of oversleeping that I woke up before my 4:30 AM alarm, but it was another hurry-up-and-wait kind of morning, so common while traveling. I was ready to go by 5:45 for a scheduled 6 AM pickup, but Thomas - my driver and tour guide - didn't arrive until 6:10. Right away I noticed a huge difference between this trip's tour company versus the previous day's. First of all, I traveled comfortably in the passenger seat of a small van (with ample leg room and a cup holder for my omnipresent coffee) instead of sitting at the back of a large motorcoach. And I was part of a small group, the lone American (!) among a group containing an Australian couple, a young Costa Rican couple, a Chinese family (mom, dad, and college-aged son), and Penny from London who later became my tour friend and hiking buddy. (Yay!) It was like a private tour for the cost of a big-bus tour.

Despite the brief delay, we headed up the Bay Bridge (not to be confused with the Golden Gate Bridge, as it often is) and got on the freeway. We had a quiet drive because nearly everyone dozed off minus me (and the driver, thankfully) who eagerly soaked in the scenery (scarce along the freeway). Two hours into our journey we stopped at Raley's, a large Wegmans-like grocery store, where I picked up breakfast (a tire-sized blueberry bagel and Naked green juice) and lunch (a chicken caesar salad and turkey sandwich) to hold my stomach over until our return dinner stop. 

Less than an hour later we encountered our Yosemite warmup in the form of a winding, tight-turned mountain road stretching up to 3,000-feet in elevation (basically a roller coaster ride minus the upside down loop) with stunning views. For not the first time that trip, I was happy to be in the passenger seat (literally) rather than at the wheel. 

Shortly afterward we reached the park entrance at 11 AM and were released for a one-hour group hike, which is when Penny from London and I became tour friends (providing unexpected company and conversation, neither of which I minded). I found out that she was visiting San Francisco for her daughter's police academy graduation. I also found out that Penny and I were tragically incompatible as hiking buddies, namely because she was winded and I was warmed up after our brief hike. 

Post-hike we piled back in the van and drove to the Yosemite Lodge, making several photo stops along the route, between which I alternately inhaled my lunch and simply stared in awe. We were given two hours' free time after reaching the lodge, which Penny opted to spend browsing the gift shop. I half-heartedly joined her, though I was completely uninterested in purchasing T-shirts, mugs, and postcards (plus my luggage wouldn't allow it). After a quick perusal, we parted company and I embarked on a short, easy hike of the Lower Yosemite Falls trail. I quickly reached the falls and timidly asked a male American tourist if he'd take my photo (one of my least favorite aspects of solo travel), which he graciously did. (Unfortunately I had to delete the photos because my intended smile looked more like a grimace.)

At 2:15 I decided to turn around and return to the van for our 2:45 pickup, impulsively returning to the gift shop for a crystal necklace that caught my eye. Coming out of the gift shop, though, I became disoriented and subsequently panicked as I fruitlessly searched each parking lot for the van. Fortunately I had a park map in my backpack, so I consulted that and (eventually) realized that I needed to walk a little farther to reach Shuttle Stop 7, where I found the van exactly where it was supposed to be. 

I had time to catch my breath while we waited for the Costa Rican couple and reflect during the long drive back to San Francisco. I unquestionably chose well on all counts. Our driver, unlike one for a competing tour company (whom I saw - and heard - repeatedly yell at clients to "hurry up," forcing them to literally sprint onto the bus or be left behind), was friendly and unflappable (an essential tour-guide trait). Also, the weather was perfect for hiking - 60ish and often sunny - and we avoided the Memorial Day rush, much as my group did the previous year at Zion National Park. 

Between Yosemite and my SF hotel, I shared my photos with a photographer friend, who was dually impressed with both Yosemite's splendor and my cellphone camera's ability to capture it. I only had a taste of Yosemite that day, but I didn't feel cheated. More than anything, I felt thankful to be alive in such a beautiful place and better for having been there at all.

Monterey and Carmel

I woke up eager to explore on my first morning in San Francisco. My destination was down the famed scenic coast on a bus trip to Monterey and Carmel, leaving the City by the Bay, which I'd barely seen, behind me for the day. 

I was waiting outside my hotel after eating a fruit, oatmeal, toast, and coffee breakfast when I experienced one of the trip's highlights. A middle-aged woman with a noticeable accent (British?) approached and asked if I was waiting for a tour bus. I responded affirmatively, and inspired by curiosity of her accent, I asked her destination. Turned out she was taking a different tour (SF/Alcatraz) but riding the same bus to the company's office, so we continued our conversation about jet lag, time zone adjustment, and how much time was needed to successfully navigate Chicago's O'Hare Airport. Mid-conversation I learned that my bus mate was visiting San Francisco from Australia en route to a family wedding...in a small western NY village near my hometown. I couldn't believe the unlikeliness of our meeting. (And even more unlikely: one of my Facebook friends - a former coworker - commented on my post regarding the incident that perhaps the woman in question was her Australian-bound-for-a-WNY-wedding-friend. Strange and stranger!)

I wished my travel pal well and boarded a different bus headed to Monterey. On this tour, the journey up and down the coast was as spectacular as the actual destinations. I saw Fisherman's Wharf, the piers, and the Ferry Building for the first time, as well as the charming town of Santa Cruz with its small colorful houses dotted along the landscape, before arriving in Monterey's Cannery Row. Surprisingly, fewer than half of the bus's occupants (basically me and an Argentinian contingent) chose to visit the world-famous Monterey Bay Aquarium for the allotted two-hour visit. Because of the time restraint, I had to hustle (dodging ever-present hordes of children (ugh) every which way), but I spent an hour and a half touring the aquarium's educational exhibits featuring sea otters, penguins, kelp, jellyfish, sharks, and stingrays, and half an hour eating lunch - a tasty (freshly-caught) salmon tostada - in the cafeteria. 

The next stops were along 17-Mile Drive, home to Bird Rock, the Lone Cypress (my spirit tree), and Pebble Beach Golf Resort (where the fancy folks play), all of which I diligently photographed. 

Our last tour stop was in Carmel, a tiny artists' colony comprised of upscale shops, galleries, and restaurants. Unfortunately all of the galleries and many of the boutiques were closed (we arrived after 5 pm), and there was no room in my luggage for large souvenirs, so I spent an hour aimlessly walking (without wandering too far from the bus stop) along the village's maze-like streets. 

That was it for the trip. I reboarded the bus, tuned out the onboard entertainment Star Wars film (the new one, I think), and headed back to my San Francisco hotel, pleasantly exhausted and satisfied by the coast's visual treasures.

City by the Bay

Tuesday, May 24: My alarm sounded at 2 a.m., and I got up, dressed, did my final packing, and headed for the airport...and San Francisco. 

The evening before, I felt so panicked about getting up for that early-morning flight that I'd seriously considered driving to the airport that night (just to relieve my anxiety)...and waiting it out. (It was a logical - and tempting - idea at that time. Really.) But I made it there by 4:30 without a problem (and with little traffic). The TSA checkpoint had just opened, so I didn't anticipate a lengthy wait, and aside from an elderly security agent pulling my empty water bottle aside, opening and slowly scrutinizing it, I sailed through to my gate with 30 minutes to spare. (Admittedly a little closer to boarding time than I liked.)

One thing I'd forgotten but remembered during my subsequent flights to Chicago and San Francisco was how much of the traveling process is inevitably hurry-up-and-wait. If you're like me, you rush to the airport and trample fellow travelers (if necessary) ahead of you in the security line so you can twiddle your thumbs read for two hours at your gate. Then, when boarding starts, you stampede onto the plane and sit on the tarmac for an hour waiting for takeoff. The process repeats itself for each flight and continues when you arrive at your final destination and wait an hour for a shuttle ride to your hotel. 

At least that's how it was for me. But I was determined to enjoy every second of the experience, everything from the boring waiting to the exciting touring. After all, isn't a little short-term discomfort brought on by a new adventure better than a lifetime of stagnant comfort? I think so.

Anyway, the plus side of my delayed flight arrival and lengthy shuttle wait was that my hotel room was ready by the time I finally arrived in the city (courtesy of a gruff shuttle driver) and I was ready for it. I was exhausted...so exhausted (I'd nearly dozed, but always instantly jerked awake several times during the eight-hour flight) that I considered napping instead of exploring the exciting City by the Bay, the Golden City, the place where Tony Bennett famously left his heart, the destination I'd dreamed of for months. But I came to my tired senses and decided a walk up and down its hilly streets was just what I needed.  

I set out with the goal of finding the nearby Palace of Fine Arts, only a six-minute walk from my hotel. Since I'm directionally challenged - even with Google Maps - I walked aimlessly down the street and eventually spotted boats and water: I'd somehow found the marina! I walked farther and came upon Crissy Field, a walker's paradise containing Baker Beach and a stunning unimpeded view of the Golden Gate Bridge. The afternoon was warm and the sun was out, as were the walkers, bikers (including several tandem bikers.), unleashed dogs, wind surfers, and kite surfers! (I clearly wasn't in Kansas anymore.) I called my mom, walked, and surfer-watched for a couple hours until the gusty wind chilled my bones through my light sweater (making me regret leaving my jacket in my room) and I decided to head back to my hotel and find something to eat. 

 

 

While walking back, I saw the large, unmistakable dome of the Palace of Fine Arts, my original destination. After crossing a busy street, I found a small pond hosting ducks and a glorious swan that seemed to soak up all the tourist attention. (I saw it literally follow visitors from one end of the pond to the other.) I walked around to the front of the palace, took in its magnificent pillars and waterfall (a popular photo spot for graduating students) and headed down the street to a burger and wings joint with lousy service but good food and took a grilled-chicken sandwich back to my room where I (finally, gratefully) took a long shower and collapsed in bed at 8 p.m. (PST)

California, Here I Come

“We travel not to escape life, but for life not to escape us.” ~ Anonymous

Two weeks from today I will board a plane and fly into California for a much-needed vacation and welcome change of scenery. Despite (or perhaps because of) several months of dreaming, researching, planning, and booking this trip, I can barely believe it’s actually happening. 

 

I’ll walk the Golden Gate Bridge, visit the world-class Monterey Bay Aquarium, see the massive sequoias and beautiful waterfalls of Yosemite National Park, tour the best (and worst) of Hollywood, and spend two days (one being my birthday) at magical Disneyland. All sights (and sites) I’ve seen only on television and never seriously thought (until I started wishing and hoping a year ago) I’d experience off-screen.  And the best part is I’m doing it all on my own. True, that’s also the scary part, but it’s exciting because I know, assuming all goes well and I return safely, that I’ll come home with priceless memories and confidence needed to plan greater future adventures.

Travel has truly become my passion. I feel most alive when I’m exploring, though fear (and other practical considerations, such as work and budget constraints) can severely limit the opportunity to do so. Fantasizing about future travels propels me through life’s inevitable mundane monotony. They’re my reward to self for (more or less) successfully accomplishing my day-to-day errands: going to work, paying bills, cleaning my apartment, all of the less-than-enjoyable responsibilities associated with adulthood. Travel is my playtime, my break from everyday reality.

 

It’s also, I’ve realized, a great equalizer. Almost anyone with a passport, savings, and an adventurous spirit, regardless of cultural background, occupation, economic status, or age, can visit the Taj Mahal, the Eiffel Tower, and the Statue of Liberty. The mode of transportation or type of accommodation used while there might differ by budget, but these international icons are equally available to both a small-town secretary and a big-city CEO. 

Unfortunately my endless travel fantasies don’t come with an endless travel budget, which means I’ll be tacking on a summer weekend job at a local amusement park (in addition to my regular full-time job) to build up my travel savings account. I started inauspiciously last weekend, struggling to stay awake until midnight when I finally (gratefully) clocked out after seven bleary-eyed consecutive hours of counting coins. I don’t know if I can do this all summer, I thought mid- and post-shift. 

I could be in for a long summer – when not blissfully traveling – but I’ll remind myself (as often as needed) that the sacrifice of non-adventurous time will be worthwhile, literally affording me additional adventurous opportunities. There will be other summers (hopefully relaxing ones) ahead of me, I’m sure. Work will undoubtedly always be there, waiting at every journey’s end. Adventures, unless sacrificially planned and executed, will not.

Smile Police

 

If there's one thing I hate, it's being told to smile. Or being chastised for not smiling. (Right up there with being told I "need" to talk more. Ugh.) 

I think most people feel similarly annoyed by the smile police, regardless of whether they're introverts - like me - or extroverts. Telling someone to smile (as if smiling will fix all the world's ills) is intrusive, presumptuous, judgmental, and straight-up bullying behavior. It's even worse when the smile cop is a stranger. (It's slightly more tolerable when it's a friend or family member.)

A few days ago at work I overheard two women walking by my office threaten to place a smiley-face sticker on my office door because I allegedly "never" smile (at them, presumably). My response was to roll my eyes (at my computer screen, not them) and immediately begin defending myself (to myself, not them). I smile, I thought. True, maybe not at them (to my credit, this isn't the first time these women have made derogatory remarks about me within my earshot, so my feelings towards them are less than warm and fuzzy, hence my non-smiling response), but I don't go out of my way to be rude. I'm a good person (most of the time), darn it!

Somewhere in the midst of my inner dialogue, I was distracted by an unwelcome memory that highlighted my hypocrisy. The previous week at work, I walked past a gentleman from another department and greeted him by name. His response was utter silence. (I swear he turned his head, nostrils fully lifted, in the other direction, smoothly executing a full-blown snub!) I'll admit it bothered me, but I rationalized it by telling myself not to personalize it. After all, he'd done it before to me and other coworkers.

Some people - like me - are shy, moody, socially anxious, and yes, even socially awkward. (Those of you with social anxiety know that social anxiety and social awkwardness are like peas and carrots. Sometimes, despite your best intentions, your throat closes and you can only squeak (at best) when attempting to converse). Often it has everything to do with the (perceived) snubber and nothing to do with the other person(s), though we make it about us and inevitably get bent out of shape when we feel snubbed. 

That incident was a reminder that I don't like being on the receiving end of an unfriendly human response (or total lack of existence acknowledgment), though I've also been guilty of snubbing someone (intentionally or otherwise). In other words, I've treated others in a way that I haven't liked being treated.

I considered taking my troubled thoughts to social media, but I'm not prone to posting rash online rants (one of the benefits of introversion). So here is my (hopefully) thoughtful reply to the smile police:

1. It's simply none of your business how I feel and how I choose to arrange my facial muscles. My mental health and personal happiness are my concern, not yours. You mind your business, I'll mind mine.

2. Don't make assumptions. I don't smile every minute of the day (and I'm fairly certain most people don't); however, that doesn't mean I'm unhappy or something is wrong. (I might even be smiling on the inside.) On the flip side, I could be going through hell. Maybe I've lost a pet or parent, been fired, or diagnosed with cancer. My point is if you don't know me, you don't know.

 

3. I'll smile if and when I feel like it, not on demand like a programmed robot or trained seal. I'm admittedly more of a people-pleaser and less of a people-person than I'd like to be, but I won't knock myself out trying to accommodate every "smile" bully I encounter. I'm an introvert. You're just going to have to deal with it (just as I have to deal with an extrovert's incessant chatter). I don't always smile at every single person I see at work, at the grocery store, and on the street. If you do, then you're simply a better person than I am and I applaud your gregariousness.

4. Humans are a sensitive lot, myself included. Don't make everything personal. You might be surprised to find out that not everything is about you and not everyone behaves the same way as you. 

5. On the other hand, perhaps there's a valid reason why you're being snubbed. I choose not to interact with bullies, for example, unless absolutely necessary. Maybe a silent frown is the politest response I can muster.

5. And in conclusion, I'm not perfect. In the same way that I accept that, I need to accept others' imperfections. I've been both the snubber and snubbee in social interactions. I can (and should) do better in accepting other people's flawed behavior and improving my own.