So a 43 year-old Walks Into a Music Festival


IMG_3847Confession: I’m a bit of a music festival neophyte. Despite living in Palm Springs for 5 years during the blossoming of Coachella and Stagecoach, I never went. I was living there in 2008 when Prince played his now infamous cover of Creep by Radiohead, and no, I have never forgiven myself for not going that year.

Fast forward to 2018. Prince is no longer in human form, and I’ve already seen the Revolution once, but the second I hear they are headed to ACL in Austin, I buy a 3 day pass. I’m also excited to see Janelle Monae, Shakey Graves, Elle King, and Metallica, but for me, the coup de gras is the Revolution.

Saturday: I’ve spent the whole day working. Suddenly is it 5:30. I’m tired and dehydrated, but I make myself change clothes, put on some sensible shoes, and hop on Lyft, because no way am I dealing with parking and traffic.

Dropped off a short walk from the entrance, I can already hear the music. A sweaty, swirling mess of people are scurrying in and out. It takes about 10 seconds to wonder if this was a good idea. But then the piercing rays of a descending sun slap me in the face with beautiful pinks and oranges. I press on.

Airports and any kind of festivals or sporting events are some of my favorite places to people watch. The glitter-covered bosoms and long, braided hair are amusing, though it’s comforting to be of the age where I dress for comfort (a second-hand summer jumpsuit and knock off Converse from Target).

Upon entering, a fuzzy nausea and annoyance start to bubble up. I’m not a big crowd person, and I’m really not a crowd-that-has-been-drinking-for-hours person. But fate had decided to put a Wine bar right inside the entrance, so I quickly down a glass of overpriced Tempranillo and start to feel better. After a huge slice of local pizza, I am actually starting to have fun.

I had timed my arrival to try to catch most, if not all, of Elle King’s set. With the pizza scarfed and a second glass of wine in hand, I amble my way toward the crowd, opting to hang at the back. I bless the two ginormous monitors set up on either side of the stage so I could see her and the band ‘up close’ without actually having to be ‘up close.’

Since my friends aren’t expected to arrive for another hour, I settle into my go to solo activity for airports and large crowds: people watching. And ACL proved to be top-notch. I don’t people watch to judge, but simply out of wonderment and love of seeing people expressing themselves, or not, through clothing. I have always viewed fashion as mean of soul expression, and ACL does not disappoint. Body, face, and hair glitter: check. Faux-leather platform sandals/boots: check. Wings, flower-crowns, and even Prince leggings: check, check, check. I suddenly envision my nieces about a decade from now getting ready with equal parts giddiness (because I will obviously encourage them to have fun with fashion) and a bit of horror that they will indeed be teen girls doing teen girl things.

My friends arrive just as my second glass of wine runs out and the band St. Vincent is taking to another of the 5 stages. We don’t really know the songs, but the band is high-energy with some songs made to make you want to shake and yell it all out, in a good way. Near us is a small group of girls doing just that. With space enough to run around and jump and skip and scream along with the band, they, in that moment, embody the purest form of what I believe we are all here to find and claim as our birthright: absolute fucking joy manifest. They make the whole space around them vibrate with a wonderful peace.

Metallica is the closing act. We stay near the back of the crowd, but the monitors and speakers again helped to make the experience better for those of us in our post-mosh pit age. Again, the fun is less about the actual concert and more about what is happening around us. Noise levels are such that we can converse without too much trouble. We catch up, we take pictures. We just enjoy being in this moment on this night.

A short while later, I hop into the passenger side of a shared Lyft. A conversation quickly reveals that the the couple in the backseat is here from out of town specifically for the festival for the first time. As we’re all chatting about the festival in general, I at one point say how stoked I am to see the Revolution (Prince’s old band) the next day.

The driver immediately gets excited. “I kind of met Prince once” he exclaims. He then tells a fantastic anecdote about briefly encountering Prince in Vegas one time and accidentally stepping on his foot, not yet knowing it was Prince. I squeal in delight at this story and my fortuitous encounter with this driver.

Sometimes, the event, such as a festival, itself, is not the point. Sometimes the point is in the smaller details and moments. The sunset picture I snap at just the right time as I entered. The glass of wine mixed with pizza mixed with the slight waft of weed. Bodies becoming joy. The shared story from a stranger about a personal hero that made my night. The simply being. 

A Tale of Two Shows: on seeing Kinky Boots and Drunk Shakespeare in NYC


Ever since my soul and flesh slammed into New York City (which is another story involving a blizzard of the century), I have loved her fiercely. She a magical beast that you can lose yourself in and reinvent yourself as many times as you wish, so a visit with NYC never fails to make me giddy. I recently had the chance to spend a few days in New York City, and, against my usual modus operandi, I did almost no planning, which is sometimes the best kind of planning. The only thing on my must-do list was to see a Broadway show, because that is the one non-negotiable with any of my trips to NYC. I decided to let NYC plan the rest, and so I ended up attending two vastly different, but both masterful, shows on the same day: Kinky Books, a fully-realized musical production with music and lyrics by Cyndi Lauper playing in the gorgeously ornate Hirschfeld Theatre, and Drunk Shakespeare, a froliking kind-of interactive and improv happening involving a cast of 6 wearing their own street clothes that takes place in a small library on the 4th floor of a nondescript building. How the stars aligned for me to experience both is not the point, the point is that I was struck how both shows were expert examples of the absolute importance of theatre on both personal and social levels.

For the spectator, theatre allows us to indulge our imaginations and escape for a short while. The same is true of movies and books, of course, but there is something special about being transported merely through sets, costumes and actors. Kinky Boots is the quintessential Broadway musical experience. Stepping into a theatre is, for me, like stepping into another world. I never feel as disconnected (in a good way) from the outside world as I do when I’m sitting on that red velvet chair. It’s like my own personal magic carpet.

Theatre is storytelling at its heart and allows us to experience other times, places, and cultures that we may have not otherwise been, or will ever be, exposed to. By bearing witness to others’ triumphs and struggles and ways of life, we expand our world references and can increase our capacity to relate and empathize.  It can also help us make sense of ourselves and the world around us. Kinky Boots is set in the conservative town of Northampton, England, where our protagonist, Charlie, inherits his father’s failing shoe factory. Although the last thing Charlie wanted was to inherit his father’s business, he now feels loyal to the workers and responsible for keeping the factory running. The only problem is, how? Through circumstance, enter Lola, a black drag queen entertainer from London who challenges Charlie and the town to expand their minds and their world. Charlie and Lola team up to start manufacturing a new kinky boot of, as Lola says, “2 ½ feet of irresistible, tubular sex” instead of an outdated, stodgy men’s shoe.

The road to success is not easy for Lola or Charlie: Lola initially experiences physical and verbal assaults from one of the factory workers and Charlie splits with his fiancee, who can’t, bless her cold, corporate heart, figure out why Charlie wants to a) stay in Northampton and b) save his father’s factory. Everything rests on Charlie, Lola, and the workers having a new line of shoes ready in time for the a fashion show in Milan. But, while Milan is important to the story in that it does, indeed, save the shop, the real heart of the show beats around Charlie and Lola, and what we learn by watching them interact with each other and the town. It is through watching these different struggles and situations play out that theatre becomes relatable and teachable and, in the case of Kinky Boots, at times wonderfully witty and hilarious.

Peppered with fantastic music and lyrics by the iconic Cyndi Lauper and book by Harvey Fierstein, Kinky Boots challenges our thoughts about what love and self-love really means, having the courage to be true to ourselves, friendship, sacrifices, our sometimes soul-crushing fears, and ugly preconceived prejudices about strangers, and the real notion of what being a family means.

From the inspirational song “Take What You Got” about taking the risks worth taking to the hilarious “The Sex Is In the Heel” about the re-uh-vamping of Price & Co’s shoes to the tear-inducing “Soul of a Man” ballad co-sung by Charlie and Lola about their fathers, with whom they both had strained relationships, to the funny and adorable “History Of Wrong Guys” sung by Lauren, Charlie’s loyal, longtime friend/factory worker, upon realizing her long-heald crush on Charlie. (spoiler, of course they end up together) The showstopper, though, is the final song: a feel-good, motivational power ballad that finally busts the heart. “Raise You Up/Just Be” is a 6 minute plus booster shot of encouragement, self-acceptance, and inclusion that we all need right now. In fact, the cast breaks the ‘fourth wall’ and gets the audience on their feet to take part in the feel-good fun, eliciting my favorite of emotions, happy tears through laughter. And, yes, it is the bigoted and narrow-minded macho factory work who had previously given Lola (and Charlie) hell that unties the workers in the end to save the factory, having learned some necessary lessons along the way. This is the kind of show that is as entertaining as it is food for thought.

Since I was letting New York plan the day, I had not predetermined what I was going to do after Kinky Boots. Good thing, too. It was about 4:25 as I exited in my usual post-musical high, and I immediately knew I needed another hit of theatre. I quickly made my way through the crowd at Times Square towards the TKTS booth, which sells day off theatre tickets at 40-50 percent discounts. Though musicals are my weakness, I’m definitely not opposed to other theatre experiences, so I chose the off-Broadway Drunk Shakespeare at 8pm. And then New York, and theatre, get even more magical. I go to pay for the ticket and am told that it’s cash only for that particular show. My ticket is $36. “Oh no,” I say, crestfallen, “I only have 29 dollars on me.” The man looks, smiles and winks, saying, “That’s ok, I’ll make it work, babe.” Say what you want about New York City, it can deliver small miracles and mercies faster than lightning. Ticket in hand, I practically skip the 4 blocks down to Carmine’s (the touristy but just oh so fun pre-theatre Italian joint I first experienced in 1998). I secure a seat at the bar and pass the time with a glass of wine, food, and chatting with the bartender.

But back to another reason I believe in theatre: it’s ability to be absolutely contemporary in its content and be able to create what Brene Brown calls “collective effervescence”, best described as that warm-fuzzy feeling one gets by simply being part of a group experiencing something great, like a concert, or the second show I ended up seeing, Drunk Shakespeare. Maybe my standards aren’t as high as they should be, but I loved this show as soon I showed up to the address and the only signage was written in red paint on the wall on the first floor of the building: “Drunk Shakespeare” and an arrow pointing up. Two flights of stairs brings you to the “theatre”, which has a small gathering place/lobby with a bar. Behind a curtain is the performance space, a small theatre-in-the-round creation that holds maybe 75 people, made up to resemble a ‘library’ in that the walls are lined from floor to ceiling with books. I literally gasp at the adorableness of the space. Then I get handed a light shot of some kind of bourbon, and I again gush. To make a long story short, the show is called Drunk Shakespeare because it involves one member of the troupe, in full view of the audience as the show is starting, taking a few shots of tequila. They also choose one audience member to take one shot along with the actor, to verify that said actor is, in fact, drinking alcohol. Like I said, it’s an interactive experience, and a side-splitting hilarious one at that. This show, while loosely following the plot of Macbeth, does not (save for a few of the great original lines/soliloquies from the Bard himself) use the original language, but instead is largely improved and infused with (a lot) of tangential audience participation, contemporary rhetoric, cultural references and witty, on-point social commentary. This can also be a secondary aim of theatre as it was in Shakespeare’s time – to “hold the mirror up to nature” as he says – to show us who we are as individuals and as a collective society. Theatre, used in this way, is a tool of education, not just entertainment, and I love the ‘escape’ of a Broadway musical as much as I cherish a lush, immersive experience such as Drunk Shakespeare.

It’s been proven by studies from the University of Arkansas that live theatre increases a person’s social perspectives, tolerance and vocabulary! So the next time you’re scrambling for a gift idea, try grabbing a couple of seats at a local production of anything! I promise you won’t regret it! Theatre can make us a happier, more peaceful, and smarter society!

5 Reasons to Drop Everything and Take Tango lessons in Buenos Aires (August 2015)

12540667_10153188890541682_6245849521189604133_n5 Reasons To Drop Everything and Go Take Tango Lessons in Buenos Aires

There are only two reasons a reasonably sane person would book an international trip to a foreign city where they don’t speak the language and know no one in order to spend a eight days studying and practicing a dance they have never even tried. A woman in love, or a woman recently out of love. I’ll leave it to you to guess which one I was. Let me rewind…

Late July in Austin, Texas. It’s oppressively hot and I’ve spent the past 6 months, yet again, trying to work against timing, against my instincts, and being the damned butterfly fluttering around like a lunatic, instead of being the still flower. And because timing always (always) wins, I finally took a step back and exhaled until my lungs were blissfully empty and cried until my eyes were clear.

A couple of days later, I’m reading about a package trip to Buenos Aires (which translates to “Good Air”) that is billed as a mash up of a couple of ‘self-help’ seminars and a few private tango lessons. Although I have done enough self-help work for a couple of lifetimes, the details of the trip are intriguing. And the timing is perfect (irony of ironies) – I would return with 24 hours to rest before fall semester began. For a myriad of reasons, I knew I needed to get the hell out of dodge, and I gleefully accepted this little slice of divine manifestation with zeal. I knew without a doubt this was the perfect kind of trip at the perfect time.

Problem #1: I don’t speak Spanish. Oh well. When in doubt, point at the menu, right?

Problem #2: I don’t know the first thing about tango. But, that’s what the classes are for, right?

A mere sixteen days later I’m boarding a 10 hour flight from Atlanta with a newly purchased Lonely Planet guide in hand. My heart is still heavy, but my head is ready for the adventure, even if only for the distraction for the next 10 days.

And then, right on cue, I meet Alejandro, the tango teacher. *

*spoiler alert: nothing happens, but keep reading.

And so, in no particular order, I present five reasons why you should drop everything and take tango lessons in Buenos Aires, the birthplace of the dance an inspiration for a short-lived Broadway musical in the mid-nineties called Forever Tango.

  1. “Tango es sexual”

No translation needed.

I’m sitting in a very old apartment in Buenos Aires surrounded by portenos (the term for people who are from Buenos Aires), foreigners and a few other Americans. We’re here to talk about the connection between tango and sex, though I’m wondering why a whole seminar is needed. To me, the connection is perfectly obvious. Tango can be a way to have very real, safe physical contact with another person whose name you may not even know. The dance is a fleeting, but no less real, moment of satisfaction. The close embrace of the tango demands flesh on flesh contact brings you back to your body and the supreme simplicity of connection without words.

Make no mistake, tango is sexual, sensual, and brings every emotion to the surface. It is not danced with the feet, but with the heart. Twenty minutes into my first tango lesson, I realize I’ve developed a crush on Alejandro. Or, more precisely, I’ve developed a crush on the whole process, the dance, and life again.

  1. Tango is an exercise in patience

“Wait…” Alejandro must have said this to me a hundred times, mid-step, as I tried to figure out where he was going to lead me before he had finished the step. “Don’t be in a rush, Aimee. Just be in the step.” I bust out laughing. “Oh, Ale, you don’t know who you’re saying that to.”

But his point is dead accurate about tango and life. The dance is made up of two individuals, and cannot be rushed by either partner, or everyone will lose their balance. Having spent much of the past decade in a swirl of “rushing” to find the guy, literally rushing from job to job, or spontaneously moving cross country a few times, I have spent  the past couple of years trying to slow the hell down. “There is a step between the step'” says Alejandro, “don’t forget.”

Right then it clicked. I had been thinking of tango in terms of step 1, step 2, an abrupt jump from point A to B kinda thing, but tango, like life, demands more graceful, fluid motions. Tango also depends on using this patience to suspend any notions of anticipations, or better yet, get rid of anticipation altogether. Any time I tried to anticipate where Alejandro was going to lead me next, he never failed to feel the subtle shift in my weight. “Do you know where I’m going,” he smiled. “…no. I was trying to guess.” He nodded. “Exactly. Don’t do that. Don’t try to anticipate. Just be with me in the moment, and let me show you.”

Anything you say, Ale. Anything. You. Say.

We start dancing again, and this time, I don’t concentrate on the steps, but instead, think about gliding, wave-like, through the dance, and resign myself to the unknown. I think about being, not only in the moment, but in each second. Somewhere mid-song, Alejandro starts humming, and then singing along (in Spanish) to the passionate, mesmerizingly soulful song in Spanish, and suddenly I’m dizzy and wondering what kind of favor I did in a past life to deserve to live through this completely surreal moment.

The song ends. Damnit. “Eso, Aimee! Muy Bien!” he beams.

Yes, I think. Everything is muy bien. Everything is going to be muy bien. For the first time in a long while, I feel okay with being patient and living in the emotional quicksand known as the “unknown”, as it pertains to love. I am, and I think my family would attest, fairly patient and flexible when it comes to life in general, but not when it comes to love (or food). I’ve longed for a relationship for a long time, and become increasingly riddled with anxiety as the calendar pages continue to fade away. But tango has reminded me to slow the hell down and enjoy the ride a bit more.

  1. “Tango is improvisation”

Says Alejandro. “You mean, there’s not a routine,” I blanch. He firmly shakes his head. “There are a few basic steps, yes, but the dance is improvised.” It’s my first lesson, and I’m suddenly very aware that in about 20 seconds I’m going to be on my feet in my newly purchased tango shoes and torso to torso with this very handsome Argentine whose accent is to die for trying to learn a dance I’ve never done in my life.

My comfort zone has long since been left behind, but the swirling culmination of the experience of a new country, new language (which I don’t speak) and learning a new dance has me a bit flustered and I’m feeling a bit queasy. But then I remember the first rule of improv comedy: say yes to anything that is thrown at you, and do something with it. So, vamos. Life is, is it not, one long improvisation?

Alejandro first plays a few different pieces of tango music, from the 20’s, the 50’s and the 60’s, and while all of the music is beautiful and haunting. Tango is not just a music. It’s a feeling and a way of approaching life.

I think back to my first few hours in Buenos Aires. Walking for the first time down Defensia, I was startled when I stepped upon a piece of sidewalk that was no longer rooted down, and had to regain my balance mid-stride. Not two minutes later, the same thing happened. This time. I was annoyed. The third time it happened, I laughed. I get it, I thought, I just have to go with it.

A similar thing happened later in the week when I approached a subway station, only to find that service on that line had been suspended. The pre-tango Aimee would have done some serious brooding, but the post-tango Aimee just laughed, sashayed herself to the next subway line a few blocks away, and found a new route home.

The first hour-long lesson passes in a blur. Before I know it, it’s time to go, and I’m already looking forward to tomorrow’s lesson. Alejandro and I exchange a goodbye kiss on the cheek (cultural thing), and I float out of the studio to the subway.

By the time I resurface out of the subway at Plaza de Mayo, I no longer feel like the same person who boarded the plane three days ago. I hum to myself as I bound up the stairs into the night; I smile at everyone I pass. I feel more myself than I have in months. The sun has set and the air is crisp and sweet. The first thing I see is the Casa Rosada bathed in a warm, pink and utterly romantic glow. I stop dead in my tracks at the absolute perfection of the moment. So I did the only natural thing possible when you’ve just taken tango lessons in Buenos Aires and find yourself standing at Eva Peron’s old abode at twilight. I slung my satin tango shoe bag over my shoulder, threw my arms open, and sang “Hello, Buenos Aires” (from the musical Evita) while improv dancing and skipping over and around the tons of huge, gaping holes in the sidewalk.

  1. Tango is about balance

One of the most interesting things about tango is the seemingly drastic difference between the music/lyrics and the dance. While the music is searingly passionate and often includes bitter, violent lyrics, the dance is smooth, sexy, and, I can attest, can instantly put a smile on your face.

As Alejandro is addressing posture during my second lesson, he says “Tango is about connecting with another person, while still maintaining your own balance. If you don’t connect with the other person, the dance won’t work. If you don’t maintain your own balance, the dance won’t work.”

I know, right? Talk about a metaphor. And there’s more:

“When two people are truly connected, dancing together, there is no ‘follower’ or ‘leader’, but two people sharing the responsibility of the dance,” says Ale.

I feel a familiar pre-cry pang welling up in that back of my throat. That’s all I’m looking for, Ale, I wanted to wail. Mercifully, a second later he turned on the music, and two seconds later, he was teaching me how to pivot, and, just like that, I was ricocheted from despair back to joy in, literally, a single step.

By the end of the third lesson, I was hooked. I felt re-connected to myself, and had fallen in love with life again. Ok, so having a seriously good-looking Argentinian teacher and going for a glass of Malbec and tiramisu after each lesson didn’t hurt. In the end, it wasn’t about learning a dance, it was bringing some joy and adventure to my life, and that was worth every peso.


The Good, the Bad, and the Bali.

The Good, the Bad, and the Bali
Before I get back to the dreamy rose of a place that is Bali, a few minor thorns:

The Airbnb I had booked, while lovely and perfectly adequate (well, minus air-conditioning, which I admit is a luxury, but a medical necessity for me) came with three roosters that lived right outside my door. This I didn’t mind at all. But as if their almost impeccable on-the-hour guffawing throughout the night wasn’t enough, it was somewhere around three o’clock in the morning when what sounded like a small army of ROUSes thundered across the roof. Cats? Monkeys? Welcome to Bali.
I lose my ATM card to nothing more than my momentary idiocracy. The sight of $1,000,000 rupiah (about $80) causes me to become dumbly flummoxed enough to quickly shove the money in my wallet and dart out of the vestibule before retrieving my card. Sigh. This is what my dad would call a silly “mental mistake.” Vintage moi. And yes, Mom, I have two other cards that I can withdrawal money from, so no skin. Promise.
I spend 90 minutes one morning trying to find a place to drop off laundry. When I get to the closest place that shows up on my google maps, it’s closed. When I find a second place, it’s attached to a tourist information kiosk (which is typical) which says “open,” but there’s no one around. A second tourist information kiosk I approach has someone working it and a small “laundry” sign, but when I inquire about laundry, the man just shrugs and shakes his head. Fourth time’s a charm. Finally I find an open laundry service- Ganesha Laundry Service. Ganesha, the remover of obstacles, and sweat stains, it seems. 4.5 lbs of laundry: $3.70. Clean clothing: priceless.

Ok, back to Bali bliss. Since my first night had unfolded so nicely without any real pre-meditation, I decide to, to an extent, ditch the itinerary (my family is laughing at me; we grew up being issued itineraries for vacations) and let each day plan, or not plan, itself, resulting in the following fortuitous synchronicities:

Day 3: attend class at Yoga Barn, where I meet Maria, who clues me into Go Jek, the app I will, for the rest of the trip, use to summon a motorbike to get around for roughly $1 a ride.

Day 4: I set out to walk the Campuhan Ridge Walk. It’s not a viscously hard walk, but 1.5 in, the heat and humidity warrant a break along the way at the Karsa Kafe, the only thing showing up on my Google maps, because there is nothing else around. I soon discover that the Karsa Kafe also happens to be the Karsa spa, because Bali. Out in Tjampuhan’s sacred hills in the middle of the rice fields seems the perfect place to experience my first Chakra balance ($9). A cute, young woman holding a bowl of stones ushers me into a gorgeous little room, and motions to lie down on the table. Massages, mediation, or any activity that calls for hyper relaxation of the mind tends to throw my brain into overdrive, so it takes a short while for me to relax and not ask myself “am I doing this right? Am I relaxing properly?!” Honest to Ganesha, those are the thoughts that swirl around, but soon, I’m relaxed, feeling a delicious fuzzy semi-consciousness invading. Time and space disperse, and I’m only slightly aware of the young woman as she moves stones around the different chakra points and acutely aware of her hands as they jerk and twitch ever so slightly against my body. I’ve longed believed in more than ,just one existential plane, and the stones and the energy pulsing through me, through this tiny oasis in the middle of a rice field in Indonesia are, right now, offering further proof. When I leave, the woman looks as disheveled as I look and feel. I manage to stumble to the entrance of the spa, where I pop open the Go Jek app and request a ride. As I drain the last drops from my water bottle, my motor bike ride arrives, and I giddily hop on (sans helmet) floating the 2 lush miles back to town in a post-rain, post-balance calm.

Day 6: After a late afternoon yoga session, I lazily make my way the .75 miles in the direction of home, stopping for a pizza and beer. Ubud is, as far as nightlife goes, the sweet Aunt that retires after dessert and coffee, so I was excited when I heard the faintest wafting of what sounded like live music drifting through the wide open windows as I swigged the last of my beer. It is Saturday night after all, and I adore live acoustic sets. Ten minutes into listening, a young woman with a hijab sits at the bar next to me and quietly orders. Her drink arrives looking so beautiful that without thinking, I turn towards her, blurting out “what did you order?!” “Milkshake,” she says, immediately sliding it towards me, “you want to try?” Samia is a college student from Lyon, France who is spending the year learning about agriculture working at a farm about an hour outside of Ubud. We listen to the music and chat, enjoying this simple, utterly life-affirming moment. We bond over watching a guy try to worm his way into a group of 20-something, tanned, mini-dress-wearing American tourists by buying them a round of shots. It doesn’t go well, and we giggle conspiratorially. Our conversation meanders through life, and love, and hedges into politics when I confess that, as amazing as Bali is, it has, because of the climate of increasing political unrest at home, felt bizarre to be away. Samia confesses a bit of the same. “Same in France. The divide, she mutters, “…that fucking bitch Le Pen…” trailing off as I laugh slack-jawed. No matter the mother tongue, or worshiped deity, or native continent, world events have set the veins in both of us on fire. She lets me read a page of her journal and a lone stops me in my tracks: what do we want to leave this earth, when even the broken letters of heart spell earth.
Until we meet again, Samia. Thank you for the unforgettable experience
and gift of your friendship. xo.
Day 13. My last night in Bali before a quick 2 day stopover in Kuala Lumpur before I head home, so I decide to hit up the creperie I found earlier in the week and indulge in a dinner and dessert crepe. And the whole moment is lovely. Until it isn’t.

I used to think that Paris was the worse place to be if one was sans paramour. But I was wrong. Bali is worse. It’s quite cliche and easy to fall in love in Paris strolling through the manicured gardens in the shadows of monuments after a liter of wine at lunch while romantic accordion music follows you around. This is not hard. But that is artifice. No one does passion and romance like Paris. But Bali is a more real kind of paradise. If Paris is the eyelash-batting coquette aiming to tease, Bali is the shy wallflower aiming to please. Bali shows you the beauty and the scars. The ruin and the rapture mixed. That is real. That is Bali.

Namaste. XO

The last night his me a bit hard, as I couldn’t help but want to experience such a magic. I walk in a very thin rain the 10 minutes back to my hotel, barricade myself in, and cry for ten minutes. I cry because I had just enjoyed a wonderful meal alone. I cry because earlier in the week, politicians in power began the process of revoking healthcare for millions literally overnight in a viscous show of spite. I cry because I am mourning the departure of the most remarkable president I have known in my lifetime so far, maybe ever. I cry because my country is about to inaugurate a joke. I cry because I don’t have a hair dryer. And I cry because I have, on this last this evening, felt the sting of a kind of lonely that I haven’t in a long while.

The next morning I awake to a sun gently muscling through a just finished rain. This is Bali. This is life.

Liz Gilbert Made Me Do It: Bali

Liz Gilbert Made Me Do It: Bali 

In third (fourth?) grade, I did a report on Jakarta, the capital of Indonesia, because the words themselves sounded so mysterious and the culture seemed as foreign and opposite as could get from my suburban-raised self. And then Liz Gilbert happened. And then that damned movie with Julia Roberts and Javier Bardem happened, and, well, Bali.

Day 1:

Cultural immersion begins on the plane; as we board, a strange kind of peppy, foreign interpretation of western music is blaring and I feel like any minute the flight attendants are going to come around with shots. Ok, so we going to party. And then, during the announcements, the flight attendant says, in a super chipper voice, “the import of any illegal drugs into Indonesia is a very serious crime subject to the death penalty.” Oh, so, no party then.

Customs goes off without a hitch, and I smile kinda dumb-like when the agent slams the immigration stamp down on my passport, making that wonderful ka-thud. Side note: As I am checking in for my flight in Singapore, the gate agent asks me if I had American dollars ($35) for the visa into Indonesia. “No, I don’t,” I say. “Oh, well, you need. You can go get cash out of the machine, and change into dollars,” he says. “Ok,” I smile, “thank you.”  I intend to do no such thing. I had researched tourist visas for Bali well and knew the drill. I arrive in Bali and they don’t even look at this scrawny, pasty white girl twice.

It’s about an hour by car to Ubud and within minutes I know two things. I am never renting or riding a scooter. The traffic lanes seem to serve as gentle suggestions, rather than steadfast rules, and there seem to be very few traffic lights. Traffic is a kind of every-man-for himself whirlwind, and more than a few times I see families of 3 or 4 chugging along the highway with young children sandwiched in between the adults, helmets totally optional, as are shoes, it seems. And the really lucky kids who are small enough get to stand up on the scooter/motor bike, right behind the steering wheel in front of mom or dad, having the time of their life as we cruise a cool 40 miles an hour.

Finally, in the middle of the afternoon downpour (because I am a genius and came during the rainy season), I’m safely ensconced in my home stay. By the time I settle, wash my face, and pour a cup of hot tea provided by the host, the rain has stopped, and I sit under the covered balcony, gentle thunder rolling perfectly in the background as the sky brightens.

After dinner (where I go local all the way – Nasi Campur (chicken and rice) and a Bintang beer – $11 with tax/tip), I start to walk around the three main streets of Ubud, which form a kind of town square and have an amazing variety of restaurants and shops. Merchants are hawking their wares; taxi drivers are looking for fares. On a street corner, a lady thrust a brochure at me.

“You like see Balinese dancing? At palace,” she nods and smiles. Actually, I really do. Fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting in the courtyard of Ubud Palace as the show is starting, thoroughly gobsmacked at how the entire evening has unraveled so organically to perfection.

Day 3:

Welp, I’m on a scooter zipping through traffic holding on for dear life. Oh, and I’m in flip flops.

This is how it went down. I had, until now, been walking everywhere, but a few places I want to go are going to require a taxi. Having been informed about the taxi mafia (a.k.a. drivers that jack up fares for us unsuspecting out-of-towners), I enlist the help of a friendly policeman, who waves a waiting driver over. After I negotiate the price slightly, the driver, a kind-eyed Balinese man somewhere in his thirties, nods and hands me a helmet. Turns out taxis come in either two or four wheel varieties.

I blanche. “Oh,” I stutter like the naive idiot I am, “I wanted a car.”

He smiles and shrugs apologetically, gesturing to the thick traffic that clogs the main streets of Ubud. “Is better, the bike. You there faster much.”

He is right. The roads are barely a car and a half wide in many places, especially the central part of town, so a motorbike is, I’m learning, a much quicker way to get around. Since I’ll be damned if I’m missing the yoga class with the hot Venezuelan teacher named Carlos I’ve been cyber stalking since last night, I gulp, summon my inner Liz Gilbert, and slap on the helmet.

As soon as I find myself at Yoga Barn, I quickly start to mentally rearrange the rest of my stay, knowing that one class here is not going to be enough. Carlos plays soft reggae during class. By the time he plays guitar and sings during savasana, the resting period at the end of class, I’m a goner.

Lunch in the cafe afterwards finds me chatting with a woman from California. Maria, who clues me into a few local tricks, the best of which is an Uber-type app that will (among other things) summon a taxi for way cheap, effectively cutting transportation costs, such as the 1 hour haul back to the airport, in half. And no more worrying about the taxi mafia. The app also delivers food.

“Maria,” I say, “you are my new best friend.”
To Be Continued: that time in Bali where Aimee gets a Chakra balance

A Tale of Two (or Three) Meals: Singapore and Bali Part 2

A Tale of Two (or Three) Meals – Singapore and Bali Part 2

If New York City is the intimidating, rough-and-tumble, foul-mouthed, yet beloved, older brother, Singapore is the quirky, neon-loving, sweet and innocent tween sister who is constantly checking in on Facebook from the mall and posting exotic food pics on Instagram. Seriously. This city is made for shopping and eating. It also has a bit of an identity crisis. It’s utterly and beautifully cosmopolitan catering to the urban sophisticate, but also has natural green space to rival Central Park many, many times over, as well as the thriving Chinatown and Little India neighborhoods.

Though the name Singapore comes from the Malay words “singa” meaning “lion” and “pura” meaning “city”, the story behind the meaning of the nickname, and the city’s mascot, a mash up of the head and neck of a lion and the body of a fish called a Merlion, are fairytail fodder for debate.

Lore has it that, in 1299, a Prince Sang Nila Utama from the Srivijya empire landed on the island and, while hunting, saw a gorgeous unknown beast, which he was told was a lion, though it’s generally acknowledged that it was most likely a Malay tiger. He believed this a good omen, so he settled the city, established diplomatic ties with China, and subsequently ruled for 48 years. The merlion mascot is a nod to the “lion” seen by Prince Sang and the city’s first incarnation as a fishing village.

But back to food. One of the paradoxes of traveling is that I never feel more American than when I am overseas, especially when it comes to dining. Sometimes I am (accidentally) the “silly little American girl” tourist, and sometimes I am the American glaring at the “ugly American” tourist. Exhibits A and B to come.

On the third night, I take a left instead of a right (Thanks for the tip, Bugs) and stumble upon what would have happened if Dr Seuss had built a riverwalk spanning 5 action-packed blocks where adults can eat and drink while kids play in a central splash pad. This hub is awash in bright, pastel colored buildings, neon signs, and tons of restaurants/bars with choice patio seating. Called Clarke Quay, it’s arguably the younger, hipper of the three quays, a top destination for locals and tourists, and a must-do in Singapore.

I settle on a place with live music (covers of 90s songs, anyone?) and order up some edamame and one of Singapore’s signature dishes – chicken satay, which is a fancy way of saying yummy roasted chicken on a stick. The satay is fantastic, as is the atmosphere of the general public having a grand time in a wonderfully civilized and courteous manner. The minor blight is the American gent a few tables away who decided to turn the band’s cover of 500 Miles by The Proclaimers into his own personal karaoke moment at decibel level 8 out of 10 and proceeds to shout – I wish I were joking – “Freebird!” after the song. Sigh. This is why we can’t have nice things.

The next day, I’m determined to take on Chinatown and experience another Singaporean must-do: the hawker food stalls of Chinatown. I exit the Metro at the Chinatown station and get that “we’re not in Kansas anymore” feeling, but I’m excited. I also take it as a good omen that, as my eyes adjust to the light, the first thing one sees emerging from the station are the elaborate and massive decorations about 5 traffic lanes wide by 3 blocks long. The Chinese New Year is approaching, and it’s the Year of the Rooster, so at the center of the decorations is a gigantic, ornate, well, you know. Ah themes, and timing.

But, back to food. Rows and rows of narrow food stalls, but I have taste buds set on a specific one: a food stall that, in 2016, received a Michelin star rating where the entrees are under $4 called Hong Kong Soya Sauce Chicken Rice and Noodle. There is a short line to queue, but that is easily survived by drooling over the delicious-looking rotisserie chickens hanging just above the cashier. Making our way inside, the solo gentleman in front of me pauses to selfie in front of the sign. I smile. He notices that I’m smiling, nods, and smiles back. It’s an event. I get the chicken rice, another signature Singaporean dish. The chicken is fall-of-the-bone amazing, and the rice is sticky with a hint of sweet. Food: $3.60. Experience: priceless.

That night, I return to Clarke Quay, drawn to a place called Ramen Keisure Lobster King. Suddenly craving some fried rice and goya, I queue up and am quickly seated at a community table. I slowly glance around, trying to take gauge my surroundings. I notice that I definitely, at least at this moment, am the only blonde around. Cool. I order fried rice, 2 orders of Goya, and ask if they have Sapporo beer because when in Rome. “Of course,” the waiter answers. “Great,” I say, “a pint of Sapporo.” It’s not until my beer arrives I learn that here, a pint can mean ½ liter, or almost 17oz. Whoops.

As I devour the scrumptious rice and goya, I hear the same male voices bust out in some kind of jovial, incomprehensible to me, toast every so often. It’s by no means too loud, but it does fill the restaurant for a few seconds each time. The bill paid, I go to leave when the source of the periodic jubilation is revealed: the whole staff is bidding each table a goodbye as they exit. One foot out the door, I turn my head to return the good bye and promptly catch my other foot on door. Thanks, Sapporo. Fried Rice/Goya/Sapporo: $35. Lesson in ordering beer like a local: priceless.

To be continued.

Sayonara, 2016. Hello, Singapore!

I thought it would be fun to start blogging about the travels, life, and love. Below is the first post about my current trip to Singapore and Bali. Look for new posts over the following couple weeks!
Sayonara, 2016. Hello, Singapore!  (Part 1)
In its truest meaning, sayonara is a Japanese salutation used when there is an impending sense of finality surrounding a situation. It doesn’t just mean “good bye.” It signifies there will likely never be another meeting.
It’s 1:55 am on January 1st, and I’m finally about to shut my eyes after my first New Year’s out in three years. In truth, I had gotten home (sober, because I’m 41) an hour ago and proceeded to send a Happy New Year text to someone I shouldn’t have (because I’m human and it’s freaking New Years). 45 minutes later, I turn off the lights, say a silent sayonara to this dumpster fire of a year, and offer up a prayer gratitude that I’ll be on a plane to Singapore in less than twelve hours on my second annual New Year’s Day trip. I also resist the temptation to put a hit out on Cupid, as I tend to do annually on this day, but instead ask for a smidge of luck in the love department for the coming year.
On the flight from Austin to SFO, I start thinking about what changes I might need to be willing to seriously make to shake up some romance. Since I feel the universe operates with reciprocity, I know that while I must hold trust and faith close, I must also be willing to get off my yoga-pant wearing butt and continue to do the inner and outer work. Evolution is constant and the number of doorways to new understanding is infinite. A couple questions I try to ask myself a lot, with success and failure depending on the situation, are “am I acting with kindness to others and myself” and “am I being the kind of partner I would want?” So, while I believe in divine timing, even if she is a maddening, saucy minx, I also believe that love, and finding love, is action.
A few habits up for tweaking: would it kill me to consider wearing a real lipstick instead of my root beer flavored Smackers lip gloss? Perhaps I could invest in some actual lingerie instead of underwear that comes in packs of three that I occasionally throw in my basket among the bananas and granola bars on a Target run? Is this the year I expand my shoe-wearing beyond cowboy boots and glitter Toms with holes in the toe? Maybe I embrace cooking dishes with actual ingredients besides water and butter? Just spitballing.
In SFO airport, I savor a simple tomato basil bisque. It’s real and nourishing, a nice way to start the year. As I sip, I take a Facebook quiz titled “what does your love life look like in 2017.” Mid-bite, the answer appears: Alone and With No One. I gulp the rest of my soup down, quickly gather up my things, and head for the nearest place that sells alcohol where I spend $17 on a glass of wine a chocolate mousse dessert that I finish in four bites. Eff you, 2017. Eff. You.
I text one of my besties a screenshot of my results, to which she immediately replies with a delightful string of heartfelt expletives, further cementing my adoration. I board what feels like more than just a flight, quietly challenging 2017 to surprise me and challenging myself to do the same.
Next stop, Singapore. The Lion City. Bring it.