Windham Mountain ResortA few weeks ago, I decided to try my hand at snowboarding again. I had spent the week with a cold, and the last thing I wanted was to go back out on the mountain and fall on my ass all day, but if I wasn’t going to do it now, when would I? And my dear, sweet husband gave me an ultimatum.

‘If you don’t come this time, I’ll never invite you again,’ Gavin said. I knew he didn’t mean it. He just really wanted me to learn, and when I pictured us as a family years down the road, with Gavin and kids hitting the slope and me drowning my sadness in apres skis I didn’t deserve, I caved. I can do this, I thought. I can take another lesson, try one more time.

When Gavin woke me up at 5:30 am, however, I almost bailed. My bed looked so warm and inviting, it was practically begging me to crawl back into it. But I resisted.

On the road I dozed in and out of sleep, each time waking to check the clock, thankful for the time I had left in the car. Since when did I hope for more time in the car, for a car ride that never ends? I knew then I really didn’t want to go, a thought that was verified when I
started praying for a traffic jam or car accident the closer we got to Windham.

Gavin got me set up with the beginner’s package then hit the slopes while I waited out the hour before my lesson people watching and trying not to think about how sore I was going to be later. At least I had a butt pad this time.

As the time got closer to 10 am, I put on all my gear, grabbed my board and headed to the lesson meeting point. I took a deep breath and surrendered to whatever was coming. There were no more time fillers, no more delays. It was two hours until I agreed to meet Gavin for lunch. I could make it that far, I told myself.

The beginner’s lessons were organized in zones, with instructors scattered throughout. I was shocked by how old some of them were. A few looked about my parents age, in their mid-60s, with outdated hairstyles and accessories that said I ‘heart’ snowboarding. This was very different than the young, impatient types at Mont Tremblant. I followed the group of nervous first-timers to zone one and met Marty, a spunky older man with a scruffy red beard, gold tooth, and kind smile. Under his tutelage, I began to learn the basics again – which foot to lead with, how to stand on the board – this time in a much easier to swallow format. I practiced boarding over flat ground, attempting heel and toe turns to the left and right, again and again and again. I moved from zone to zone with the encouragement of the Windham team, and by the end of the morning, unlike Mont Tremblant, I felt good. Excited even, to keep progressing after lunch. Did I dare think that maybe I’d be able to go down the entirety of the Woolly Bear slope by the end of the day? Sure, I’d fallen more than a few times, but I didn’t feel broken, in body or in spirit. I was a new woman. A snowboarding woman.

I met Gavin at the Legends Bar and Grill on the second floor of the clubhouse. Like many of the kids seated around us, I ordered chicken fingers and fries. And a beer. I’d survived the first part of the day, that was reason enough to celebrate.

Gavin looked at me skeptically, unsure what to do with my surprisingly good mood. I didn’t want to scare him too much, so I downplayed my excitement. I told him I thought I could probably make it until 3 pm, but I would stop when I’d had enough.

‘You have to stay positive,’ he said. ‘Keep at it.’

Then I got pouty and played the victim for a few more minutes until the afternoon session began.

I spent the remainder of the afternoon linking heel and toe turns down the baby slope, unstrapping my board, walking up the hill, and doing it all over again. After an hour and a half, I was sweaty but satisfied. I wasn’t terrified when the board got a little speed. I was turning! I was linking turns! I was flying through the zones! After a while, the instructors stopped paying attention to me. I’m that good, I thought. What’s next? Could I try the Woolly Bear? It was still only a small hill in the grand scheme of things, but for me it was bigger and badder than anything I’d seen. I rode the Magic Carpet ‘lift’ to the top, where Gavin happened to be looking for me. I had an audience now, I had to give it a shot. I sat down and buckled in, trying to remember what I’d learned. I started slow, a heel turn, a toe turn, the speed picked up and I turned a little too quick, sliding on my butt for a few seconds before popping back up and leaning into another turn. At the end of the slope I slowed to a stop, smiling. I really can do this, I thought. Maybe I should go again?

And then my biggest fan walked up and said, ‘Did they teach you that? To put your weight on your back foot?’ He looked confused.

‘No,’ I said exasperatedly. ‘I’m trying!’ And I stormed off towards the rental return, hiding a satisfied smirk.

Places we loved on this adventure:

Windham Mountain Resort, 19 Resort Drive, Windham, NY – For the experienced skier or snowboarder, it’s no Tahoe or Park City, but it’s a great place to learn. The people are friendly, the lessons are cheap and fun, even for someone who is borderline terried. And for a beginner, rentals, lesson, and lift ticket is only $89.


Grand CanyonThe Grand Canyon could be considered the exact opposite of Las Vegas. Like a nature-made set for Cirque du Soleil, it has an otherworldly feel. Like you’re standing at the edge of the Earth – if the Earth had been flat after all – looking out into the great beyond.

A few years ago I heard a story about a married couple who’d gone to the Grand Canyon for their wedding anniversary. The husband decided to take a picture of his wife standing near the canyon edge at sunset.

 ‘Back up a little more,’ he said. She edged back a few inches.

 ‘Just a little more,’ he prodded again. And again.

 By now, I’m sure you can picture how the story ends, with the wife tumbling to her death on the rocks below. I thought about this as we looked over the edge at the sun-filled canyon. I wasn’t worried Gavin was going to push me in, but I still asked a stranger to take our picture, us standing an appropriate distance from the edge.

 We pulled out of the park and drove east to I-40, unclear on where we would stop for the night. We resisted the overhyped temptations of the Meteor Crater, but decided to pull into Petrified Forest National Park outside Holbrook, Arizona to see the Painted Desert at sunset.

The pink and white striations of the rock glowed with the setting sun, and Gavin and I found ourselves speechless yet again at the natural beauty of the Southwest landscape. At least my lack of speech was connected with the view. When I looked over at Gavin, I realized his look was more pain than awe, his skin glistening with sweat.

‘Are you okay?’ I asked.

Too late. He had already taken off for the small bathroom complex located on the other side of the viewpoint. When he returned, he looked only slightly better.

‘Let’s keep moving,’ he said.

Gavin and I had eaten more or less the same foods for the last few meals, and I felt fine. Darkness fell over the highway as Gavin kept his eyes focused on the road ahead. I offered to drive, but I think he appreciated the distraction. With loud gurgles and rumbles, the contents of his stomach went to war with his intestines and I emptied a plastic bag to have on hand, should any of the troops decide evacuation the best strategy.

After what felt like light-years staring at the empty road ahead, we pulled into Albuquerque and the first hotel we could find, Gavin spending the night shuffling between the bed and the toilet. Without really knowing it, we crossed a relationship boundary that night. Where the deliberate attempts to hide all bodily functions fly by the wayside because one of you just feels too bad to care. And the other cares too much to notice.

We woke in the morning to what was a beautiful Spanish style hotel right in the heart of the city. We’d been in such a hurry the night before, we could’ve been anywhere, but this place was nice. Fancy even. We spent the morning soaking up the atmosphere of Old Town Albuquerque, the peppers strung up on the porch fronts, swaying in the easy breeze. Gavin must have been feeling better because he decided our destination for the night would be Austin, and we should eat as much barbecue as we could handle. Google Maps predicted the distance would take 10+ hours, but that didn’t factor in Gavin speed.

Our first stop was Lubbock, Texas for brisket sandwiches at Tom and Bingo’s. We ate them on one of the school benches lining the inside of the small shack, and unlike other places where they pile the brisket so high there’s no way you could eat without a bib, a table covered in newspaper, and someone to pull clean-up duty when you can’t force down another bite, the sandwiches were perfectly-sized and moist, tender, delicious.

Stop two was a jerky store on the side of the highway. The aptly named Really Really Good Jerky Store was an oasis at the intersection of two tumbleweed-strewn highways, a small stone building housing every type of jerky you could imagine, wall to wall. And free samples. We tried as many as we could without seeming too greedy and bought some of our favorites for car snacks.

 As we neared Austin, we decided to save the mecca of Texas barbeque joints for the next day, and pulled into downtown for a night of Tex Mex and live music. Gavin was feeling much better – all that meat must have done him good – and we bar hopped down Sixth Street, enjoying a lively night with the up-and-coming talents of country music.

Kreuz Market in Lockhart is a real man’s barbecue joint. You walk up to the counter and order your meat by the pound, adding a stack of white bread and any sides you might want. But no sauce, this meat does not need sauce. We channeled our inner carnivores and went to work. Gavin had to pull clean-up duty on my woman-sized appetite, but we were proud of the damage we did and walked to the car as meat zombies.

French Quarter New OrleansWe linked up with the I-10 and headed to New Orleans, where we would complete our Southern food tour. We settled on a budget-slash-boutique hotel on Camp Street and walked into the French Quarter to get the night started. We went to Coop’s Place for dinner, a Cajun place on Decatur Street, with the perfect convivial NoLa atmosphere, loud and dimly lit. I honestly can’t remember what I ate. Or tried to eat. I had a Sazerac as an aperitif, but then all I could feel was my stomach. I don’t know whether I caught what Gavin had or something else, but – out of nowhere – I did not feel well. I forced down a few bites of what I ordered, maybe a jambalaya, and tried to stay positive. I told Gav I wasn’t feeling well, but tried to downplay the pain. We were in New Orleans for chrissake! I wanted to show Gavin all the magic of the Crescent City, the places I’d been and loved and some you just had to go once. We left Coop’s and I convinced him I’d be fine after a short walk. I tried to focus, will myself to feel better. What happened next has happened on the streets of the French Quarter an impossible number of times. My dinner was rudely rejected by my stomach with an uncontrollable amount of force. I vomited all over the cobblestone street, to the shrieks of a few onlookers.

‘I swear I’m not drunk’, I said meekly, trying to defend myself. I doubt anyone believed me.

I took a breath and looked at Gavin. ‘I think that’s all I needed.’ I managed a smile. ‘I feel much better now. Let’s keep going’.

I didn’t want the night to end; we had limited time here. So we walked into Pat O’Briens and ordered two hurricanes, taking a seat by the courtyard fountain. But after only a few sips, I was running to the bathroom, emptying my stomach again. This continued a few more times until Gavin forced me to give up, walking me back to the hotel to what would be an all-night puke fest. Another relationship boundary shattered.

When I finally stopped retching, it was the early hours of the morning, and we decided to spend another night in New Orleans and try again. Round two started slow for me, with only a few bites of a po’ boy and the desire to stay close to a toilet, but ended strong, with a drink at what could be the oldest bar in the country, the candle-lit piano bar Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop, and the requisite jazz session at Maison Bourbon.

The day that followed held a marathon drive from New Orleans to the Virginia-Tennessee border. We had our sights set on a friend’s party in New York in two days and had serious distance to cover.

I-59 runs through Georgia for only twenty miles, their state troopers watching the driversby like bloodthirsty hawks. Not ten minutes after Gavin had uttered the words ‘speed trap,’ we were being pulled over by a slick Dodge cruiser, going through ‘do you know how fast you were going?’ routine yet again.

‘Please get out of the car, sir,’ the trooper said in an ominous tone. This was new.

Gavin walked to the back of the car, as I watched the conversation in the rear view, not being able to understand what was being said. It looked mild enough, but what happened if he got arrested? If the officer looked up all of his speeding tickets, including the one he’d gotten earlier that day in Mississippi? I couldn’t drive stick shift. I’d be stuck here. What would I do? Call my mom? I started to panic, when Gavin walked back, opening the driver’s side door.

‘Excuse me, sir, can you tell me what that is?’ The officer asked in a sudden high pitch, shining his flashlight into the side pocket of the door.

My mind raced from guns to drugs to severed body parts. How well did I really know this guy? What the hell was in the car door? My palms were sticky, the hair on my neck pricked in anticipation.

Gavin shrugged, looking into the side pocket and pulling out something the size of a pipe, small and silver. I gasped for air. Here come the handcuffs, I thought.

‘A tire pressure gauge,’ he said, displaying it to the cop and then me like a model on QVC.

A laugh burst from my lips as Gavin got back in the car, tucking his newest ticket-slash-souvenir into the center console.

‘What?’ he asked, smiling.

And with that, we had our sights set on New York. With Gavin driving, we’d be there soon.

Places we loved on this adventure:

National Park Service Annual Pass – We didn’t buy this for our trip, but to anyone that plans on visiting multiple parks in one trip or one year, I highly recommend it. For $80 it covers the entrance fees to every park and federal recreation area, over 2,000. Gavin and I spent $35 just visiting the Grand Canyon and Petrified Forest. This pass can be a real money saver.

El Rancho Hotel, 1000 East 66, Gallup – A staple of the old Route 66 and a homebase for crews filming Westerns back in the ‘40s and ‘50s, this hotel-motel-restaurant has been well-restored and is a great stopping point off of I-40, a couple hours outside Albuquerque. The enchiladas were delicious. Easy on the Wallet.

Hotel Andaluz, 125 2nd Street NW, Albuquerque – A beautiful hotel in the heart of downtown, one of the first built by Conrad Hilton in the ‘30s and recently renovated. The mix of Spanish tiles and stucco arches fit in perfectly with what you expect from the old Southwest. Middle of the Road.

Tom and Bingo’s Hickory Pit Bar-B-Que, 3006 34th Street, Lubbock – I think I could eat one of these brisket sandwiches everyday. If you’re in the vicinity, worth the visit. Easy on the Wallet.

The Really Really Good Jerky Store, Intersection of State Highways 153 and 70 south of Sweetwater – The name says it all, this is really really good jerky. Easy on the Wallet (depending on how much you buy…).

Kreuz Market, 619 North Colorado Street, Lockhart – If my description above wasn’t enough, I’m not sure what else to say. Some of the best brisket I’ve ever had. Go soon, and go early. Middle of the Road.

Queen & Crescent Hotel, 344 Camp Street, New Orleans – This is one of those hotels that isn’t fabulous, but ticks all the boxes. It’s walking distance to the French Quarter, the rooms are spacious enough, there’s nearby parking, and unless you’re there during Mardi Gras or Jazz Fest, it’s going to be less than $100. Not a bad choice. Easy on the Wallet.

Coop’s Place, 1109 Decatur St, New Orleans – I wasn’t able to really enjoy the food here, but Gavin loved it and has been back on other visits. The jambalaya and gumbo get rave reviews. One of THE Cajun style restaurants in the Quarter. Middle of the Road.

Mother’s Restaurant, 401 Poydras St, New Orleans – THE place to get a po’ boy in New Orleans. There is always a line but the staff are friendly and the food is worth the wait. They’re all good, but the Original with ham and roast beef is amazing. Easy on the Wallet.

Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop Bar, 941 Bourbon Street, New Orleans – Built sometime before 1772, this tavern claims to be oldest continually occupied bar in the United States. Lit mostly by candlelight, I felt like I had walked back in time, listening to live piano music and enjoying a drink in a mason jar. Easy on the Wallet.

Maison Bourbon, 641 Bourbon Street, New Orleans – It’s full of tourists, but still a must-do for a New Orleans first-timer. When you’re walking by, stop in for a little while. There’s something about sitting on Bourbon Street with the doors open, soaking up some really good live jazz. Easy on the Wallet.


Road Trip RearviewGavin and I met over a game of Nails at our mutual friend Katie and her husband Will’s Oktoberfest party in Bernardsville, New Jersey. Nails is not your typical outdoor party game, but for those with a backyard and a sizeable tree to fell, I’ll quickly explain. Each player starts with a nail, tapped into a tree stump just enough so it stands up straight. Players take turns doing ‘tricks’ with the hammer, getting a certain number of hits as a result. If you throw the hammer in the air and catch it by the handle, you get one hit. If you throw it under a leg and catch it, you get two hits. If you throw it behind your back and catch it, you get three. You use your hits against other players’ nails, the goal to have yours be the last one standing. I was terrible at throwing the hammer, but in a not-so-vague attempt at flirting, I used all the hits I could get against Gavin’s nail. It irritated Gavin more than it intrigued him, but he did notice my long blonde braids. Which were actually part of my German girl costume. So you can imagine his surprise when I gave a sly smile and pulled off my cheap, plastic wig to reveal a mop of dark brown hair underneath.

At the time, I lived in Washington, DC and Gavin lived in San Francisco. We managed a few back and forth trips through the holidays, and as things started to get serious in January, Gavin decided to move to New York. That had been his plan for a number of months before he met me – in order to be closer to his family and potential job opportunities – but now that we’re married, I won’t pretend I didn’t have anything to do with it.

In the fall of 2008, I’d taken six weeks off work to drive cross country and back, visiting friends, national parks, monuments, and roadside attractions. I loved a good road trip. So when Gavin mentioned driving his car from San Francisco to New York, I couldn’t help but want to come along. It was only when I was 30,000 feet over the Rockies that I started to have doubts. I had loved driving cross country by myself, but would I enjoy it with someone else? With Gavin? We had never traveled together, and as I learned on a European backpacking trip in college, it could either go amazingly well or horribly wrong. My palms started to sweat as I thought about how miserable it would be if it didn’t work out, spending 3,000 miles and a week and half stuck together in the front seat of a compact car. The awkward silences would kill me. I took a swig of my too-small airplane cocktail and prayed to the relationship gods for safe passage. For better or worse, at that point, I knew this trip would be a turning point in ours.

I landed at SFO around ten in the evening, and the road trip began directly from there. Gavin had spent the last few days boxing up, shipping, and selling the contents of his apartment. It was no longer fit for us to spend the night there, not that it ever was. I had heard stories over the last few months and wished I could have experienced Gavin in his native habitat. I would learn soon enough about Gavin’s live-in habits, the mysterious bottle caps, quarters, and socks littered about the apartment, but I still wanted to see it. The working TV standing on a plastic cooler, the broken TV hiding in the corner, the Gavin-shaped divot worn into the side of a faux-leather couch, even the dining room set bought on a whim when guests came to visit one weekend.

Instead, we drove south on the 101 to San Jose, spending a night there, before setting off towards Las Vegas in the morning. There was something awkward and exciting about that first night. The anticipation was palpable, the future unknown. We were going on our first adventure together. We ate a late dinner at a local bar grill, and discussed where we wanted to stop on our trip. Vegas, Austin, and New Orleans were definites. The rest we decided to leave to chance.

I am normally a sound sleeper. When I was five, the fire department came to our house to put out a chimney fire, and I slept straight through it, sirens and all. But this night, you would’ve thought Santa was coming in the morning, or I’d just watched the latest remake of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I couldn’t wait for our adventure to start.

We woke early and started the almost eight hour drive to Vegas. Before we could get settled in our seats or unscrew the tops of our road sodas, we spotted flashing red and blue lights behind us. Something you should know about Gavin is that he drives fast. It’s not a want, but rather a subconscious need, something that is so innate to who he is, he has to set alarms in his car to beep if the car goes over 100 mph. It can happen just like that. He’ll be focused on the curves of the road and the journey ahead, and before you know it, he’s driving 30 miles faster than the law thinks is appropriate. He’s also way too honest.

The officer walked to the side of the car as Gavin rolled down his window. ‘Do you know how fast you were going?’ he asked.

‘Probably 90,’ Gavin said, furrowing his brow in concentration. ‘Maybe 95 when you clocked me.’

‘I got you at 93,’ the officer responded. ‘Do you have a reason for driving nearly 25 miles over the speed limit?’

‘No,’ Gavin said. ‘I really don’t.’ I could’ve smacked him for his honesty.

That was speeding ticket number one.

The approach into Vegas by car never ceases to amaze me. Desert, desert, desert, then boom, the skyline starts to appear. Then you see a gas station with a casino, a strip mall with a casino, then resort casino, restaurant casino, bar casino. By the time you’re driving down Las Vegas Boulevard, you don’t know whether to laugh out loud or get out of the car and run away. Vegas is a fantasyland for adults, Epcot Centre with just the right about of sex and skank. I have to say I love it. If you don’t, you’re just fooling yourself.

As we drove down the strip, we debated on where we wanted to stay for the night. In my past visits, I’d always stayed on the strip, but after a quick Kayak search, we decided on the Hard Rock, just off the strip and beautifully priced at $70 for the night. We parked in the garage and took our bags inside to check in. Gavin reached in his pocket for his ID and credit card, put could only find the Visa and a crumpled receipt. Somewhere between the San Jose speeding ticket and the reception desk at the Hard Rock, his ID had gone missing. Gavin frowned, wrinkled his brow.

‘It must be in the car,’ he said, and we retraced our steps back to the garage. We searched the car back to front to back, and throughout it all, Gavin kept his cool. I couldn’t help but be impressed. I would’ve been flipping my shit, wondering where it’d all gone wrong. Yet here he was, getting a speeding ticket and losing his ID in the same day, and just rolling with it. No panic attack, no angry silences, no exasperated sighs and ‘why me?’s. At some point, he shrugged, pulled his passport from a box on the backseat where his important papers and tax returns were traveling, and we went back inside to check in.

After freshening up, we hit the casino floor for some blackjack. I’d played a few times before and thought I had a basic understanding of the rules of the game. Ha. In that first hand with Gavin I realized I didn’t know anything at all. Gavin was the expert. The guy had spent a summer in college playing blackjack at Foxwoods three days a week with the AARP crowd. He’d kept a notebook, writing down all of his expenses and wins, walking away each week with more than I dreamt about making at the Express in the Virginia Center Commons mall. Now when I sit down at a blackjack table, I know what I’m doing, but that first night with Gavin and those five dollar chips with rock bands on them, I was just an eager student.

We finished the evening with the tasting menu at Nobu, the fruits of Gavin’s gambling labors. A perfect end to a near perfect day. I wasn’t going to dream about Santa or chainsaws tonight, only tomorrow. And tomorrow we would head towards the Grand Canyon.

Places we loved on this adventure:

Hard Rock Hotel and Casino, 4455 Paradise Road, Las Vegas – Hands down, the best place to stay in Vegas. Lively atmosphere with great bars, restaurants, pool, and decent minimums on blackjack, with plenty of video poker and dancers on the tables late night. Need I say more? Middle of the road.



Last weekend, Gavin and I headed down to the Washington, DC area for his cousin’s wedding. We were married only two months ago, and I was thrilled at the idea of being a ‘married’ guest at a wedding. Instead of the ‘when we’ and ‘if we’ and ‘one day’ feelings I had had as a single or engaged guest, I pictured Gavin and I looking at each other and reminiscing over all of the funny and sweet and sentimental details of our special day. Okay, my cheesiness will stop there, I promise. I will not be held responsible for the vomit stuck between the keys of your keyboard.

Few people realize the only profitable line on Amtrak is the one that runs along the Eastern Seaboard. More precisely, it’s the segment that travels between Boston and DC, and after checking the prices a few weeks before our trip we understood why. Unless you book your ticket two months in advance (which realistically, we could have, but that’s beside the point) or are willing to travel at off-off-peak times (read: 5am), you’ll likely pay $150 for one person one way. We debated renting a car, but the thought of I-95 traffic on a Friday afternoon drove me to check out the flights on Kayak. My jaw dropped as the page filled with options. For only $290, we could buy two non-stop primetime flights to DC and back. Sold. Why were they so cheap, you ask? Maybe because it’s January in New York and there’s snow on the ground and the likelihood of our flights leaving on time is as likely as a wedding without a cake.

So as you’ve probably guessed, our flight to DC was delayed, but we were in good spirits nonetheless. Who doesn’t like an opportunity to have an airport beer? There is something cathartic about knowing you have no where to go for an hour or two, so why not stool up at the airport variety of an Irish Pub or Sports Bar and drink a cold one? Gavin turned me on to this trick shortly after we met, and I have to say it makes waiting a good deal easier. You can forget about where you’re going and what you’re late for and just relax. There is absolutely, positively nothing else you can do. But in case you’re wondering, airport beers do not make things easier when you’ve gone from delayed to canceled to flat-out stranded. I once got stuck in London for three days because they had been blessed with three inches of snow (Why is rain the only weather the Brits can handle?), and no amount of beers could make me feel better. And believe me, I tried.

The home base for the wedding festivities was Old Town, Alexandria, and after we arrived and dropped our bags at the Hilton on King Street, we found the bridal party at a nearby bar, Virtue Feed and Grain. I had forgotten how much I loved Old Town. A mixture of Georgetown and Cary Street in Richmond, it was a beautiful place to visit and, I imagine, live. Rowhouses dating back to the 18th century, cobblestone streets, twinkle-lit trees, all enhanced with a dusting of snow. Virtue fit into the scene perfectly, a turn-of-the-century granary converted into a restaurant-slash-bar that managed to feel industrial and cozy at the same time. We found our way to a room in the back where old farm tables, benches, couches, and excited wedding guests filled the room. We spent the evening socializing and toasting the happy couple.

On Saturday morning, Gavin and I took the yellow-line Metro from King Street to Chinatown to meet a few of my friends for brunch. I had lived in Washington for eight years before moving to New York, and some of my closest friends still lived in the city. And what better way to catch up than brunch? Brunch is truly one of my favorite meals. When you’re dealing with eggs and bacon, it’s difficult to mess up, but somehow also difficult to get right. Zengo is another story altogether. A Latin-Asian fusion restaurant right next to the Chinatown gate on 7th Street NW, they throw brunch straight into a dream state. Bottomless small plates and bottomless brunch drinks and plenty of seats. For the decently low price of $35 per person. All of the hipster-brunch hype has turned a late afternoon meal on Saturday or Sunday into a situation where people will wait 45 minutes for a $25 Eggs Benedict and $15 Mimosa, yet here was an inventive menu that you could literally eat and drink your way through entirely. For $35. And as we read off half the menu to our waitress, she didn’t even bat an eye. She seemed to be egging us on.

‘One time, these two very petite girls ordered one of everything,’ she said, making a tiny circle with her forefingers and thumbs to demonstrate the size of their midriffs. ‘And they ate it all.’

We nodded happily and ordered more. For cocktails, I started with a Bloody Mary before moving on to a Passionfruit Mimosa and sticking there for the remainder of our three-hour gorge fest. Achiote-Hoisin Pork Arepas, Lobster-Chipotle Grits, Short Rib Hash. At some point we started to double up on our favorites. How does this place make any money? As I looked around, I realized our table had been there the longest by far, but still. In what world does a deal like this make money? I ate another arepa and swallowed the thought.

While we wiled away the time, we made grand plans: weekend trips, job opportunities, business ventures, college reunions, even an unexpected trip to Jordan in two weeks (can’t wait!), and before I knew it we were rushing to get back to the hotel to change for the wedding.

The wedding was a mixture of a Midsummer Night’s Dream and the Chronicles of Narnia. Set in a tree-filled greenhouse at the Meadowlark Botanical Gardens in Vienna, Virginia, there was a stream running through the middle and snow covering the lawn outside. The petals on the flowers, the ruffles on the dresses, even the wrinkles on happy relatives, all mixed and matched to perfectly accent the light hearts and free spirit of the couple. Gavin and I made eyes when we noticed similarities between their programs and ours, their ceremony and ours. We weren’t just reminiscing, we were reliving. We couldn’t help but smile. We spent the reception socializing with the family, dancing until we got sweaty, and enjoying hot chocolate instead of cake. What was it I’d said about cake earlier? I forget.

Places we loved on this adventure

Virtue Feed and Grain, 106 S. Union Street, Alexandria – With couches and private tables, this is the perfect place to go for a date, a gossip with a friend, or a private event. Have heard great things about the food, but I’m afraid my intake was limited to Pinot Noir. Middle of the Road.

Zengo, 781 Seventh Street NW, Washington – This bottomless brunch is not to be missed, and hurry, because I don’t know this can be sustainable for their business long term. Did I mention there’s also one in New York? Middle of the Road.



Since we have to start somewhere, we’ll start with a recent trip to Montréal and Mont Tremblant. I’ll paint the picture. It was Saturday morning in Montréal, and we’d just filled our bellies with another cheese-covered meal. Seriously, why doesn’t everyone in Quebec weigh at least four hundred pounds? Between the foie gras, cheese curds, and duck fat, my arteries barely made it out alive. Anyway, we were rested and full, ready to explore on our final day in the city. That morning, as we’d packed our bags for our evening flight home to New York, I relocated my passport from the bottom of my suitcase to my purse. I rubbed my belly, which began to grumble slightly from the influx of grease, and reminded Gavin to make sure he kept his passport on him.

‘Funny,’ he said with a smirk.

I squinted, trying to remember if he’d given me his passport at any point during the trip. He hadn’t.

‘You’re joking,’ he said more hesitantly, ‘right? You have it?’ He stared, searching my expression.

I wasn’t. I really wasn’t. Our pranking had gotten a little out of hand lately, but this unfortunately wasn’t one of those times. We hightailed it back to the hotel and pulled our luggage from storage, spreading it out in the hotel lobby, to the slight dismay of the concierge, who looked at us with a mixture of pity and annoyance. The damn passport had to be in there somewhere. I mean, it isn’t that small, it can’t just disappear? We looked everywhere, in our suitcases, our backpacks, inside our shoes, jackets, even those gross side pockets where dirty underpants accumulate. We pictured it lounging on the beach with a pina colada and an innocent ‘what me?’ smile composed of security stickers. Where had it gone?

After we’d searched all of our bags, panic started to set in, and Gavin let out something between a whimper and a sigh.

‘If this is a prank, now would be the time to tell me,’ he said half-heartedly.

‘I wish,’ I said, unable to meet his eyes. Why hadn’t I taken his passport? Kept his and mine together, let them intertwine their pages in holy paper matrimony.

At some point, we had to admit defeat. Two people, one passport. Married or not, I couldn’t think of a way the US Border Control would let that fly. Literally. I started to weigh my options. I still had my passport. I could go home, spend a few mildly uncomfortable nights alone while Gavin drowned in Molson and duck fat waiting for the US Consulate doors to unlock Monday morning. But I didn’t want to leave him. Hell, I didn’t want to go to work on Monday. We were a team, we would stick together like our passports had failed to do.

As a last resort, Gavin called the emergency US Consulate number. You know, the one you call when someone is kidnapped or arrested while abroad? And yes, technically Canada is still abroad.

Gavin gave the responder his name, social security number, and briefly explained the situation. Want to go home. No passport. The responder said he’d call back shortly and abruptly hung up. While we waited, we aimlessly tried to distract ourselves with a few rounds of ‘I can solve a game of Solitaire faster than you can.’

Thirty minutes later, the phone rang.

‘I’m sorry sir,’ a different voice said, much more kindly than the first. ‘There’s no way we’ll be able get you a new passport before your flight this evening. You’ll have to wait until the Consulate opens on Monday.’ He paused. ‘Or, you could drive,’ he mentioned offhandedly.

‘Drive?’ Gavin coughed. ‘We can drive across the border without a passport?’

The voice on the other line, Gary if I remember correctly, confirmed that was the case. As long as you had a driver’s license (and an angelic face, I surmised, thanking God Gavin had decided to shave a few days before and was more or less beard-free), you could cross the Canada-US border by car. Who knew? Gavin and I gave each other excited glances as the call wrapped up. I looked up car rentals on Kayak, and before we had re-packed and zipped our suitcases, we had a plan. A seven-hour plan, but a plan nonetheless.

After finding an acceptable US-bound car at the airport Avis and canceling our flights, we were roadward bound. It was dreary on the interstate, dirty snow on the shoulder and salt spray on the windshield. When we were five miles from the border, my palms started to get sticky. Gary had said it would work, but would it really work? At least if we were in Montréal, there were restaurants and bars and hotels. Here, all we could see was highway, trees and snow. Lots of snow.

As Gavin flicked the wipers to clear the salt from his line of sight, we heard a loud crack. The driver’s side wiper went flying into the roadside abyss, and I couldn’t help but laugh. Could we get across the border without a passport and a windshield wiper? We didn’t think it was likely. We turned off at the next exit to find a service station, and after a few turns, a few miles, and a helpful gas station cashier, we found a mechanic, who took a few minutes from working on a schoolbus to replace the wiper for a small fee. And with that we were back on our way. We cruised incident-free to the brightly lit border. The line was only a few cars long.

‘Be confident,’ I advised. ‘We’ll be fine.’

Gavin smiled half-heartedly and pulled up to the booth.

‘Hello,’ he said, passing over my passport and his New York state driver’s license to a uniformed guard that looked more park ranger than customs official. Gavin explained the situation and the mysterious disappearance of his passport. ‘I have the number though,’ he added, reciting the digits we’d found in an old gchat conversation.

‘How’d you manage that?’ the guard said in an impressed, midwest laden tone. He scanned my passport and clicked a few buttons on a screen we couldn’t see.

‘Can you describe your appearance in your passport photo?’ he asked, looking between the screen and Gavin.

‘I was fatter then,’ Gavin deadpanned, getting a small chuckle from the guard. Make him, laugh, I thought. Charm your way across the border.

‘What color shirt were you wearing?’ the guard prodded.

Does anyone remember what they’re wearing in their passport photo?

‘I really don’t know,’ Gavin said. ‘I could guess, but it would really be just that: a guess.’

‘Did the shirt have a collar?’ the guard continued.

I stifled a laugh. Was this guy serious? I had just looked at my passport photo and couldn’t have told you if I’d been naked.

‘I could guess,’ Gavin repeated. ‘But I could be wrong. I really don’t know. I’m sorry.’

‘What’s in the bag?’ the guard asked, pointing at a large snowboard bag propped against the window in the backseat.

Say something funny, Gavin, I silently begged. Otherwise, here comes the part where they search the car, pat us down, cart us off to a windowless room somewhere.

‘A snowboard,’ Gavin said. ‘We were in Mont Tremblant snowboarding.’

Not funny, but true. At least for Gavin. For my part, you could say I tried to snowboard. I’d taken one half-day lesson that ended in a bruised coxis and a bruised ego. And a not-so-latent jealousy for everyone that had mastered the sport.

The guard shrugged, handed back our documents and wished us luck. That was it? Really? Apparently, with none of the right answers, we’d still passed the test. We were officially back on US soil, headed for home, and I couldn’t have been more thankful.

‘We made it,’ I said, wiping my palms on my jeans. ‘Thank God.’

‘I’m surprised he didn’t check the snowboard bag,’ Gavin said. ‘It’s the perfect size for a body.’

‘Thanks for not mentioning that, Dexter,’ I said, pinching his cheek. ‘You must have an innocent-looking face.’

All of the nervousness that had built up over the course of the day subsided, and after a few hours of driving through the dark, dense forests of upstate New York, we began to get tired. I’d never been to Saratoga Springs, so Gavin suggested we find a cheap hotel and stay for the night. I figured we might as well continue the adventure and let off some steam. We could get back to reality in the morning.

After a nice meal and a few well-deserved beers at the coolest local bar I’d been to in a long time, we couldn’t stop laughing about the course our day had taken. We went to bed happy and carefree, with what I could only surmise would be another adventure in the morning.

Oh right, whatever happened to the missing passport, you say? About a week after we returned from our trip, a kindly housekeeper from our hotel in Mont Tremblant found it in the Lost and Found. Why it took so long to surface, we’ll never know…

Places we loved on this adventure:

Au Pied de Cochon, 536 Duluth Street East, Montréal – It might be a gluttonous meal, but not one you’re likely to forget. Amazing with a capital A. Try the Foie Gras Cromesquis (liquid foie gras deep-fried in duck fat), Foie Gras Poutine, and the Duck in a Can. You’re going to eat fatty while you’re in Quebec anyway, so it might as well be the best. Pricey.

L’Assommoir, 112 Rue Bernard Ouest, Montréal – We had a delicious lunch here, hiding out from the sub-zero temperatures and soul-chilling winds. I had a hearty meal of meatballs in a spicy tomato sauce, perfectly-cooked vegetables, and a hot toddy. We came back later that evening for drinks. The cocktail menu is not for the indecisive (there were 100+ choices), but the bartenders know what they’re doing, that’s for sure. Middle of the Road.

L’Orignal, 479 Rue Saint Alexis, Montréal – When you arrive, you feel like you’ve walked in a cheerful hunting lodge, if there is such a thing. The Bison Tartar and Rabbit Cavatelli fit in perfectly with the theme and my tastebuds. Pricey.

Auberge du Vieux-Port, 97 Rue de la Commune Est, Montréal – The perfect boutique hotel in the Old Port, make sure you reserve a room in the original part of the building. Antique furniture, large bathrooms with rain showers, views of the river, and breakfast included. All for $200 or thereabouts.

Creperie Catherine, 113 Chemin de Kandahar, Mont Tremblant – This is the place to get your fill on crepes. The place is small, so there is often a line, but it’s worth the wait. Savory crepes, sweet crepes, breakfast crepes. They have everything you could hope for in the crepe department. I tried both the Seafood Crepe and Catherine’s Special and was not disappointed, to say the very least. Easy on the Wallet.

Saratoga City Tavern, 9-21 Caroline St, Saratoga Springs – We stumbled into what I think is probably the best bar in town. Live music, 20+ taps, all with clean lines, and two open seats at the bar. The perfect end to another unexpected adventure. Easy on the Wallet.