When we turn 13 in our family, tradition dictates that you get to have a big birthday celebration- one you won’t ever forget. This momentous occasion may or may not include naked hippies.
The year my brother turned 13, my mom planned a trip to the bay. San Francisco is only 3.5 hours away from us, and we grew up visiting the eclectic Crazy Street People City quite a lot.
You must know that my mom is quite thrifty. Before Expedia or Trivago were even a wild idea, my mom obsessively scoured the discount travel brochures and books. Part of what made all of our travel adventures so memorable is due largely in part to my mom’s awesome motel finds in her travel books (I’m saving her best find for the last post in this series).
My mom swore she found the hidden gem of all hidden gems in the heart of the city.
So, Mom, Dad, Brother, Grandma, and I packed into the car and schlepped over the hill.
The motel was a gem, alright. It was not only located in the center of the city, but it was smack dab in the middle of the worst neighborhood, on the worst street and it was the worst motel on said street.
Because we are budget travelers through and through, we all slept in the same room-Grams and me in one bed, Dad and Brother in the other. My mom ordered a cot from the front desk, and slept with it right up against the door, because she was concerned the homeless man peeing right outside our room might try to come in to use an actual toilet.
Throughout the night, we were serenaded with the sounds of men moaning, shrill female laughter, and the sound of a cat dying… or mating. And, it all sounded like it was right outside our window.
It was sketchy with a capital how-did-we-not-get-bed-bugs.
In the morning, on our way to see Alcatraz, there was a woman going absolutely bat-shit-crazy on top of a guy’s car. Like, she was on all fours on the hood, screaming and pounding her fists into his windowshield. The poor guy looked like he had no idea what to do as he was just sitting in the driver’s seat with his mouth agape.
I would have just turned on my windshield wipers to try to wipe her off.
Ain’t nobody got time for that.
That same trip, we almost met our demise at the rest stop on top of the summit.
The entire weekend was stormy and rainy. As we headed back home, the rain was immense. We felt like Noah’s ark as we parted the waters on the highway home.
As we crested the summit over Donner Pass, it began to snow. Tradition dictates that we always stop at the rest stop on the top of the mountain.
Forget that it was dark, snowing, and the rest stop was seemingly empty, no, we had to stop-it was TRADITION (someone probably really had to go: MOM).
The vibe at the rest stop was bad. In hindsight, we should have just driven the hour more until home.
My mom walked my brother and me into the main area, out of the snow. From there, we went our separate ways to the restrooms.
As my mom was waiting, she noticed two shady-looking men in the shadows. What normal, pure of heart and mind kind of person just lurks around an empty, freezing rest stop in the middle of nowhere, late at night?
She said later that a ferocious chill went down her spine. Something just wasn’t right.
At this point, another vehicle pulls up, and my dad gets out of the car to retrieve something from the trunk.
As the lights from the car pulling up shine into the rest stop doorway, my mom glances over at the two men. From across the room, they give each other a “Not-this-one” look and they subtly shake their heads.
They then disappear.
She’s still convinced to this day that those two men were waiting around to do something bad. She thinks that they noticed that there were two other people in our car and then, when the other car pulled up, they figured whatever they had planned would not work on us.
We all majorly had the creepies the whole way home. The entire car was silent as we counted our blessings/reevaluated our direction in life/cursed whoever’s idea it was to stop at the rest stop (MOM’s).
That, kids, is why you don’t go into rest stops-especially at night! Shady people try to do shady things at rest stops. Always find yourself a Starbucks restroom. Or a tree. Anything is better than an “empty” rest stop in the dark of night.
When we finally arrived home, exhausted, but grateful to all be in one piece, my brother says, “Next year, on my 13th birthday, can we just stay at home and do our usual thing?”
MY MOM FORGOT HOW OLD HER ONLY SON WAS.
My mom felt pretty ridiculous having to admit that she miscalculated and thought he was turning 13, and thus, why he got such a big, super special Birthday.
I think the next year for his birthday we did just what he wanted, and we were all pretty grateful.
Tag: travel
Family Vacations: Road Trips
Sing it in an awfully-out-of-tune-voice with me now:
I’ve come back long ago
Long way down the Holiday Road
Holiday Road
Holiday Road
Holiday Road
Holiday Road…
I’ve been humming this song for days now, as I’ve been mentally preparing for this humdinger of a post.
The National Lampoon Vacation movies have always been a staple in our family home because somehow Chevy Chase and the gang got ahold of our vacation stories and made a movie about them.
Not really, and for legal purposes, I have to add that I’m joking.
But, for real, growing up, our family vacations were always very Vacation-esque ridiculous.
This is going to be a three-part series because I’m attempting to not write novels every time I post. So, for the next three days, you will be positively inundated with family vacation stories straight from own personal National Lampoon series.
So, care to take a ride? Make sure you pack a spare tire, some rat poison, and a life preserver because it’s going to be a wild ride.
Literally Every Road Trip
It didn’t matter where we were going whether it was a trip up the Oregon coast or a day trip to some backwoods swimming hole, it was guaranteed that we would have car/boat trouble. I can’t count how many sketchy BFE car repair shops I’ve miserably waited at, while one of our hoopties was getting patched together. I’ve probably been to more car repair shops than to actual landmarks.
I remember once, after days of packing and prepping for our 800-mile, two days of car hell up to our family’s lake cabin, we didn’t even make it five miles out of town before our vintage Winnebago pulled a big nope-I’m-not-going-fuck-you and we had to drive back home, defeated. I want to say we didn’t get to leave for real for almost a week.
One of my mom’s favorite family vacation horror stories is when she and my dad took my two cousins, my brother, and me to the Berlin-Ichthyosaur State Park in Austin, Nevada in our ever-trusty Winnebago. She said we were coasting along, everything was going grand, and then, out of nowhere, the engine cover blew off.
This all-important cover is what protects the engine and the inhabitants of the motorhome from the engine movements and the dust and debris from the road.
My mom said that the second the cover flew off, everyone in the motorhome was covered in a thick layer of dirt. All she could see were the whites of our freaked-out eyes.
For the entire rest of the drive to the park, she had to sit on the cover to keep it on. “It was only 80,000 million degrees hot. No big deal.” She said of her hot seat.
Another Winnebago adventure happened after my mom thought it would be a great idea to take the behemoth beast camping without my dad. She wanted to meet my aunt and uncle at some campground in the middle of nowhere. All I remember is that she buckled my brother and I together in the front seat, and she kept saying over and over how everything was going to go great.
Except, it was us and we were in the fucking Winnebago, so it didn’t go great.
Somehow, we got a giant rock stuck between the rear tandem wheels and she had to call my dad to come to rescue us. This was back in the early 90s, so I don’t know how she called him. Maybe they devised a bat signal, only it was a ‘bago signal and was a giant “W” in the sky.
My dad had to deflate a tire to get the rock out-all in the pitch black, in the middle of nowhere, in a freak torrential downpour.
I would think they’d have just given up while they were ahead at this point, but no.
Back when I was about eight or nine, we went on a week-long trip up the Oregon coast. While we were inching along an especially harrowing stretch of the road along the coast, my dad’s axle broke off the driver’s side tire. He was in our old truck, and it was carrying the weight of our 70s-era camper shell and 8 tons of Shasta soda. That was actually pretty scary to watch from the trailing vehicle (we could never just bring one vehicle or one immediate family. No, it was the entire extended family and every moving vehicle we owned. It was straight-up carnival caravanning).
What I remember most about that particular event was that while we were waiting for the axle to be repaired, I ate an entire can of pizza-flavored Pringles, and for the rest of the trip, I was shunned by the entire family for being such an unmannerly pig.
One summer, I think it might have been the same year as the Pringles Incident, we got majorly stranded out in our bay on Coeur d’Alene Lake in upstate Idaho.
Not only were we known for our hooptie cars, our boats weren’t much better. Actually, my Grandma’s Party Barge was brand new 30 years ago, and we’re still riding it, hoping the pontoons don’t fall off.
So, this particular summer we had a speedboat at the lake. I can’t remember now if it was my grandpa’s old boat or my uncle’s. Either way, it wasn’t working for some time and after some extensive repairs, my uncle thought he had it up and running. So, the entire family piled in, other than Grams, because she was the only smart one of the lot.
We got precisely halfway across the bay and the engine just died. No sputtering, just gone and died dead.
One second we were cheering, the wind was whipping through our hair as the boat jumped the wakes left behind by other boats, and the next, we are at a dead stop and the entirety of the boat’s passengers are silent. No one said it, but we all were thinking it: “Typical!”
We spend the next 10 minutes trying to flag down Grandma, who is just a blob of a figure, sitting on the deck of the cabin, we can barely make out. She does not notice us sitting in the middle of the bay, and if she does, she probably really enjoyed her afternoon of silence.
We end up finding an old splintery oar to row, row, row the boat painfully, slowly to the closest shore, which happened to be the one opposite of the cabin. We tie up at a forgotten dock, and trek it, on foot, back to the cabin. We had to go all the way around the bay, on the tiny road that barely had room for two cars, taking turns carrying my brother who, despite being told multiple times by our mother to put on shoes, did not put on his effing shoes. I’m pretty sure he came into contact with poison ivy that trip. Kinda serves him right, the dweeb.
We call it the “*Smith Curse”. It started many decades ago. If more than five family members assemble for a trip, the trip will go to shit. But, those are the only ones worth remembering.
The other night, as my mom and I were laugh-crying about these crazy memories, we hear my dad’s voice, from the TV room say, “Don’t mention that damn Winnebago!”
*Not our real family name
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WTF, Google?!
Last week, my boyfriend and I went on a quickie road trip up through Portland and on to Mount Saint Helens (I almost typed “Mount Rushmore”, and that’s where I said we went when the gas station attendant asked us where we were off to the morning we left. It’s a wonder I can even function).
Mount Saint Helens is an active stratovolcano located in Washington state, about 50 miles northeast of Portland (thanks, Wikipedia). It last erupted in 2008, but it’s most famous eruption was on May 18, 1980. Growing up, I heard stories of how the ash from the 1980 eruption found its way nearly 400 miles to the deck at my grandparent’s cabin on Coeur d’ Alene Lake in Idaho. My mother said the ash blocked out the sun and it looked like the end of days.
Since I always heard the stories of the eruption growing up, and I teach my students every year about the cause and effect of volcanos, it was decided that it would be our summer destination.
We left Reno around 7:30 AM, stopped in Klamath Falls for some Taco Time lunch and a Dutch Bros. coffee, and arrived in the Portland area around 5:30 PM. It was a long day of straight driving, but it was the start of our vacation, so there was no bloodshed yet.
We stayed with my aunt, who was gracious enough to host us. She had her pool ready and raring to go, so we definitely took advantage of that luxury. Our TBs (tired butts) were very grateful.
The next morning, we were up early and excited to see Mount Rush..Mount Saint Helens (See? There’s something wrong with my head).
We stopped at Tom’s Pancake House to fill up, as we planned on doing some hiking (to be honest, I was really hoping there’d be less hiking and more sitting in a scenic spot, eating the “hiking” snacks we packed). When I saw that Tom’s had an option to top your waffle with Oregon marionberries, it was an easy choice! I’m not really sure what a marionberry is, but since we don’t usually see them in Nevada, I had to try them.
When we got back into the car, we used Google to get the directions to the mountain.
Before we had left Reno, we did a small amount of research and knew that there was an observatory and plenty of hiking trails to choose from on and around the mountain (I liked the sound of the 1.5 mile one and the one that had no incline).
So, back to Google. Via maps, we were given the directions to Cougar, WA. So, we merrily made our way to where we’d hoped to find a spunky grandma who’d take a picture by the town sign.
After we wound our way through a quaint rural community, the road became very twisty and turny (yes, that’s a word) underneath a thick blanket of trees. We were climbing a mountain, just not the mountain we had come to see.
The landscape was not at all what I had expected. We also saw not one sign indicating we were headed toward the mountain, an information center, or the observatory. In fact, there were some signs, but they were stangely covered up.
Eventually, we made our way to the first hiking spot. We were hoping there would be further information at the trail head that would help us glean where the heck we were. But, no such luck.
Also, the hike was an eight-miler, so that was a no-go.
We got back into the car and continued up the mountain. Not long after, we got sight of Mt. Saint Helens and it was glorious, but, worryingly, still pretty far away.
While we were admiring the volcano with our 10x magnifying binoculars, a friendly German couple came up to talk to us.
They remarked on the beauty of it all, and we asked them if they were headed to the observatory. The woman said the road to the observatory was closed due to a late winter.
(The jury is still out on that).
We felt pretty defeated and downright lost, as we had zero service on our phones and no paper maps to help guide our way.
We decided to get back into the car and continue further. Almost at the very end of the road was another spot to hike. We decided it would have to work.
I’m sure by now you’re realizing that we were lost or just completely mixed up. Well, right you are!
It wasn’t until we headed back down the mountain and to Ape Cave did we come across an information kiosk/gift shop where people with factual information could be found.
When I asked how we could get to the observatory, the young man working the gift shop said it was some three hours away, but we could still make it, as they didn’t close until six.
Three hours away.
We were on the complete opposite side of the mountain.
We had spent our entire day, dedicated to seeing Mount Saint Helens, like total dopes on the wrong side of the mountain.
So, how did two college-educated individuals mess up so royally?
It’s all Google’s fault. Yes, just like a tattletale seven-year-old, I’m blaming it on someone/something else.
When you Google, “Johnston Ridge Observatory”, Google has you go to Cougar, WA.
Notice how, in the first website under the egregious misinformation, it says, “Toutle, WA”? Yeah, that’s (closer to) where the observatory is.
Our trip wasn’t all in vain, however. The hike we took was through utterly stunning terrain (honestly, I think it was way prettier on the wrong side of the mountain). We also went in Ape Cave, and I crossed a suspension bride just like the one in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. It was just like that one (don’t listen to my boyfriend. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about).
We decided against driving another three hours (one way) to see the observatory, so we drove back into downtown Portland for some sightseeing.
We hit up the world-renowned Voodoo Donut and the Deschutes Brewery.
Donuts and beer totally made up for not getting to the observatory.
So, kids, learn from Aunt Fatty. Do not rely on Google, it’s not all-knowing. Go to the actual website for the location/landmark/attraction you are going to visit. Do some damn research before you go, and don’t rely on your phone for everything-you might not have service where you’re going!
Know before you go:
Johnston Ridge Observatory, last stop on HWY 504, 52 miles from Castle Rock. NOT in Cougar, WA.
Source
References:
Wikipedia
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WTF Wednesdays: Travel Tag Edition
The lovely An Historian About Town nominated me for the travel tag. I was so excited to be nominated, because I love to travel and I love An Historian. Not only are her posts well-written, interesting, and positively filled with gorgeous photos of beautiful places and things, the girl behind it all is just fabulous. Go check out her blog-you’ll love it!
Now, without further ado, my responses to some fun travel-themed questions:
What is your favorite place that you have visited?
Hands down, the U.K. and Ireland. My trip was seven freaking years ago, but I still think about it everyday, and I have tried to get back to the U.K. on several different occasions.
I also loved NYC and have always dreamed of living it up a la every.single.chick.flick in all creation, as a Big Apple girl.
(All of my NYC pics are stored away on my external hard drive. Sad face.)
Large cities, with tons of energy and culture, are definitely my favorite places to visit, but I loved being in the middle of nowhere, amidst rolling green hills in England. I also adored driving through the otherworldly terrain of the Scottish Highlands, and even though the road to Dingle, Ireland is crap-your-pants scary, the beauty of the Dingle Peninsula is unmatched.
If you could visit anywhere tomorrow where would you go?
100% the U.K.! But, I mean, if someone wanted to take me to Japan or Italy or Brazil, I’d not argue one bit. *spastic winking*
Would you rather go on a city holiday or a beach holiday?
I’m such a city girl-the energy, the eclectic culture, the myriad languages, the food, the history… Also, I’m not a huge fan of sunburnt fat that turns into one big, ugly rash, because too much of my skin was exposed and rubbing together. Give me chilly weather, layered clothing, a coffee, and a walking trip around an historic city ANY DAY.
Buuuut, I won’t say ‘no’ to a beach holiday!
My top three travel essentials are:
- Obviously, my phone/camera is my number one travel must have. The best souvenirs I’ve ever gotten on a trip are the insane amount of pictures of every noteworthy (and, not so noteworthy-I have been known to photograph a random bench or ugly pigeon, because it’s a foreign bench and a foreign pigeon) sight and experience.
- Hand sanitizer, wet wipes, and a travel-size hand soap are essential. I’ve never traveled somewhere exotic enough to encounter squatty potties or lack of running water, but you just never know what kind of facilities or amenities a restroom will have. Also, the very first hostel I ever stayed at did not provide hand soap or even paper towels. You just never know what horrors you’ll encounter. You.never.know.
- A versatile scarf and a pair of Wayfarers. I know these sound like lame “essentials”, but when I’m feeling ugly as hell on the 6th day of crap hair, because my flat iron refuses to work with the expensive adapter I bought, a scarf makes me feel a little more put together.
Can you even tell my hair is greasy and I’m wearing zero makeup? See what I mean?
Are you an over packer or an under packer?
Literally, I used to bring three full suitcases for a weekend trip back home when I lived in Elko. The pressure that exists when you have to decide what you want to wear before the day(s) in question is just too much. I can’t even. Also, sometimes my favorite piece of clothing looks hideous on me for various reasons. You just never know.
Before the trip I took to the U.K., I obsessively researched light packing tips and practiced packing the one bag I took. It was a real trial, and it took a huge leap of faith to know I’d survive if I wore the same jeans two days in a row.
So, I lied. I took three bags…
What is your favorite thing about going on vacations?
When I’m on vacation, I feel whole. It’s an indescribable feeling of just being. When you’re on vacation, you get to live a life that would exist if daily stressors, like bills and other lame adult responsibilities didn’t exist.
Would you rather go on vacation with family or friends?
Yeesh.
Either choice has its share of positives and negatives. Traveling with family means that there’s a pretty good chance your mom might pay for some of the travel expenses. There’s also a fairly good chance she might forget you’re a grown adult and remind you to thank “the nice travel guide”. Or, she might feel the need to chastise you about your frivolous waste of money on name brand deodorant.
Traveling with friends has its benefits in that your friends are usually more in tune with your level of fun. That might mean an adventurous competition to see how many museums at the Smithsonian you can visit in one day.
This was the day after our Smithsonian challenge. Someone had a museum hangover #8thgradeugly.
Or, maybe, that means buying every kind of foreign candy in the convenience store and then going back to your hotel room to see who can get diabetes first.
Whether traveling with a friend or family member, just drink. Their mouth breathing won’t matter near as much.
Either way, memories are made and that’s all that matters. Right?
What is the most adventurous dish you have ever tried from another country?
Abso-freaking-lutely that would be haggis with ‘neeps and ‘tatties that my friend and her Scottish husband made for us while we stayed with them in Edinburgh.
It was actually amazingly delicious. No shit, I crave that dish on the regular.
My amazing Scottish friends!
I’d like to nominate the following bloggers (please don’t feel obligated to participate):
The Wandering Flamingo
This girl is an amazing photographer, writer and blogger friend. She also lives in my favorite country, so I always feel I get to live vicariously through her photos and posts. Also, she is an avid traveler, so I’d love to know more about her envy-worthy travels. Please go check out her blog and beautiful photography-you won’t be disappointed!
A Walk and a Lark
Here’s another blogger bud who lives in one of my favorite cities-London! She’s become an amazing blogging supporter and friend, and I simply adore reading her blog! She is well-traveled, so I’d love the inside scoop on some of her favorite places! Check out Josy’s blog! I promise you’ll love it and her!
All Thoughts Work
This chick cracks me up. Every time I get a comment from her, I know I’ll end up practically peeing myself from laughter. I’ve gleaned that she’s an avid outdoors-woman and talented writer, but that’s all I know. I need to know more! Head on over to the funny lady’s blog-you won’t regret it!
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Monday Musings
I’ve been feeling like I should be in England lately. I didn’t realize until just the other day that it’s been almost a year since I was offered a teaching position in England, and, after a really difficult decision-making process, declined the offer.
I know, who decides against living abroad after being offered gainful employment? I know, right?
I really struggled for some time after having made my final decision (I’m still struggling). I wondered how much of my choice was driven by my inate second-guessing, worry-wart, scared-to-jump mentality or legit financial concerns.
I’m a huge fan of those girl-has-devastating-break-up-and-career-let-down-at-the-same-time-so-she-hops-on-a-plane-to-her-dream-get-away-locale-and-despite-having-eight-dollars-and-thirty-cents-and-no-change-of-underwear-she-somehow-lands-a-job-apartment-and-dreamy-new-man-chick-lit-books, because, duh.
Isn’t that every girl’s dream-to move abroad on a whim and it’s just like in the Lindsey Kelk books?
I’d like to hear of a real life situation where this scenario works out, because I had $800 in my pocket and I knew that would only get me as far as Toronto.
When I first started seriously considering working on obtaining a teaching position in England, I didn’t think it would be so easy. Or quick. I figured it’d take a few dozen tries, I’d have time to really mull over legit moving to another country, and that I’d have plenty of time to save and get my finances in order.
I was so mistaken. One minute I was dreamily planning how I’d decorate my make-believe tiny flat with decor from TK Maxx and the next I was using Skype for the first time, going over classroom management with a head teacher in Oxford (this was the first of two interviews I had. I didn’t end up getting the teaching position in Oxford).
Let me just break it all down for you in an easy-to-read timeline:
4/17/16: Applied for Qualified Teacher Status (QTS)
5/3/16: Application for QTS was approved, received login to view/print certificate
5/6/16: Emailed application to Stanwell Fields CE Primary School, among others
5/9/16: Received email response from Stanwell Fields Business Support requesting I fill out application
5/13/16: Received email from headteacher inquiring about availability for phone interview
5/19/16: Phone interview with assistant headteacher
5/23/16: Received voicemail from headteacher offering the job (I was too scared to pick up. What a noob)
So, in a little over a month, I had gained the necessary qualification to teach in England, interviewed at two schools, and was offered a position.
Just typing this now, I’m feeling the excited, heady warmth in my stomach one gets when exciting things are on the horizon.
It was all fun and games until shit got really real.
Just in case the headteacher at Stanwell Fields ever reads this (though it’s highly unlikely), I’d like to make it clear that I was genuinely serious about teaching abroad. That is, until I realized I was crazy to think I’d ever be able to afford it.
I had naively assumed that since England was in need of teachers, they would possibly offer a sign on bonus, much like many districts do in the U.S. when they have a teacher shortage. Or, they would assist with getting a visa.
Nope.
Schools aren’t profit-driven, and the sad reality is that many are in desperate need of teachers, but have no extra funds to entice educators to move countries.
Not that I needed enticing. No, I just had no money and thought I could move my life abroad with $800 and my already-reaching-the-limit credit cards.
So, after researching the cost of a work visa (roughly $800, currently) and the cost to rent a one bedroom flat in the south of England (around $1000 a month), I realized I was in over my head.
Despite the fact that the school offered me an extremely nice pay raise, the cost of living in south England, coupled with my current bills, that would be traveling with me, made it so I simply could not afford to live.
Not only would I need enough money to live once settled, I’d need at least $800 for a one way ticket to London, money for a hotel or hostel once in England, a deposit for a flat, and funds for many other travel and moving expenses.
My mom and I estimated that I’d need at least $3000 to move and get settled (and it always ends up being more costly than you calculate beforehand).
Did I mention I had $800 in my savings? I’m amazing at adulting.
It was really depressing. Really, really dismaying, and not at all like my favorite chick lit books.
These were some of my biggest concerns:
- The cost of living in the area was too high (I’d be paying triple what I was currently paying in rent)
- Many available flats were unfurnished-I’d need to buy furniture (at minimum, a bed)
- Despite the pay raise, due to certain taxes in the U.K., the pay would be roughly the same or less than my current pay, yet cost of living tripled
- I’d be too strapped for cash to travel (travelling to other parts of Europe was a big reason I desired to live abroad)
- It would have been necessary to drain my savings and rack up further debt for moving expenses (I was already in a significant amount of debt to begin with)
- I would have needed to sell my car after having it less than a year (if I couldn’t sell it, it would have been another expense I couldn’t afford)
- I’d barely make enough to save for a plane ticket back home, had that been necessary or desired
- I’d have zero teaching supplies and shipping them over would have been too pricey
Regardless of the fact that I had very real financial concerns, I still feel like I let an amazing opportunity go. It didn’t help that I had so many people telling me that debt didn’t matter. YOLO and all that crap.
Big decisions and I have never been friends. Usually, when faced with a big, life-altering decision, I just bury my head in red sand and fail to make a decision, if at all possible.
I’m a master of the what-if discourse. I can go all day and go circles around anyone.
Yet, deep down, I know I made the right decision for me and my present financial situation.
I also know that I’ll never stop dreaming of England and doing what must be done to make it back.
For real though, how do most people move abroad? Are you in a better paying field than me or did your company pay for your move? Did you get a huge inheritance? Are you just in massive debt due to the move? Do you know some magic trick to making fast travel cash? If anyone who’s done it cares to spill the beans, I’m all ears!
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Flashback Friday-Nostalgia and Longing
Ya’ll, I wish, from the very depths of my soul, that I could be a travel blogger. Why hasn’t someone super rich and stupid with their money hired me to travel and write up hilarious travel snafus? Why?
Not only do I long to travel more, I wish to go back to where I left my bleeding heart-London Town.
I went on my last, serious trip seven years ago. Seven.years.ago.
This is unacceptable.
Seven years ago was the last time I was in England, and a little bit of my soul dies every day more. My ultimate fear in this life is never getting a chance to get back there again.
As I type (tap on my asshole phone that still thinks, after all this time, that I mean “duck”), my heart is literally aching and my stomach is in knots.
It feels like homesickness.
I miss where my heart belongs.
Ya know?
#fbf to when I was living it up in London (This is also a flashback to when I thought I was fat-I wish I could be that fat again).
I had some super sweet photography skills seven years ago. I’m glad I was able to travel all the way to England to capture this dude’s chops so well.
#awkwardtouristphoto
Those T-Rex arms, though.
Fucking Nandos. Dammit, I miss you.
I had just eaten a hot crossed bun. Baked goods create a certain glow about me.
Impossibly quaint.
I can still feel that cool, curry-scented breeze (it was a nice change of scent from the hotel room’s eau de funk).
Le sigh
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History and Gold Mining Towns and Ghosts, Oh My!
We all know that I was my usual fatty over the week-long break I had recently. What ya’ll maybe don’t realize is that I don’t just eat all of the time (although, I do get my eat on a lot). I love to explore, travel, and experience. Without venturing too far from home, one can discover hidden gems, history, and fun times.
I have lived in Nevada my whole life, and not once had I ever been to Genoa. Even crazier, for this history lover (lover, not buff–I’m terrible at history), I didn’t know that it was the first settlement in Nevada. It was established in 1851, and it houses the oldest saloon in Nevada. This was not surprising, as Nevadans have always loved their booze.
Since discovering Genoa, I’ve been twice. It’s a super cute place, dripping in history, and it’s only about an hour from Reno. The Pink House is a must do. The pulled pork sandwich, s’mores skillet and apple and pear crisp from my Food Baby Part 2 post came from The Pink House.
Another place I went to over break is Virginia City. I’ve been to VC approximately a billion times. It can be very touristy, but if you’re in the know, you can find some amazing things to do that doesn’t involve buying overpriced junky knickknacks. Some of these include The Steampunk Ball; World Championship Outhouse Races; saloon crawls; ghost tours and investigations; and the Camel Races.
There’s just something about Virginia City. Maybe it’s the spirits, always on the prowl, the fact that I’ve always enjoyed my time there, or that the history is so thick you could cut it with a knife. Either way, if you’re ever in the Reno-Tahoe-Carson area, VC is a must.
I’m hoping to join a ghost investigation soon. Be on the lookout for a post about Fatty Cake scaring the literal crap out of herself…#pooppants #boopoo
Because I mentioned the Steampunk Ball, I thought I’d share some of my different looks I’ve had for the event over the years.
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Porta-Poop Revisited
This past weekend, a good friend and I went to the Genoa Candy Dance. I had assumed that people would be dancing and throwing candy around. I mean, isn’t that what it sounds like it would be?? To my dismay, the Candy Dance was just a bunch of over-priced vendors and food trucks (apparently there is a dinner and dance event in the evening). The food truck part was, however, much appreciated. What I did really like about this event was that it was held in Nevada’s oldest town/settlement. For a history lover, it is a real damn shame that I had never been to Genoa before. I fully plan on visiting again sans tons of people pushing to get to a stall selling crocheted rabbits.
Continue reading “Porta-Poop Revisited”
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My London
I have been reading so many travel blogs lately. I am such as masochist, because doing so only makes me long, deep inside, to be traveling. Since my last big trip was the one I took to the U.K. and Ireland, now five years ago, it is what I obsessively refer to when I talk about my “travels”. The only thing I really want in this life is to experience new places, people, culture, and rich experiences. Since my bank account prohibits any such fanciful dreams, I can only live vicariously through my own memories.
I am re-blogging a post I did years ago on my old site. It is about why I loved London so much. Enjoy!
Continue reading “My London”
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U.K. or (Literally) Bust
Friends, I hardly ever ask for help. OK, that is a boldfaced lie. I ask for it all the time in the form of comments over at Shopper Lottie. However, this is different. For some time (like, 10 years), I have wanted to move abroad (get in line, sister). I have always had a crazy love affair with the U.K. and since visiting way back in 2010, I have never been able to forget about my one, true love.
For those who don’t know, I am at teacher in the U.S. I teach 3rd grade. I would love to be able to do something similar somewhere, anywhere in the U.K. I have friends in Scotland, so that would probably be preferable. I have heard that the education system is really very different when comparing England with Scotland, so one may be possible and the other out of my reach. I really don’t know.
I have contacted a couple of agencies, but the wait to hear a response is making me certifiably insane. I am not even sure they are legit or the correct way to go about this. HELP.
Long story short, can someone familiar with these parts give me any information they have that could help me in my endeavor? Even better, does anyone have connections that would better enable me to have even the slightest chance to attempt to live one of my dreams?
My loving thanks in advance.
