baja at 29

Nearly one year ago, on my golden birthday, I woke up to the Pacific Ocean. I was taken aback by how familiar that body of water has become. My 19-year-old self would've been astounded to know I'd been in Los Angeles for nearly three years at that point. An hour or so later, we drove to the border. I was unreasonably hungry (because we never do grow out of some ways of being) and nervous–what with my last name and the current President. The passport exchange was somehow more painless than previous drives from Canada; we found roadside churros also. Back in California, I turned my cell on to a cascade of happy 29th wishes via texts and voicemails. After a refreshing three day weekend in Mexico, I truly was. Happy, that is.

Happiness hasn't been something that's come easily in my twenties. I'm too learnedly cautious, or, as some may say, cynical. Whereas I desire an incredible amount from the world, I expect very little. I think that's why I've ended up inhabiting four cities in the past ten years. Submitting to one place requires a a reckoning with mundanity I've been far too intimidated to take on. And there's pressure in the choosing. And that's before considering the people that will matter there, the vulnerable investment true bonds require...

Clearly I'm still fearful. But I've also been ruminating over something my mom once said, about how 34 was her favorite because it was the age she fully embraced who she was and felt wholly satisfied with life she was creating. Even then I found the concept so beautiful. Now, I dually appreciate the courage that made it true. Living that sentiment might be what I'm most looking forward to. (For the record, I also intend to refute the claim that time's running out to visit these destinations. Are you kidding me.)

When he'd asked what I wanted to do for my birthday, I thought back to my 28th. I fondly remembered that Mexico has a wine country. We stayed by the water and dined in courses amongst the vines and made time for horseback riding, and ocean-front reading, and margaritas after a farm animal meet n' greet. We tasted a delectable array of smoky, sophisticated wines. It was such a privilege to satisfy so luxuriously; magical even. Here's to accepting more of that into this wild and precious life. Next month: 30, (Paris, Greece!).

wilde zwijnen

After my 2009 pre-orientation visit, I didn't expect to return to Amsterdam. Of course I'd enjoyed the charming city, and I'd been introduced to Indonesian cuisine there— as well as polarizing populism: we studied the tensions following Theo Van Gogh's murder by Mohammed Bouyeri, a Dutch, Moroccan, and Muslim man—but I wasn't exactly hooked. Then, Lorelei was hired to work in the Hague and Jorgie was accepted to a Master's program at the University of Amsterdam. Last November 19th, I returned to the Dutch capital for the third time (via a train from Paris) to reunite with my brother and best friends. Rachael had flown in from London.

From Centraal Station, Rachael, Lorelei, and I ventured to Brouwerij't for a beer before our dinner reservations at Wilde Zwijnen, where we then opted for the chef's tasting menu and sparkling apéritifs. By the time Jorgie came to meet us, we were a few glasses of wine in, giddy in our catch-up. We'd already fully debriefed on the then-recent election results. For a night, all felt right in the world.

And it really was, because there's something to be said about being thoroughly cozy and well-nourished, surrounded by those with whom you can freely express ridicule of impending new rules and the elimination of others while also admitting cynicism towards infinite Bey-worship... we're all equally human, no? (I suppose the question itself suggests some of us do "opt for enlightenment".)

sunday in temecula

I've lived in the state of California for more than two years. Two. Years. + How did this happen? Why?! The simple answer, of course, is that I took a serendipitous job opportunity and refused to let it be a mistake. The reality is infinitely more complicated than that.

Nevertheless I've come to fully appreciate this place founded by pioneers and dreamers and those who couldn't quite fit into the communities they were born to. L.A. itself is a haphazard assortment of creative ideals. SF is SF. And I might finally be thriving.

I ventured to La Jolla for work in early August—an appropriate memory to recall on a Labor Day weekend, no? I was instantly and unexpectedly charmed by San Diego's wild beauty and laid back reclusion. The event itself ran smoothly. And the day following, driving back with a colleague, I noticed signs for Temecula; a city I recognized from my recreational study of California wine regions. I suggested a tasting. We lounged for hours at Mount Palomar Winery. I was so pleased with my spontaneity and the Golden State.

If life in Los Angeles, CA seems painfully far from the people and things that matter most to me... it is, somewhat. And yet there are phone calls, and plane travel, and weekend visits, and afternoons (like this one) that bring every place I've ever loved within reach.

a new year

We're twelve days into 2016... and I could not be more thrilled about the fresh start and clean slate. Sure, I've often been wary of NYE pressures and those gosh darn resolutions, but as the clock struck twelve on January 1st, I only felt joy and relief. I hugged Lorelei. She, AJ, and I toasted to "another chance to get it right". And the goodness that has followed has me laughably hopeful for what's to come. And yet, at this moment in time, in honor of my recent return to Los Angeles and Marie's upcoming visit, I'm inclined to look back to the beginning of the school year (which I will never ever stop recognizing as such) when Leslie was in town,

{Brunch at République}

{Visit to the Getty Center}

{Hike to the Griffith Observatory, and this view of DTLA that followed}

{Tacos at Guisados}

{Thrift & vintage shopping in Mar Vista & Los Feliz}

{Wining & dining at Eveleigh}

{Drinks at Far Bar--for Kerri's birthday!}

As jet-lagged and out of sorts as I was then, I reveled in the opportunity to introduce my New York-friend to the "pockets of magic" I've found in L.A. The forecast is looking very bright for more hosting and discovering in 2016, too--that's your cue to come visit :)

être dans son assiette

The weekend before last, I went home to New York. It was my first "just because" visit, a getaway simply planned in order to fully enjoy family, friends, and fall. And it was delightful, truly. For the first time in a long time, I appreciated everything about my hometown. I also got along with my parents better than ever have, which I can only account to a culmination of maturity and therapy. Le sigh.

And this is all relevant because visiting Paris was not dissimilar. I saw the city with new eyes and found myself deeply moved by the company of those who'd supported, mentored, and cared for me there. In one of the rare afternoons I spent alone, I retraced familiar steps with a heightened consciousness, attempting to experience my new self in the "same old". Talk about romanticizing saudade...

During those hours à moi même, I luxuriated in the specialness that is intimately knowing a place so superficially celebrated; easily recognized, but less often known. What a privilege and a mindf*** to feel at home in New York, Paris, Los Angeles.

But back to Paris for now. That evening, after the MAM, I reconvened with Lorelei and Rachael at a new-to-us cave à vins in the 12th arrondissement. We replayed our hours (and months) apart with the pleasure that is wine, beer... and a cheese plate. Quelle horreur ! Because, how defiantly American of us to have cheese as an appetizer. I'll admit it was my idea,  and it was perfect.

Three hours later, I sat at table with four desserts and an empty bottle of red wine. Mes parents françaises had come into Paris to dine with me--bringing my gratitude to a dangerous high. Patrick leaned over to ask how I was really doing in L.A. "I'm good, better," I responded, nearly brought to tears by his unwavering kindness. After everything since I'd last seen him, I was liberated by that truth.

bonne journée

The last time I spent a day in Paris with absolutely nothing to do but enjoy, it was 2008. Seven years later I found myself with the same great fortune, with knowledge of the city's geography and the company of best friends. 'Twas so much more than "a good day".

{A croissant from Du Pain et Des Idées & coffee from Ten Belles on the Canal}

{"Elle s'appelait Jackie" and a brasserie lunch}

{Meandering through the old neighborhood}

{Happy hour at Cafe de l'Industrie}

{Dinner at Au Passage with Rachael & Lorelei}

{Red House nightcaps}

As you may have gathered from the lack of text above, there are few words to describe this day. It was coming home to people who love you for you and receiving a hug from the strange, beautiful place you've been forever molded by and that sigh. We ate and drank well, but it was the ease with which we wandered that I savored most. (Insert all the warm, fuzzy feelings and exuberant inspiration here). And so, I cried that night in Paris' warm embrace; one of those tipsy "let it all out" kind of cries, because life is more than pretty pictures with the most perfect light (that Paname has so gracefully mastered). Man, oh man... how I'd missed that light.