Snap Judgement

I walked briskly but only as fast as my blister-ridden heels would allow. It was a peaceful tree-lined street in a quieter part of the city. It would have been still--serene even--had it not been for the couple picking up speed and volume behind.

"...I heard he's got a wine cellar in his basement. He's got a tasting room just for whites, and one for reds," he said.
Though I couldn't see his face, I could picture his wide eyes, and the way his hands were probably motioning wildly to aid in grandeur. I pictured him eager, begging almost, for an incredulous response. He paused too quickly, and when none came, he continued, "he's got like seven kids but leaves his wife at home. He's never, ever there. He's always jet-setting to his other homes but never takes his wife with him and never spends time with his kids. Never sits in his tasting rooms."

How do you know? I thought to myself, annoyed that they were walking fast enough to pass me, but just slow enough to coast behind my heel's noble sidewalk efforts.

She responded then with a "how do you know?" 

And I could have tripped. I congratulated her in my mind, wishing so badly I could turn to see her expression, blank, testing, and terribly underwhelmed.

I decided it was a first date. No, a fifth date and things have gone stale. She finds his incessant talking a bit annoying and she can't help but notice he doesn't ask much about her  life and she wonders why she never noticed before. He is a nervous talker. He wants so badly to impress her. He fears silence and fills it whenever possible. He loves what he has to say.

So I'm not surprised when he doesn't answer her question. He swiftly poses a series of new ones. "I mean can you imagine being that rich? How do you afford to send seven kids to college? Heck, I wouldn't even send my kids to college if I were that rich. You have everything you need anyways."

I near audibly scoffed. What an ignorant thing to say! I had faith she would scoff for me. And when she didn't, I held my breath...

And was disappointed when she giggled.

At that moment I had reached my destination, but not before turning the corner and throwing a glance their way. 

I had it all wrong. She was hanging on his arm and his every word. And for as far as I could see, he continued to talk and I wondered if she would ever get bored of that. If she wakes up one day and realizes five dates turned to fifty and she's never so much as uttered a word of what she wants. But who am I to say? How do I know? For this was but a minute on a sidewalk, and perhaps not an accurate portrayal of their relationship at all.

And as I saw them walking away, they had the uncanny resemblance to a wealthy couple with seven kids and two tasting rooms. Or at least they stood in their company so perfectly bruised by the snap judgement.

The Place Where Dreams Go To Die (a drama)

In The Place Where Dreams Go To Die your life continues as it should, though out of tune and askew. Alone in a waltz, bearing it all with no music. Words sound unfamiliar on your own tongue and you utter banal phrases to people in which you care not to hear their response. You feel the greyness first as it seeps deep inside the cracks of your conscious. Glimpses of it start to present themselves on the surface and in your face. You cease to act and instead go through the motions of life--the same uninspired choreography, day after day.

You can't remember when or why you stopped wearing pink lipstick.

Perhaps because the people in The Place Where Dreams Go To Die had labels for things like pink lipstick and you wanted to resist being put in a box. So in becoming less of yourself, it became you had less to offer.

And you trapped yourself into thinking these people cared less. That you were misunderstood. That your passions were buried deep and out of reach. And you realize you put yourself in a box and you are drowning in the apathy of it all. You need a jolt, a life boat, anything to revitalize the greyness in your skin and the silence in your heart.

Action takes but one first step. Repetition required, the cadence is awkward but soon you're running, jogging, dancing. You hit your stride somewhere along aisle six. You can't decide between Unapologetic and Orchid Ecstasy so you buy them both with shed insecurities. You exit through a revolving door, leaving The Place Where Dreams Go To Die in pursuit of a rosier life you ought not miss.

just a thought.

When you hear an old song you haven't heard or seen or even thought about for tens of years and then it comes into your life by some funny random act of happenstance and you find yourself tapping your foot and smiling pleasantly and it's like the words inherently go to your tongue like they've always been there, at the ready, hoping you'd sing them one more time. 

It was kind of like him. 

And you add it to your list, and him to your life, and you hope to never again overlook the existence of a harmony so engrained. 

Growing and changing and moving and buying a t-shirt that fits.

On the verge of nervous breakdown. I sat here for hours staring at the ceiling. Fighting with unproductive thoughts of being productive.  I know I fear change. I know this about myself. I know that en route to a new school—the public kind, age 12, I distracted myself with new clothes when what I longed for was pleated skirts and knee socks and a much smaller, more familiar pond. I know that my anxiety-ridden soul cried every morning in the car and my mom would pray prayers to calm me down. I know that despite the test of time and puberty, I am still that tiny soul wearing manufactured confidence like new shoes in scared feet. 

12 years later and still a toe-dipper rather than a cannon ball.  Easing away from Cincinnati and into Chicago. I’ll miss the comforts of this pond. I’ll miss the way I felt here and now. I’ll miss the hilltop. The lookout points I’d wander to, sometimes out-of-breath and aimlessly, while other times with focused purpose.

I’ll miss the conversations that formed my grown self. I’ll miss even more, the people that inspired those conversations. I’ll miss waking up on my third floor tree-house room, staring out the window at the sunrise/set and wishing I could, but knowing I can’t, bottle the moment and hold onto it forever.

I’ll miss people I don’t even know. Like the beautiful white haired lady at church, who smiles a knowing smile. Like in just some passing or shaking of hands, she could gaze and know better than I, the things on my heart.

I’ll miss wine. And how it matched the walls that held no artwork. Just red. I’ll miss this being the backdrop of my adventures; the host to shared laughs, and meals, and meatballs. I’ll miss sillier things than meatballs. Like the stupid frozen pipes—which brought us maintenance mike and frozen floors and stacks of dishes that yielded McDonalds breakfasts.

I’ll miss the days of unemployment—really, I will. I hope I’ll never forget that frantic scramble coupled with hope. I hope I’ll remain thankful for that—knowing that it shattered me and scared me and shook me silly. Knowing that it inspired oil changes and deeper questions and new opportunities. And it made me fight to stay afloat, rather than obediently drift in a stream’s narrowly projected course.

I’ll miss who I am here. Not that moving cities changes you, but it upsets the equilibrium a bit. It jogs a cadence that was familiar and comfortable. But change is not supposed to be comfortable. Neither is growing. It’s like wearing a too-small t-shirt. Maybe it was once your favorite t-shirt. You looked good in it. It was cozy and hugged you in all the right places. Exercising different wants and needs grew you from that t-shirt though. And it feels a little too snug. It feels constricting. You wonder if you need a new t-shirt.

And when you finally get that new t-shirt, it’s going to feel really different. You hope people like your new t-shirt. You hope it’s not an itchy one. Or one that easily snags and tears. You realize this new t-shirt is slightly more expensive and requires a little more maintenance. You wonder if you can keep up with the needs of this new t-shirt. If you can pull it off. 

And the only way to know is to shed that too-tight layer. And slip on the new one. And the transition between shirts and cities, I imagine, is how one should feel mid-air of a cannonball.

Here’s to the toe-dippers going out on limbs. To trying things that scare you.  To making a splash. Buying a new shirt. Because it doesn’t have to be scary. It can be fun and exciting too.

Chicago here I come.

The Writer

Humble was his craft—a journalist I think
But his name led on much more—a genius on the brink!
Fitzgerald they call him, oh could it really be?
That I am in the presence of a high society?

His rhythmic pentameter was all but a stammer.
His grammar, such glamour, which added to my enamor.
He wooed with his words, but in a shy sort of way…
Not used to divulging in speech so they say.

He captured my attention with every word he dare mention,
Each one its own melody, with care and perfection.
We bantered, we joked, the discourse was savvy.
He escorted me home, the kiss shared not shabby…

My mind still a whirling of whiskey and delight…
He asked for my number, wish I may wish I might…
Receive a text the next morning
Drenched with wit, and adoring.

For it’s hard to find those who know the lost art
Of punctuation and prose, oh be still my heart!
So I fall asleep with dreams of The Writer
Imagine in a night, my future seemed brighter.

The sun greets me feeling slightly less magical
Sorting through my brain, what I remember problematical
I met a boy last night—a writer, yes I recall!
‘Twas not for his looks but his locution I did fall.

I rush to my phone, hoping intrigue is mutual.
But the text I find is truly inexcusable:
“Hey wud u like 2 get coffee?”
Escape from my lips, a squeal not so softly.

And just like that, all hope is diminished
I wrote the date off for our story had finished.
Words are my first love, and for them I’ll remain,
Forever in search of a partner sans slang.

The Wallflower

She pledges allegiance to the punch bowl...and maybe the chip table too...
She glides around unnoticed, content without hullabaloo.

She won’t recite jokes or demand all attention,
but silence is certainly not her intention.

For a wallflower’s mind is of colorful terrain,
at times may be hard to escape or explain.

If people could only just crack that soft shell,
they’d find that she has many a story to tell!

Erase former judgements, it isn’t polite,
but do engage her and see, she’ll respond without fright.

While solitude preferred, she understands that it’s healthy
to exercise sociability and though she but stealthy...

Round the perimeter of the room with a sweet disposition,
she meets a new friend each night, an admirable mission.

So don’t let her fool you, because “shy” no, not quite.
But just like a masterpiece--need no extra spotlight.

Attendees claim boredom as balloons start to shrink
but the Wallflower’s not tired, as many might think.

She traipses on home, alone and alive,
to rave with herself, for it’s there where she’ll thrive.

Hey Jude.

Hey Jude,

Please excuse me for being a month late on your Hello letter. By the time you read this, my guess is that you will have already become familiar with my tardy tendencies. But perhaps there’s hope for future Me.

Current Me is 24. I live in Cincinnati with three friends and we have a really good time not growing up but also not burning the house down. There is a suitcase on the floor of my room that is always semi-packed; not quite packed, and not quite unpacked. I like to think this means I'm going places. 

I think you’re going places too.

It’s hard to tell where, because your biggest outing thus far has been down the street to the Rusty Bucket to watch the Browns game. Both of us were sleeping. One of us was being held by a blonde cutie. (Spoiler alert: it was you. And your mom is a babe.)

Through yawns of boredom, I decide to switch my gaze from football to you: Current You is the chillest thing ever. You prefer to be naked. (I hope this has since changed.)  You are gentle. (I hope this hasn’t changed.) And you are super snuggly. (I’m actually kind of in shock that my brother made something as perfect as you ;))

But I watch your dad take your mom’s hand…and a fresh diaper. And I watch the guy that used to tease me, used to tear down the pool with an Irish vengeance, used to be the class clown, the joker….I watch him coo at you and rock your little body to sleep.

And then I think about how your mama loves you. How she carried you inside her all across the Spanish coastline. So I thought, yes, Jude Thomas, with all that love, YOU are going places. Here are some things I wish you would pack in your hypothetical suitcase:

Adventure-- sometimes journeys go awry. You get lost. Cue torrential downpour. Cue hunger. Cue all odds ganging up on you. You find yourself at a crossroads of Disaster and Your Next Best Story. The adventurer chooses the latter. They think up new routes, new ways, new solutions. They understand that it does not come easy; they understand that the only way to find it is to chase it.

In keeping with this suitcase metaphor, Prayer—it’s a windbreaker, and it must always be packed. Without it, you become a weaker version of yourself. You let puddles swallow you. You let the wind destroy your will to continue. With prayer: Same puddle maybe, but suddenly it’s not so foreboding. Instead of drowning, you jump in it. Prayer shatters fear. It creates an inner fortitude. Clothe yourself in prayer. 

Treat your Friends well. Think of them, and let them know that you do. (Postcards are cheap.) Your parents are both excellent friends. It amazes me how truly loyal your mom is--she's maintained friendships from grade school. It amazes me how kind your dad is--he laughs at people's jokes even when they're not funny, and he makes each person he meets feel heard and valued. No man is a failure who has friends. 

Party—it’s important to celebrate things: Life, love, an A on a test (or maybe just a passing grade), a goal accomplished, a goal scored…I wish more things could be seen as parties. For example, I’m currently on a five hour bus ride. The driver is at a loss of how to fix the fire-breathing vents. People have removed, on average, two pieces of their clothing. There is a man sticking his head out the window…his shirt is unbuttoned. All women over the age of 40 are experiencing hot flashes, and I fear they will cry mutiny on this poor driver. A baby is crying. A temperature gauge is incessantly beeping. As far as parties go, this one sucks. But, as soon as my feet hit cold, hard (emphasis on cold) ground…I’m going to return home. All I have in the fridge is a carton of eggs. So I’m going to throw a Breakfast for Dinner party. And that, is something to be excited about! Maybe I’m the only attendant at this party. But that’s okay. Celebrate safe travels. Celebrate the invention of AC. Celebrate when it works. Celebrate eggs for dinner. Celebrate what you can. Life’s more fun, when you pack a party. 

So here’s to celebrating you, Jude! Here's to all the adventures you seek. All the friends you reach. The prayers you keep. And the party that is your very existence. I can't wait to see where you take this suitcase. Each destination on your roadmap is extremely lucky to get you. And I am extremely lucky to know you. 

You are on your way, little one.

All my smothering, pinch-you-on-the-cheek, embarrassing love,

Aunt Molly 

Letter to A Newborn

Hunter,

Hi. I write this to you, with the sound of your screams still ringing in my ears. You're tiny and red and screaming. And your chin does this little thing where it quivers as you gasp for air. Your hands curl onto my fingers. I wish you wouldn't let go, because your hands are very soft. And you're the cutest thing I've ever seen, screaming or otherwise. 

The best part is what happens next: your mama holds you and she says, "knowing him, he'll probably fall asleep now."

Knowing him.

"Funny," I teased her, "How many people can you really say that about...after knowing them for four days!?"

But she knew you. Because just then, cries subside and sleep carries you into baby dreamland: an open invitation for iphones to invade your personal space, snapping mass amounts of photos of your dimple and your hair and your face and all your other stud-like qualities.

All the things that make you, you.

I wondered what knowing you for longer might look like. When the "things that make you, you" become more than just observable (very photographable) traits. 

It was exciting then, to think about, all the things you are going to do with this air you breathe. (Your mighty screams suggest you'll do lots.) I decided to compile a list of hopes I have for you. Some day when you're not a baby, I'll share them with you:

1.

I hope you laugh as much as your dad. And when life gets hard, like truly hard, force yourself to smile. Better yet, force yourself to laugh. A fake, over-the-top, dramatic laugh that sounds funny in your own ears. Do this on repeat. Until you find yourself laughing for real. I know it's silly. But do it anyway. (I dare you).

2.

I hope you are fiercely curious like your mom. Curiosity killed cats I've heard, but besides that small offense, it's birthed modern invention and social change and noble expeditions. Be curious about the world and about the people you meet. You don't like the way something currently exists? How can you fix it? Curious minds create a spark. Sparks inspire ideas and change and growth. The world needs ideas and change and growth.

3.

I hope you have a knack for seeking and finding silver linings. Ie: When you find yourself waking up early, it's mostly not on your own accord, and you'll hate whatever it is that so forcibly stole you from sleep. But here's a secret: the sky. Look at it. What color is it today? Is it painted vibrant pink with streaks of orange? A dusted purple wash? A deep blue-black that casts and plays with shadow? I had this awful job in college that required me to wake up at 6am. I'd walk all over campus posting advertisements in every building. I hated every second of it. And then the sun would come up, and it was as if God was saying "Hey, I see you. And you're doing a good job. Look what I made you." And because no one else was awake yet, I felt it was my sky. I'd walk home alone in the silence and marvel at the beauty that I'd otherwise miss if I'd still been drooling on my pillow. End rant. Whatever color the day paints, I hope you notice it. And I hope you thank its painter. 

4.

That said, being thankful yields happiness. Be thankful for limbs and for senses and for weird aunts and skies and pizza. I promise you there is always something to be thankful for. Most of the time I'm thankful for cheese. (In my fridge currently is a variety of colby jack, mozzarella, string, and goat)

5.

When you have to make a decision, here's a bit of advice: Sometimes the hardest thing and the right thing are the same. (Do you listen to the Fray?) We're not called to be like everybody else--because that would be far too easy! Challenge yourself and others to do the right thing. I promise you it's attractive and cool and brave and true and selfless to do the right thing. Not sure what the right thing is? A curious mind and a thankful/prayerful heart is a good place to start.

6.

Whiskey. Your mom won't admit it now, but she loves the stuff! When you're old enough, cheers your mother for having you. (Be easy on her and throw in a splash of ginger ale.)

Finally Hunter (you've made it this far), know that I love you. More than I ever thought possible of another human who I just met. And I'm excited to know you too. Every scream that turns to strands of sentences and later, jokes and heartfelt sentiments. Yes, knowing you looks like my favorite color sky with cheese on top.

Infinite x's & o's,

Your aunt (the weird one) Molly

Self-seeking

"I am so excited to make money doing something that I love doing."

My friend of nineteen years uttered these words and I had to stop and repeat them to her. And give her a congratulatory hug. How many of us can really say that!? And at 23-24 no less. I hadn't seen her in nearly nine months and it seems somewhere in between our visits she found a sense of self and held on tight. I love watching people I love explore their passions. And I love even more, knowing the journey it took to get there. 

Because I think I'm still getting there.

______________________________________________________________________________

The shit show that is age 23. (Not my words, but what my boss decided to name the year...and your early twenties in general) And to a certain extent, she is right. You are searching. Your soul and last night's jacket for the house key you lost for the umpteenth time. You are yearning. For fulfillment that used to come in college's dollar pitchers. You realize that that "you" is a distant memory and so you start to consult other things that are even less "you" like yoga mats which start to collect more dust than zen. You make a little bit of money and you spend it on rent and student loans and boozey brunches and overpriced gym memberships. 

But in the midst of all these things you still feel so incredibly unsettled and at a loss of what to do with your life, and you realize that what's more valuable than your measly income, is time. And my boss said she's never had more time than the time she had at 23. 

And then I had this huge urge to take better care of my time. 

So I've decided that the early twenties "shit show" is meant to be spent exploring; Actively pursuing things that scare you like going on dates or trying new foods or running a marathon. This time spent dismissing fears and nurturing the butterflies in your stomach is the stuff that makes you: The nervous jitters that present themselves in the form of overactive sweat glands before a date. The feeling of uncertainty/stupidity when you mispronounce that thing on the menu and you think God, I should have just gone with the chicken fingers. The adrenaline that comes when you find yourself standing alone in the corner and you decide to take the courageous plunge to utter "hi." 

I imagine you will become good friends with failure. But I'm too optimistic to think that it will break you; rather, it will give you character to overcome it. 

So act intentionally instead of passively. Let "you" happen to things instead of the other way around and I bet that the version of "you" that you really want to be, will be. 

Because finding your sense of self is the most attractive thing a person can do. So far I've ruled out dollar pitchers and yoga mats. But scribing thoughts and coffee shops; I think I'm getting warmer.

City Guide: NYC + a hint of Man Crush Monday

There's this movie that I think you'll like. This guy decides to quit his job and heads to New York City. This cowboy's running from himself. 

I met up with my favorite cowboy who is actually not a cowboy at all. But he is from Oxford, Ohio and there are cows close to there. Now residing in Brooklyn, he showed me how to do New York like a local and we laughed and played until the cabs/cows came home. 

Anyways. Let me tell you why I know this crush ain't going away, David Archuleta style:

1. The kid has great taste. 

My favorite flavors of the weekend consisted of the following:

Karlie's Kookies, Momofuku Milk Bar. These little tasties were bought four times over in the three days I spent there. I was skeptical being that their creator is the skinniest, healthy person on the planet, supermodel and life idol, Karlie Kloss. I wish I could personally thank her for the kookies. Yes, I would really like to shake her hand and perhaps discuss over a nice glass of milk. All the proceeds of said deliciousness benefit children in both NYC and Haiti. Eating For the Kids. 

Another delicacy at Momofuku is the cereal-milk flavored ice cream. Think about that for a second. And then allow yourself to be overcome with tears of nostalgia as you remember a smaller version of yourself with a plastic bowl covering your face, as you attempt to gulp every last drop of the tastiest post cereal milk there ever was. I liked cocoa pebbles best.

Sometime Around Midnight, by The Airborne Toxic Event. It's a song about as emo as it sounds. But you know when you think you know a person well? Like really well? Like you've slept on this person's couch and bed dozens of times and you've shared late-night pillow talks about hopes and fears and where you would sleep if stuck in the Louvre overnight. And you know each other's families and how they prefer (or don't prefer) their coffee and you seem to think thoughts at the same time and speak them out loud in accents or in song, at precisely the same moment. But in all that time of being friends, you never once discussed this INCREDIBLE SONG that both of you have loved and imagined in your head over and dover again? Yeah well that epiphany moment happened to this song and we had a dance party in the living room and then again at the department store Century 21, when it serendipitously came on while perusing the boot collection. 

2. He makes me pee-my-pants laugh.

In New York City you have to rehash the hash of last night's frivolity over a bottomless brunch. It sounds expensive but it might be priceless depending on how you look at it. We went to brunch at Station in Williamsburg and drained mimosas with a vengeance. Post-brunch, I stood up from my chair and nearly fell right back down. Wiggly, Giggly and alive (but just barely) I mosey down the sunlit sidewalk feigning cool...and it's like I can't be cool when everything my pal is saying is making me double over in fits of laughter, cross legged so as to hold in the pee that wants so badly to come out...

The answer is always brunch. And the better answer is always bottomless (in regards to bottomless drink...but come to think of it, perhaps going sans-pants would avoid pee-pants altogether, now wouldn't it?)

3. He sees potential for beauty everywhere. 

In other words, he makes the best of every situation. He finds brilliant street art in graffiti. And the tenderness in a Ramen burger at Smorgasburg. He makes beautiful photography out of his spastic friends jumping on a child-sized trampoline. He makes himself a haven in an apartment shared with a character named Cash Lawless who is a hairdresser and covers the place with his wigs...

Because in a city where the norm is no norm, you have to be okay with the unexpected things that arise wearing wigs. Those who thrive in this city are the ones who see the potential in said unexpected things....and turn them into beautiful opportunities. 

I swear he's destined for the screen. Closest thing to Michelle Pfeiffer that I've ever seen.

An Energy Healer in a Cage

An Energy Healer in a Cage

^^That was a typo I decided not to fix. It is supposed to read "cafe" but isn't cage kind of a funny image?

Anyways. A couple of weeks ago, I met a beautiful white haired lady with piercing blue eyes. She was perched up next to me at the window seat of my favorite cafe that I happen by once a week on Wednesdays.

I was particularly down-trodden and for no real reason other than "nobody understands me" and "what am I supposed to do with my life?" ...Avril Lavigne kind of stuff.

I started listening to sad songs and writing sad poems.

I realized Gorgeous White Hair Lady next to me was writing poems too.

We locked eyes.

Hers were bluer.

It's like they saw into my soul and all in one moment she knew my life story...and that I was gluten free and was not supposed to be eating that pastry next to me...

I digress.

We started to talk.

She wrote novels and poems.

I said it's my dream to write a novel some day.

And she said, "well then you probably will."

WOW.

Just like that. A perfect stranger who had such unabashed faith for what I could do with my stammering words.

I promise it gets weird.

So then I ask her what she was writing about.

She said well of course she was writing about billowing sheets in the wind. And that she had to capture their imagery before it slipped from memory.

insert wide eye emoji.

I said I have trouble finishing all the ideas that I start.

She said "ahhh" like most wise old people do. She said a lot of creatives struggle with that.

She said that the creative mind sees things others don't. And that my ideas were like colorful butterflies that need not be reigned in....but that their beauty is in their wild disorder.

Then she said she was an energy healer.

And she got up from her stool and she started to pack her bag.

I was kind of lost in thought and staring out the window thinking about her words. What an intimate moment for two strangers to share. And I could've asked her for her name, but this just felt right leaving it perfectly anonymous...

She said, "I'll see you here same time next week?"

And I said, "Sounds good."

I felt like she was in cahoots with Monica or Tess from the popular nineties television series Touched By An Angel.

I meandered curiously over to my friend who happened to be studying a few tables away. I asked her if she had seen me talking to a white haired lady, thinking that maybe this was some sort of vision brought on by too much caffeine and self pity.

My friend confirmed that Gorgeous White Hair Energy Healer was real. And she said "what were you guys talking about anyway?"

1 WEEK LATER

Next Wednesday, same time, she was nowhere to be found. It was a particularly windy day, so I thought maybe she got to writing. Billowy sheets part II. But then I thought maybe she was less a Monica and Tess and more a Mary Poppins. She rosied my outlook on life. And she stayed until the wind changed.

City Guide: Charleston, South Carolina

I have this glamorous vision of myself with a checklist and an airstream trailer, embarking on what I'll call the Tour de States. I'll vagabond around and need nothing, save for Siri, to help me navigate the New Frontier!

Charleston marks the first on this extensive list of stateside cities I'd like to visit. Rich in history and architecture and let's not forget, sunshine, I figured it would be the perfect place to start. I'm jazzed to tell you the details. Spoiler alert: It does not start with me fueling up the trailer. 

AUGUST 30

6:30 A.M. | CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
I board the plane and despite the early hour, can't hide my excitement. I haven't hovered above the earth amongst the clouds in quite some time, and had forgotten how cool it is to fly! My frequent flyer boyfriend, Drew, sleeps next to me but I assure you he's excited too.

8:00 A.M. | BALTIMORE AIRPORT (DUNKIN DONUTS)
"Are you EXCITED?" I pester sleepy Drew. He calls this action "poking the bear." (I guess I've asked him a few times.) I order a chocolate donut with sprinkles, and he is compliant to my wishes because he is not awake and thus forgets I'm gluten free. It's vacation. Stomach aches don't exist on vacation.

NOON | CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA (BAGGAGE CLAIM)
You can tell a lot about a person by the way they handle lost luggage. I keep Maya Angelou's thought in the back of my mind as I watch Drew calmly describe the contents of his suitcase to the Nice Lady at the Airport: Sperry's, LaCrosse dopp kit, New Balance tennis shoes, and a seersucker short-sleeve button-up. (You can also tell a lot about a person by the things they carry in their suitcase.)

1:30 P.M. | CHARLESTON HISTORIC DISTRICT (COURTYARD MARRIOTT)
We check into the hotel with Drew's superfluous Marriott points (Thanks sirs Ernst & Young). We are told twice to meet with the concierge. We get on the elevator. There's a sign inquiring, "HAVE YOU SEEN OUR CONCIERGE!?" Once inside the room, an advertisement is propped up on the toilet, therefor impossible to miss,  boasting the phenomenal concierge. "HEY DREW," I shout from the toilet, "THINK WE SHOULD SEE THE CONCIERGE!?" 

AUGUST 31

MEETING THE CONCIERGE
After wandering the streets (the shops and bars of King Street & mass this morning at St. John the Baptist) and taking in the charming town with little to no game-plan, I insisted on meeting the coveted concierge they call Kevin.

He arrives at his desk in a suit and his perfectly combed salt and pepper hair. He's a charming early-forties man who has a pep in his step--the kind that suggests he loves his job. "I'm Kevin McQuade!" he says, shaking our hands with enthusiasm. He exclaims everything. The lighthouses are not so charming, they are sooooo charming!!!!  Charleston at night is not magical, it is SO MAGICAL!!!! Drew is bewildered. I am fascinated. 

All too abruptly he turns to me and says, "Do you want to have children?!"

Me, stammering, "...yes." 

I imagine Drew in this moment is looking anywhere else in the room...no exits in sight.

"You are just. so. nice! I know you would be a fantastic mother!" And then he carries on with his spiel.

After making a detailed itinerary for us he pauses a moment and says, "You know what? Since you guys are trying to do the long-distance thing, I'm going to give you the perfect romantic evening!" He is tickled to tell us more. "It'll be great! It'll be just the three of us!."

And then quite possibly the cherry on top: Kevin in all his eagerness looks at Drew and says, "Well. Are you EXCITED!?" 

Kevin and I have poked a few bears in our day.

MIDDLETON PLANTATION 
We join a tour of the grounds and bake in the 95 degree heat. I'm thankful for Drew's always preparedness and the bottle of sunscreen he packed. (His luggage has since arrived). I'm also thankful for his mutual love of history. The tour spared no detail about pre Civil War trade and custom and slave practices and landscape and irrigation and the wealthy Middleton family (a signer of the Declaration of Independence). 

My jcrew jean dress, thick in the even thicker air, was happy to return to the air conditioning of the car. We decide South Carolina is best kept to the springtime, when Drew's beloved Azalea's are in bloom (Masters-inspired) and when drops of golden sun aren't melting my fair Irish face off. 

DINNER | THE MACINTOSH 
We sat on the patio, and they had ample fans to avoid the heat. I think this is about the time and place where I discovered I am, how you say, a foodie. The way the waiters spoke of each dish...describing ingredients I had never heard of in all my experience with lean cuisine cooking. I admire the art, and the passion that goes into the craft. The craft of making the perfect Swordfish. It was phenomenal. 

Drew got the beef. And we shared fried okra. And we reveled in every bite. And when it came time to order dessert, we were incredibly full, but did so anyway. Drew got the chocolate cake topped with a salted caramel ice cream. I got the goat cheesecake. And was so disappointed in myself that bites were left behind... 

We rated the restaurant a 4.5 out of 5 stars, only because we wished to see a more extensive cocktail list. But, I could never discount the fish, caught fresh that day, and the chef who is top ranked in the city. 

DRINKS | PROHIBITION
A little further down King street, our Pursuit of Cocktails was swiftly satisfied. I felt as though I had entered a time warp--music straight from that of a 1920s jazz band blares as couples share era-appropriate dance. In other words, no twerking. I ordered the Strawberry Smash and watched the bartender skillfully labor over my whiskey drink as if I were a Very Important Person. 

KEVIN'S SPECIAL SURPRISE | SOUTH OF BROAD, NIGHT TOUR
"Did you bring a camera?" Kevin probes.

We motion at our cell phones and I think he's slightly disappointed. We hop in his car and he drives fast through the cobblestone streets. 

Perhaps it's the Strawberry Smash speaking but I'm quickly turned around. He parks in an alley and starts leading us through gas lantern lit streets. It's as charming as he had promised. 

Things turn south when he leads us to Stoll's Alley. Predating the automobile, it is narrow, and prompts us to walk single file. In the dark, lit only by moonlight, it is haunting. 

"Come close, come close." Kevin whispers.

"Doesn't this seem kind of eery?" He whispers and leans in closer to me. "It'd be the perfect place for a murder."

...

My brain leaps to a terrible place seen only on CSI. Or like Scooby Doo. The mysterious caretaker/concierge was always to blame...

I relax my thoughts when Kevin "can't wait to show us the honeymoon suite around the corner!" 

When the tour is over I insist on tipping him, but he accepts only hugs. What a guy.

SEPTEMBER 1

BREAKFAST | HOMINY GRILL
Suffice it to say that everything we ate in Charleston tasted unreal. But this was as Charleston as it gets. Shrimp and Grits to start the day off pretty perfectly. And according to Drew and Kevin and the southern belle waitress, the biscuits and jam are a religious experience. Get here before 9AM (thanks for the tip Kev) or else you will wait in line for an hour or more. 

HISTORICAL TOUR | TOMMY DEW
An amazing tour for my love of history and architecture. We walked all along Rainbow Row and the Battery and we really got to know the city of Charleston. Side note: In every tour group there is always supposed to be The Know-It-All, The Foreign Tourist, and the Couple That Can't Stop Touching Each Other (disclaimer: wasn't me/Drew) Check, check, and check. Got 'em. 

LUNCH | SLIGHTLY NORTH OF BROAD (S.N.O.B) (HEAVEN ON EARTH)
It was here that I declared eating the best dish I've ever tasted at 24 years of age: The chicken vegetable medley. A magical concoction of goat cheese and pesto. Five stars for also providing a killer cocktail: the Barn Raiser. Bourbon infused with local honey and orange bitters. Set to ginger ale and rocks.

MORRIS ISLAND DOLPHIN EXCURSION
A perfect last night spent on a boat, exploring the reservoirs. We stopped to collect seashells and take a picture with a lighthouse. There is a such thing as Southern Charm. 

I spend my last night moseying the streets and admiring the smells and sounds and lights. I am so in love with this town! And judging by the number of sun-kisses on my cheeks, I think Charleston loved me back.