all grown up

I've moved! Continue reading here: www.campingoutinamerica.com

Peace out .blogspot

And tell all yer fam n friends!

who goes to Florida in June?

 ...my mom and I.  But atleast we drank bloody mary's and wine before the flight.  Infact, the flight was so smooth, we both slept the whole time. Yes--the aircraft magically gliding through the sky at 30,000 feet (something I will NEVER trust or understand), lulled us to sleep.  Not the alcohol. Anyways.
We had a reason for going! My Grandma lives in Florida!  Now, I love my Grandmother to death, but please...repeat after me:

I will not retire in Florida

I will not retire in Florida

I will not retire in Florida

Thank you. You'll thank me too.

In any case, we had a wonderful time! Despite the fact that there is absolutely nothing to do in Greenacres and the humidity index is higher than the number of brown shirts I own, every second spent outside of West Plam was worth it....because my Grandma is the absolute best.  She has a wit and sharpness that puts me to shame; her ability to make fun of herself comes out quickly and often unexpectedly: "Laura, you read me like a book.  Not a best seller, just a book."  And then: "I miss that lizard that used to live out on my porch.  That lizard was attached to me--the first thing to fall in love with me in decades.  It's a different species, but who the hell cares!"

 During our stay, we saw two movies, went out to dinner, took my Grandma to the grocery store, bank, etc, and drank wine. Lots of wine. To ya know, cool off.

 

I also found time to go to the beach, where I properly walked past the public section and pretended I was a member of the Four Seasons Resort.  I was happily equipped with an empty beach, a cushioned recliner, hors d' oeuvres, and a bar with discounted cocktails.  It wasn't until the bill came and I had to "simply" sign my room # that I realized I would be caught.  I smiled and asked if I could pay cash, and ran out of there as fast as I could. 
     With my free time (which was sure a plenty) I managed to read 1 1/2 books, take on the heat with a couple of runs, and become one shade closer to becoming African. One day. 
Until then, remember to call your Grandmothers, revel in the fact that you're young and spy, and please, just don't retire in Florida.


 I love you, G. 

nature vs. natural

The other day, I woke up in my brother's apartment in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.  When I went outside, I realized what a beautiful day it was.  A silky blue blanket wrapped itself around the city skyscapers, the sun warmed the sidewalk, and a slight breeze kept me comfortable.


And at that moment, I was relieved that I was leaving the city and going home.


There is this ongoing battle in my mind as to whether or not I love New York City.  My appreciation for it comes in waves; some days I am enamored by the architecture, the people, the culture (you wont find African masks in Northport).  And other days the smells, the concrete, and the crowds overwhelm me, and I wonder why does anyone want to live here?  

 


I do have fun in the city. The day before I took the train over to the East Village and grabbed lunch with my best friend Danielle. She's getting her Master's at NYU, so we met at Union Square, walked south toward her campus, and enjoyed some sandwhiches and great conversation along the way. It was a beautiful day, and I took a pleasant stroll around Washington Square Park before heading back to Brooklyn after she left for class. I wrote at the dog park in McCarren Park, laid in the grass while watching a mean game of kickball, and discovered one of Williamsburg's best-kept secrets: $3 falafal sandwhiches. Big Tree had its first show at Pete's Candy Store on Lorimer that evening, so the rest of my night involved friends, music, and a lot of whiskey. Yet I woke up that next morning in Greenpoint, and I felt weird. Blame it on the hangover, but I began wondering what I really enjoy so much about the city.

I usually find myself resorting to its parks, because that's the closest thing I'll get to real nature.  Yet the parks (to me, atleast) are just a great way for the city to convince its patrons that you're not actually stuck in a sea of concrete.  The nature in NYC isn't natural, and while I appreciate its existence, I'd chose The Adirondack Park over McCarren any single day.


Would Central Park be as loved if it was plopped in the middle of the Colorado Rockies?  Or does its appreciation only exist because of relation?  (Thank God I can escape the shops on Madison and Lex and retreat to the Reservoir; hoooray for patches of green so I can picnic with my $7 wheatgrass smoothie and $3 hotdog).  Am I being unfair for scoffing at every tree and bush that is strategically planted in the parks? Perhaps. And maybe then its hypocritcal to have such profound resepect for our national parks, which have only been succumed to tree cutting and human pollution for the creation of roads and an outpour of tourism.


Or maybe I'm just not a city girl.  I walked out of Jim's apartment in Greenpoint and couldn't wait to seize the day on Long Island (I know, right?)  But I went home, put on my sneakers, and ran for an hour.  I ran past the sailboats bobbing in the harbor and the lawnmowers humming on their lawns.  I looked up and saw that same silky blue blanket which looked remarkably larger--finally free to stretch itself over the surface of the earth.

you are what you eat

After day two of work, which also happened to be day two of Lobster Night, I've realized this: you are what you eat.

Even though there are a million places to get lobster in the summer months on Long Island, people still somehow find their way to fancy Italian restaurants where lobster gets fumbled around with fine sicilian meats, foccacia bread, and an overabundance of oil and vinegar.  Still, these obese, sunburned Floridians that escape the southern heat and retreat to the Northeast still expect seafood perfection...... wherever they go.  This fact is coupled with a fancy Italian restaurant (which shall remain nameless) trying to up its sales any way possible, even if it means executing something that in the end will fall on its face.


Results? Obese, sunburned Floridian Pescavors that grumpily eat their lobster at said upscale Italian restaurant.  


Yet, these guys kept coming, and coming, and coming; soon, the place was completely filled with lobsters, both human and crustacean.

winter to summer

Hiiii
So, it looks like spring decided to just, well, not happen this year, as we've gone from chilly, unforcomfortable gray days to hot, humid, and SUNNY conditions.  I don't really mind the skip over spring, since it's my least favorite season. Give me apple picking, pumpkins and changing leaves in the fall, and skiing, tea and fireplaces in the winter.  Yes--spring is the season of rebirth, but I'd much rather  experience the climax of new life:  hot, sweaty messes in the summer where the consumption of sangria, day trips to the beach, and daylight till 9PM is in full force. 


                      
                                       Sunken Meadow Beach, late February

                                               Sunken Meadow beach, late May

Life slowed down for a bit which bothered me, but things are finally getting back into motion.  There are more rehearsals, shows, and music to be practiced and played, I am once again a server at some fancy-shmansy restaurant (although I vowed never to return to the "business,") and I'm filling in the gaps with six-mile runs, novels from the public library, trips to the beach, and time in the city where I tell myself I'm not going to spend all my money...and then I do. .


I'd continue typing, but my front wrist is really out of shape from holding up trays of wine, martinis, and soco old fashions (seriously--there is a muscle there). Moreover, I've had a bad cold for over a week now, and I think I must finally admit that I too, have allergies.  Apparently EVERYONE is getting hit hard this season; Mayor Bloomberg has planted mostly male trees this year, since female trees are full of seeds (us fertile beings) which end up being messy and ugly. Male trees are prettier and cleaner, but they also have more pollen. Hence, more sneezey people. Is there any irony to male trees being the reason behind sick, grumpy people?

Goodbye Everyone, Maybe

So apparently The Rapture is tomorrow. I wont throw my two-cents in; if it happens, it happens. (But it's not going to happen).

I'll keep my mouth shut.

Just read what someone else had to say about it in The Guardian:

"One caller in Oregon wanted to know if he should arm himself to protect his family from the doomed in his street who might be jealous that those who have "found Jesus" were about to go to heaven.

The show's host assured him that nonbelievers would be too busy being tortured by fire to worry about seeking vengeance on him."

The Other Laura

Many moons ago when I lived in Maryland for a month before moving into the District, I decided to go free Yoga classes on Sundays in DC.

I lived behind these pieces of Ghanaian fabric and commuted to Yoga.

The first day I was there I met another girl named Laura. I realized rather quickly she is pretty much my long-lost twin; she had moved to DC after graduation to intern at Nat Geo. I had moved to intern at the Smithsonian. We are both named Laura. We both like yoga. And when she told me she wanted to walk across America, I fell in love.

When I finally moved into the city, I found out that my house was..a block away from hers. Admidst our busy schedules, we tried to hang out whenever possible, and any sort of "crisis" or "thing" I was going through she could automatically relate to... OR was going through the same thing! Gentlemen. Careers. Life goals. Moving to France? Walking across the country?

Long story short, when I moved out, Laura took over my room because her lease was running out and her plans changed abruptly, giving her an option to spend more time in DC. We stay in touch, and I love the girl to death. More importantly, Laura has a blog where she writes daily haiku's, and I'm in love with them.

Some favorites:

(lessons learned by listening to Blues Traveler)

You'll get no answer.

Alone (goes on forever).
Mountains always win.

and

(I believe in this)

I believe in this:

There are infinite beliefs.

All fine. This is Mine.

Read the rest of her beautiful poetry here. Do it! Do it. CLICK CLICK CLICK!

Good Karma, and other New York City musings

When you've been away, New York City is definitely a breath of fresh air.

Not literally, for I cursed the sewers and smog on my run this morning as I crossed town from Riverside Drive to Central Park. Figuratively though, New York is the city of endless opportunity--endless activity and happenings. I'm a go-go-go type of person, and the city allows me just that. And all that happens! The stories I muster up, the daily interactions I make-- I wish I could develop a mechanism where my brain could just transcribe what I'm thinking to paper, spell check and everything.

In only a few days, I've had dinner with my brother and girlfriend in Brooklyn, had drinks with an old friend from college on the Upper West Side, and enjoyed fresh croissants and coffee with my best friend at the famous Hungarian Pastry Shop in Morningside Heights. I went for my first run in New York City (didn't like it), drunkingly stumbled uptown at 3am as I tried to figure out subway construction and travel changes while listening to Katy Perry AND Miles Davis on my ipod, and saw the Fleet Foxes at the United Palace.

I went to Nicole's graduation ceremony from Columbia, went out to eat with a cousin she's never met before and her aunt who is a judge and just HAPPENS to be named Judy, and ate plain pasta and granola for dinner while chatting about boys (what else) with our friend Melissa. We've gone for walks, layed in the park and read, and succumed to romantic comedies on netflix before bed. Both of us are banking on good karma, so we took a walk down to 90th and CP W to return a debit card we found to the owner's friend Joel's bellman; we taped it up in a couple pieces of lined paper and hand delivered it in cute dresses with the message "Joel's expecting this," which probably made the whole thing seem a bit odd.

Like I said, really banking on the good karma.

I'm losing myself in a novel, applying to countless writing, blogging, and tutoring jobs, and am stalking a restaurant on Long Island that apparently is in desparate need for help but is bad at the whole "returning calls" thing. Big Tree is playing Katy Perry covers in Brooklyn so I've also been learning pretty profound lyrics, such as do you ever feel like a plastic bag drifting through the wind? and Last Friday Night, we took too many shots, think we kissed but I forgot, Last Friday Night. I'm intrigued at how quickly neighborhoods change one avenue over (insert: Broadway and Amsterdam), am cursing the constant, steady rainfall, and am slightly entertained that Dominique Strauss-Kahn's daughter lives in Nic's building and there's a constant news team of about 50 people outside waiting for her to return home. (CBS has asked me how I feel about him moving in with his daughter and having a rapist live in the building; I responsed that the chance of Dominique Strass-Kahn moving into Columbia housing with his child was a bit absurd.

I'm biting the bullet, eager to play more shows, go for more runs, and see more of the world (when does this happen?) I want to write more, study more, and learn more. I just declined my acceptance into the Peace Corps, so my Africa send-off in October is only a faint memory. I'm trying to stay as busy as possible, but a feeling of instability, dependance, and the unknown knocks at my knees. Still! I have money in the bank, an amazing and supportive family, incredible friends, a sick band, and strong limbs.

I am beyond lucky.

The Bus Ride

I rode the bus from New York to Boston the other day and I decided to write about it

-------------

I rise out onto the streets of Manhattan from the LIRR, and am greeted by a bounded, overcast sky. It’s barely 60 degrees—five clicks warmer and my arms would relax, rather than tense up in an effort to warm my self. I begin walking down 8^th avenue, and continue walking west once I hit 31^st street. Two avenues over and I’m on 10^th, and I stop at one of the thousand gourmet deli’s in New York City for an 85 cent coffee that will be mostly milk, three heaping spoonfuls of sugar, and a splash of java. Saying only a little milk and sugar means nothing, always.

After my morning’s thirty-minute walk to the train station, I sat patiently still for an hour as Long Island flew over my left shoulder. Now in the city, I am to walk only a few more blocks to the bus stop. I’ll sit on MegaBus for around four hours, which will take me to Boston. All of these miles, walking-sitting-standing, might seem like too much travel for one day, but I enjoy it. I love the feeling of progress, of constantly being on the go. I can never sit still, unless I’m actually moving.

I arrive at the MegaBus stop, and am surprised to see that the low-budget transportation company put up temporary fences to create actual lines for different travel destinations. I walk past Syracuse, Philadelphia, DC, and Toronto, until I find Boston. I walk to the back of the line and ask the girl in front of me is this to Boston?, soon to realize that the man behind me would ask the same question, the woman behind him the same—so on and so forth. Nobody trusts signs.

I check my watch and realize my bus isn’t scheduled to leave for another 25 minutes. As I fumble for my headphones, a girl in the Philadelphia line comments on my scarf: I really like your scarf. It’s beautiful. I thank her and tell her it’s from the Rubin Museum in Chelsea. Miss. Philly studies my lips and gets out her iphone to store this information, and then we continue to have a superficial, yet pleasurable enough conversation about scarves. They really do spice up an outfit. I wear mostly black, but scarves really add another element to personal style. They make you pop. This is a great springtime scarf. How do you spell “Rubin”?

I’m enjoying talking to Miss. Philly, but before I know it, her line starts moving and now she is permanently gone from my life.

I watch with limited patience as the Toronto and DC lines disappear, and then revert my attention to three fearless pigeons that are inches away from my feet. They are fighting over two Pringle crumbs, and I find myself almost too entertained by watching these Pringle pigeons peck at the crumbs while their little necks bob forward and backward, unaware of anything around them but their salty snack.

Once I finally grow tired of the pigeons, I remember my headphones, yet am once again distracted— this time by the Chinese man behind me who asked moments ago if he was in the correct line. He smiles, looks up at the clouds, and in broken English asks the clouds bring rain…. what happen before bus? I look at him quizzically for a moment, then try to rephrase his question: you mean, what happens if it starts to rain before we get on the bus? He nods with deep concern written all over his face, and I can only shrug my shoulders and answer: well, we’ll get wet. He politely smiles and musters up a nervous laugh, replying oh! only New York City. I’m still not exactly sure what he means by this; New York is unique, but I doubt it’s the only city that fails to provide proper shelter when it rains.

My 12:10 bus finally rolls in, and I find myself a window seat on the top deck. I put my backpack and scarf on the empty aisle seat, although I’m almost positive the bus will be full and someone will have to sit there. Surprisingly enough, people continue to walk up and down the aisle, yet the traffic quickly slows, the bus begins moving, and I seem to be only passenger who got away without a bus buddy. I take out my book from my purse, and just when I start to get into a rhythm with its narrative, a British couple across the aisle begin talking, disrupting me and my book’s synchrony. My mother just hates Cleveland, but we’re forced to go every summer because of her in-laws. If it were up to me I would go back to London, but I’m supposed to stay culturally steady, or something. The young man looks at the girl with secretive desire; I’m not sure if they are acquaintances, or if they both realized they were British so became so just for the bus ride. They certainly aren’t lovers. I’m wondering why she is going to Boston by herself, and when she’ll go to Cleveland, and where her mother is right now. And why did she refer to her dad’s family as in-laws? The young man unwraps a pre-made turkey sandwich and adds cream cheese to it. They both are talking extremely loud.

There is a Chinese toddler and mother sitting right in front of me, and I can see the boy’s reflection in the window as he stares out onto the streets of Manhattan. He has a medium-sized mole directly under his left eye, which I know will one day attract the attention of many beautiful women. He’s watching the road with a keen, innocent curiosity. At this moment I wish I was his age again, enamored by almost anything—satisfied by simple, strange objects.

An Indian mother and her little girl are opposite the Chinese mother and son—one row up and over from me. I’ve read two of Jhumpa Lahiri’s books; in both, she writes about Indian couples that live in Cambridge. I assume that this mother and daughter live there too, and are going back home to her husband, her father. They begin playing rock-paper-scissors, and will continue to do so for at least an hour. The husband starts calling his wife every five minutes, and her ring tone is unbearably loud, louder than the British couple’s conversation.

I will never get through the first page.

Yes, her number is 518-3454-290. I can’t help but continue to listen to the Brit’s conversation, as they are talking like they’re all alone in a noisy bar or a grocery store. I stop to think about the phone number she mentions, and grin at how she reversed the number groupings. I almost wanted to tell her it’s xxx-xxx-xxxx, and please stop talking so loudly. I realize this would be rather rude of me, and that it really doesn’t matter how you group numbers in a phone number. The phone doesn’t care; it’ll still dial correctly.

The Indian girl and mother are still playing rock-paper-scissors, and I see now that the mother isn’t even watching. She repeatedly puts down scissor, and the little girl’s eyes widen every fourth or so time she puts down rock. I give up on my book and try listening to music, when the first tinge of hunger knocks at my stomach. When I’m on busses, I always crave random things. Right now, I want a donut. A simple glazed donut. Or, a bag of honey-mustard powdered pretzels. Maybe a strawberry shortcake. Defeated, I rummage through my bag and find a restaurant mint. I gulp down some lemon-lime seltzer in hopes it’ll curb my appetite, and that we’ll be in Boston shortly.

I hear someone’s wrist watch beep behind me, and realize it must be the top of some hour. I check my phone and see it’s already three o’clock, and within the next twenty or so seconds I hear another handful of beep beep’s. I’m actually surprised at how many people still wear watches, with phones now becoming the most popular way to check the time. So many people have their phones attached to their knuckles, their faces, and this often makes me sad. Again I want to be the little Chinese boy with the cute mole, fascinated by Harlem and I-95, naive to cell phones and i-pads, 4 G’s, bbm’s, and unlimited data.

My hunger ceases, the Brit’s stop talking, and I can rest my eyes and listen to Elvis Costello as MegaBus exits I84 and gets on the Mass Pike. I dream about nothing, and when I wake up 40 minutes later, I see Boston’s skyline in the distance. I get up and use the restroom on the lower deck; I bring my toothbrush and realize there is no sink, so I return to my seat and put a dab of toothpaste on my tongue. I swirl it around my mouth and softy swallow. I put on an extra layer of deodorant, a hint of perfume, and sit up, surprised at how sore my lower back is from all of the sitting I’ve been doing. I call you and let you know we’re almost there, and I find myself finally able to start smiling, anxious that my day’s travels are finally coming to an end. The bus gets into South Station a little after four, and I barely look at the Brits, the Chinese, or the Indians as I exit the bus and enter your arms.

cleaning out

Whenever I make it back home in Northport for more than 48 hours, I usually do a major cleaning out of my room. Now, why I need to do one of these atleast three times a year... I dooo not know, for I don't really think I consume much these days by way of clothes shopping, trinket buying, etc. Yet somehow, no matter how many garbage bags I fill, I miraculously find ways to fill more months down the road.

For the last few days I've been working on the same project, but I'd say that this clean-out session is my most serious one yet. Last time I tried to throw out my furby (that would STILL wake up and start talking in furby-language), my mom got all wide-eyed and sentimental on me and I stored it back in my closet. This time though, the furby has made it to the trash, after I successfully screwed out all its batteries so the thing would be forever mute. I'm putting an end to 14th birthday cards from second-cousins, pick up sticks from the 5th grade, and dust-laden jewelry boxes that have been empty for years. I don't need 400 index cards, 500 business envelopes, or seven erasable-pens (remember those?) Goodbye marching band hat (and feather!), participation-award soccer certificates, and plastic bead set. So long burned cd's that have been on my computer for tens of years, racing spikes and keys, and magazine subscription from 2007.

Amidst all the throwing out and donating, I've also found some great things I intend on keeping: five sticks of winterfresh Trident gum, a $50 savings bond, and my glasses (woops). Every youth center soccer picture "professionally'' taken since 1993, a nifty purple and gray sleeping bag, and Ziggy Palffy's autograph are also on this list.

On an odder note, I managed to somehow hide three comforters, four blankets, two sleeping bags, and five pillows in the confines of my room, which have all been placed in their respective piles: donate, trash, keep. I managed to have 57 hangers in my closet and six pairs of stockings and seven belts in my drawer. I don't hang things, wear belts, or wear stockings, so this one is a real mystery.

I have a bag that weighs close to seven tons of clothes, blankets, and boots that I will be donating, so it feels good that all the stuff I've managed to hoard will hopefully go to a better place. In the mean time, I can continue to see the world with 20/20 vision, fresh breath, and fifty extra bucks in my pocket.

For Road Junky

Of beauty and serenity: life on the road.

It’s day eight on the road for Big Tree, an indie-pop band based in the Bay Area and making its way to New York for the summer. We’ve driven down the California coast, saying goodbye to the enchanting Pacific Ocean, and slowly trudged east, driving through suffocating L.A, mountainous Colorado, and desolate Gallop, New Mexico. On the 11^th of March we finally made it to Taos, excited to enter a small world tucked away in northern New Mexico that exudes a sort of magic. We had traveled by way of Santa Fe, stopping at a less-than nice hostel to fill up on grease for our veggie-oil van (that’s for another day).

The outskirts of Santa Fe depressed us; strips malls, abandoned houses, and taco bells cluttered the almost clear blue sky. Thus, when we made it to the quaint town of Taos, embedded with pueblo art, clay houses, and all things teal and periwinkle, we sighed with relief. We looked around us and saw snow-capped mountains in the distance and dust beneath our toes. In between the dust and the snow, we saw where we were staying:

Life on the road for a band is always made simpler when you know people. Quality Inn’s and Howard Johnson’s aren’t really worth the $60 stay, and nothing beats staying in a warm bed with families who welcome you with open arms. Lucky for us, this house in Taos offered not only warm beds, but a hot tub, three adorable ridgeback dogs, and a plethora of fish tacos and tequila.

We were supposed to play a show that night at the “Taos Bar.” We had trouble getting in touch with the venue’s owner; the guy who booked our show was on an impromptu vacation in Alaska (of all places…), and our other contact was mysteriously “out of town.” We asked some locals where the Taos Bar was, and after a few failed attempts, learned that no bar by that name exists. Finally, we found the sole Taos bar: Mountain View Lodge. There we met Ralph, the extremely friendly owner who had no idea we were supposed to play a show that evening. He offered us a beer as a condolence, which we politely accepted. We learned he had no mic’s or amps, and obviously no advertising for the show had been done in town. We thanked Ralph and made our way back to our rental mansion for the night, not entirely disappointed that we would be missing out on a night of music.

Janet, a family friend and owner of the house, took us out for authentic New Mexican cuisine. We devoured fresh guacamole, rice and beans, and an absurd amount of cheese and tortilla chips before cozying up back at the house— sipping on margaritas in their hot tub until our tired eyes let us sleep. The next morning, Janet’s husband John took us out back through his blue door for a lesson in shooting a gun, which for all five band members was a never-explored, er, “hobby.”

We reveled in our surroundings, the hospitality of our friends, and kept repeating over and over “we are the luckiest people in the world.” Traveling across the country in a band is not always easy, yet we made our way across the US with relative ease as we visited old friends, made new ones, and played shows (almost) every night. Although the main purpose of the tour was the music, every now and then we let ourselves relax and take in the overwhelmingly unique pockets of America without worrying about needing to play a show. And this is exactly what Taos, New Mexico provided for us.

DAY 3

March 6^th:

We woke up at Alexandra’s, where I took the most luxurious shower of my life (bathrooms with two showerheads and no curtain, surrounded by mosaic tile and prescription shampoo? Yes please). We ate day-old pastries that Muddy Waters so graciously gave us the night before, and then drove baaaack to Claremont to play at Pomona College.

Pomona is apparently the smarter hippie version of Pitzer. Unfortunately for us it was a Sunday, so even though our indie-pop-psychedelic-jazz-blues music often excites the ears of said Pomona folk, these bookworms must’ve all been in the library focusing on their studies and missing out on the best concert of their lives.

Their loss.

Still! We lured a decent sized crowd right on the campus quad, with special guests Mandy Schwecherl (my cousin!) and her friend John. It was great to have my family come and see me, and it made the show even more fun to play. After our gig we planned to meet up with Mandy and John for dinner and drinks right after we quickly stopped at the cafeteria to filter some grease for our car.

Yes, grease. I don’t know if I have explained this, but our van runs on vegetable oil. Yes. The luxury of this is two-fold: our van costs about $135 to fill up on diesel; on veg, we can go the same distance-if not further, for little to no money. Secondly, diesel emits sulfur and a bunch of other nasty stuff. It’s bad for the environment. Used vegetable oil does not contain any sulfur, and emits only 15% of the nasty stuff that diesel does. And we’re recycling.

However, the aches and pains of running a van on veg are also two-fold, if not three or four-fold. Mainly, it’s the filtering process. We can’t just throw used oil full of French fry particles and crispy bacon bits into the tank—we have to filter it. We purchased a fancy filter that collects dirty oil from a pump, but every time we tried using it on the road, our pump would blow a fuse. Fast-forward to when we were trying to meet Mandy and John for dinner, and we had a vat FILLED of grease we wanted in our van, and a broken pump that refused to let us filter the grease quickly and efficiently. We had to go back to our old-school method, which means pouring the grease into a sock-filter ourselves, and then watch the grease slowwwly drip into a bucket, which takes five times as long and can get pretty messy.

(photo cred

Di Desmond and Ian Levine)

Long-story short, we got some grease, brainstormed about other ways to fix our pump, and met Mandy and John for sushi. We devoured practically every fish in the sea while enjoying a few sake bombs, and then made a quick stop at the liquor store to pick up beer and Andre (?) before crashing at a Howard Johnson’s.

DAY 2

March 5^th:

The next morning we all woke up overheating in our sleeping bags, and quickly aroused to greet the warm southern California air we’ve been yearning for. We had been recommended a breakfast spot the night before; Kaila and I repeated the name over and over again since we knew our beer-cushioned heads would have a hard time remembering it. It was called Some Crust Bakery, and the only reason I can tell you this is because of the picture I took:

Anyways, Some Crust had egg-sliders! So delicious! So creative! You could pick your bread, your dressing, and your toppings. Sometimes I just love America. After we ate we drove to Santa Barbara to meet up with our friends Hannah and Fishman. They took us on a hike to the beach that was absolutely beautiful. We made it to the coast and swam in the ocean, sipped on beer, and expressed how relaxing and luxurious tour was so far. (Granted it was only day two, but…well whatever).

Once it started to cool off we walked back to the car and drove into town to our venue: Muddy Waters. The place was a neat medium sized coffeehouse that also offered beer and wine. We picked up about a ton and a half of Mexican food on our way over, sound checked, and ate ourselves into oblivion before our set.

Once again, the show’s energy was great. There weren’t as many drunk and hyper attendees as Pitzer, but the crowd seemed to be having a great time. We stuck around for a band that played after us, and then crashed at a friend of Kaila’s. We all had a slumber party in the living room—eating ginger snaps and gummy bears— before falling comfortably to sleep.