Travels with Tavel

July 4, 2012 · 10:00 am

Three Years of TwT

Travels with Tavel started here (July 7, 2009) — hopeful, young, maybe hurting a little, but curious about the world, about life, about people — and full of wanderlust. The first year, it took us to the salt flats of Jujuy along the Argentina-Bolivia border, onto the back of a motorcycle in Cabarete in the Dominican Republic, all the way — unexpectedly — to Quito, Ecuador (“One Year of TwT” post). The journey continued up volcanoes, down beneath the shark-filled seas of the Galapagos Islands, through cloud forests, and eventually to the most unexpected destination of all: school.

Galapagos View. Ecuador.

After “Two Years of TwT,” I found myself the farthest away yet from the person I thought I was becoming (a constantly roaming, adventurous travel writer). A year ago, I ended up back at square one, knocking down the tower of blocks I had been stacking for one life I wanted, only to begin with the first measly block of another life I wanted, too. Building that first tower took more out of me than I ever expected. I felt like I had lived 7 lives in those first six years after graduating — seven unforgettable, sexy, awesome lives! Then, just over a year ago, I decided to stop ignoring the wanderlust I felt for my own career-goals, put the travel-lust aside, and focus on what I really wanted in my life, my long-term dreams — the kind that don’t fizzle in your mouth like Pop Rocks only to disappear after a fleeting burst of excitement.

Quiet Sea. Galapagos Islands, Ecuador.

So, here I am now — taking an intensive 7-week physics course at Harvard Extension School. What a wild fucking ride these last four years have been! Never a dull moment, I can say that much.

Town of Mindo, Ecuador.

I know TwT doesn’t have the travel adventures of TwT days gone by, and part of me wonders how I’ve made it this long without a dip into my old world (a last-minute trip to Belgium, a catamaran ride in Mexico, a xurro amb chocolat at 7am after a night full of dancing and new people at a Barcelona club…). But what I’ve learned is that all of that is still in me — forever. All of that is me. The experiences I’ve had, both soul-searching around the globe and from my own chair in my constantly changing bedrooms (I think I’ve moved at least once every year since college — OY), have taken me a thousand places I’ve always wanted to go. And somehow, for some reason, you have stuck with me through it all. That makes me really happy. Like, for real.

Stroll with a gaucho after a ride together in Dolores, Argentina.

The people I’ve met throughout all of these experiences, whether through commiserating in pre-med classes at NYU (shoutout to my favorite NYU postbaccs, you know who you are), randomly living together in Ecuador (shoutout to the PPP), or meeting by chance because life just happened to criss-cross our lives (many of you!), have turned every experience — both local and international — into one that has been completely and utterly worth it. (Uh-oh, I’m being cheesy again…)

Iguanas. Galapagos Islands, Ecuador.

TwT hasn’t been about counting countries, bragging about awesome adventures, complaining about not-so-awesome ones, and me me me. It’s about all of us sharing the unpredictable 20-something experience. It’s about where life takes us, where life has taken me (I guess), but really, it’s the story that unfolds around the “where am I” that has been the most exciting part of this “travel” adventure I’m on.

Pre-hike walk through the paramo. Papallacta, Ecuador.

The story, and the journey, continues from Somerville, MA — probably the absolute last place that I would have predicted I’d be three years ago when I wrote my first TwT post on a whim. But here I am, working my ass off (um — the rumors are true: physics is hard), surrounded by brand new friends who I think will be around for a long time, and some of the ones who preceded the TwT days by years and even decades. And here (some of) you are too — with me, three years later, along for the ride, and on your own wild adventures alongside me.

Birds in Flight. Galapagos, Ecuador.

I hope you join me in wishing TwT a happy third birthday! (It’s growing up so fast…) Thank you for 3 years, 147 posts, 750 comments, over 30,000 hits, and innumerable life-changing sometimes dangerous, usually exciting, often fun, and always valuable adventures! A special thank you to the friends and family members who have gotten me through them all.

Just for fun, feel free to let me know which has been your favorite TwT post so far. To wrap things up, here is a song by a good friend’s band, Arms and Sleepers. Cheers!

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June 21, 2012 · 10:17 am

5 Spots Within The Squares

The lawnmower roars next door as a sweet, grassy summer breeze floats through my bedroom. It’s all becoming home, more and more each day, and my daily explorations of the neighborhood and all its surrounding Squares (Porter, Davis, Harvard, Union, Inman) is beginning to pay off.

I wouldn’t exactly call myself a local just yet, but I’m beginning to shed some of my New York skin. For example, I try not to walk around with my usual “don’t fuck with me” face (feel free to ask to see this some day, it’s obviously really intimidating though, so consider yourself warned). I smile at strangers sometimes. I even whisper the words “slow down” to myself when I’m walking (sometimes).

Life moves at a very different pace in this town (oops, I mean city – sorry Somerville/Cambridge!) and, even though I’m used to a much faster pace, I think I’m beginning to catch up in this land of less intensity.

By now I’ve discovered some promising little Somerville spots, which I’d like to share with you before the Physics storm hits (yes, this would be “the calm”). Here is a short list of 5 places that have made me smile in one way or another, so far.

Statue in Old San Juan, Puerto Rico.

Union Square Farmers Market – Sure, in NYC I had the (dare I say “real?”) Union Square Farmer’s Market… so I can’t exactly say this is a first. But these farmer’s markets are very different. I always dreamed of living somewhere where I could walk to a farmer’s market every Saturday and stock up on freshly baked breads, excessive amounts of leafy greens, and things I never cook with, such as rhubarb, just because I can. Now, this weekly outing will become a part of my life. Yes, there are great sources of fresh, local produce in NYC. But, for better or worse, my Saturday mornings usually led me to some delicious brunch spot instead. Having a weekly farmer’s market within walking distance is my little country fantasy coming to life! (YES, I know I am not in the “country” — give me a little more credit, people!) The Union Square Farmer’s Market might not be very big (by NYC standards), but I can still buy overpriced bags of spinach, wild flowers, or local strawberries, and end up with way more than I need for the week. Maybe a Saturday morning trip to the farmer’s market will begin to replace my intense Saturday brunch tradition. When in Somerville…

Casa B – The first night I met one of my roommates, she and her Romanian boyfriend took me to Casa B. Casa B is everything I never thought I’d find “just down the street.” This newish, trendy restaurant is an interesting contrast to the somewhat off-beat little neighborhood (Union Square) full of Brazilians and Koreans. But the Latin-flare tapas restaurant quickly won me over when I walked inside; it was a modern and sleek upstairs, with fresh white tables and stylish details, but more sultry and seductive downstairs — although still comfortable enough for a gathering of friends. I was immediately satisfied with its delicious orangey sangria and a summery fava bean spread, which we generously applied to plantain chips and devoured alongside a revolving selection of tapas (the most memorable of which was the tabla de ceviches and a special vegetarian dish full of fresh, local legumes and wasabi-yuca). The place earned bonus points for having kalimotxo — a very common and popular drink in Barcelona, which consists of red wine, Coca Cola, and a splash of grenadine. While the bill added up (as it always does when ordering tapas), I’d come back here the next time I have something to celebrate… Or, just because.

3 Little Figs – One of my favorite treats is an adorable cafe. This little spot is as cute as its name. While I have yet to sample its salads, sandwiches and baked goods (I know, I know… how can I even put it on the list already!?), I did sample its chai — and it passed with flying colors. Not to mention, the staff was friendly, the ambience was happy, sunny, and bright — perfect for hanging out alone or meeting a friend for coffee, and I love that it is small enough that you know you’re somewhere precious, but available enough that I can people-watch out the big glass windows (the very few people who pass by) from a solid high chair, with my chai at my side, and my physics textbook in front of me. An hour of sitting will bring in just enough customers that I am neither distracted, nor bored. And the lighthearted vibe ensures that — even if I’m studying — I’ll be happy.

Bloc 11 – This is “that cafe” that I always want to have nearby — the one with the good coffee, the hipster on his Macbook in the corner (ok, maybe that’s not a requirement), and a mean salad (I already have a favorite — the Wisteria, which consists of hard boiled egg, pear, caramelized onion, dried cranberries and almonds topped with blue cheese and a pomegranate vinaigrette). Bloc 11 is going to be one of my regular spots for studying, or meeting a friend for an iced tea. That, I can promise.

Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum – OK fine, this is in Boston not directly in Somerville, but it is going on the list anyway because I can’t NOT mention it. When my roommate described The Gardner Museum, she gave me a good idea of what to expect. It was enough to get me to go, without ever having heard of it (but apparently everyone else has). The second I walked in, it hit every love-of-humanities-and-art chord in my science-filled soul that I didn’t even know I was looking to hit. The museum is absolutely wonderful; the Moorish architecture, the impressive collection of Italian art… It’s truly a remarkable place, and I felt temporarily transported to Venice and Southern Spain while I wandered the many rooms of the palace (yep, I said palace). Built in the home of the New York City-turned Bostonian socialite, Isabella Stewart Gardner, it houses her private collection of art – and a very eclectic one at that. There is plenty more to say about the museum and the art, and probably Isabella, but I’d rather you check it out for yourself. This is going to be the museum I recommend to everyone who visits me in Boston from now on. You might as well put it on your itinerary.

Side view of El Morro, in Old San Juan, Puerto Rico.

OK, I need to dash out in the sun. Since it feels like Brazil weather out there, here’s a little music to get you in the sweaty, Brazilian summer mood. Eat a mango, play this song, and keep the AC off — we wait all year for this heat, so no complaining! Happy summer, everyone!

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Filed under Boston, Coffee, Life Stuff, School, Travel, Uncategorized

June 9, 2012 · 10:12 am

A Spoonful of Beantown

This morning marks my second morning here in Beantown, and I have to say: so far so good! Despite the four flash thunderstorms since I arrived (one so powerful I think it was right above the house!), it’s been a really nice 41 hours. I definitely feel like I’m in another world than I am used to. Waking up at 5am to the loud bird songs and going to sleep to crickets is not exactly the “white noise” I’m used to in Manhattan, but I slept like a little angel these past two nights (until 5am at least) — and I look forward to more of that!

Living in Somerville makes me feel a little like I’m in the suburbs, or at least in some up-and-coming area of Queens. I’m a little farther away from public transportation than I am used to (a 15 minute walk up/downhill), but at least there is public transportation at all. There is a whole network of buses that I’ll eventually have to figure out, but I’ll get to that. Honestly, I like accidental exercise so adding a 15 minute walk uphill everyday makes me happy. I mean, whose ass doesn’t need a hill once in a while?

Rainstorm over Quito. View from my apartment in Quito, Ecuador..

I always seem to end up on the top of a hill when I move. If not on top of an actual hill, then on the top floor of a walk-up apartment. In Quito, which is built into a valley, my street — Guanguiltagua (pronounced “wanwuiltawua” if you want to sound more like a local Quiteno) was two streets down from the outter-most ring of streets. Think of the city as a circular stadium or arena, and my street was the second-to-last row of seats all the way at the top (btw, do you know that the word “arena” comes from the latin word “harena” — “arena” is Spanish for “sand” — which referred to a fine sand that was good at absorbing blood and used to fill the floor of stadiums like the Colosseum in Rome? BOOM. Now you do!). The nice thing about living way up at the top of the city was the incredible view, and getting to watch the daily rain or hail storm approach from the southern end of the city, or watching the sunset over the Andes mountains. It was a stunning, daily show, and I will never forget the beauty that I saw while living high in the mountains of South America. There were so many days when I would just sit in my living room watching the weather pass through the mountains like some sort of constantly changing parade…

But back to Boston. Unlike the hill in Quito, which was a straight-up ascent at 9,400 feet and left many of my visitors huffing and puffing through the thin air, this hill I now live on is short and sweet, but definitely noticeable. I have to say — I didn’t expect Somerville to be as pretty as it is. Sure, it helps that June is a favorable month to live in a quieter area (let’s not talk about Boston winter yet). But really — the houses are adorable; no two are exactly the same, each is a slightly different color, with unique details/accents that are special to a girl who has been surrounded by too many buildings lately. Maybe I’m giving Somerville too much credit, because I’m new and everything is a little exciting and different, but I really am excited to be here and try this whole house-thing out.

Sunset over Quito. View from my apartment in Quito, Ecuador. Real life colors — nothing altered/enhanced.

Yes, I have never lived in an actual house (long-term). I’m not used to having a backyard, and despite the two beautiful days that have gone by, I have yet to do more than stare at the backyard and smile knowing that I have it. But today I hope to actually go out there and enjoy it, maybe for a stretch before/after my run around the neighborhood. Maybe to help my new roommate with the gardening she plans to do this morning…

Butterfly. Dutchess County, NY.

Of course, it has only been one full day here, so this post is just a net to quickly capture that first impression before it escapes. I can’t believe I live here now. I can’t believe that after a thunderstorm, I get to hear frogs croaking, and after a long day, I get to walk through a peaceful neighborhood without getting caught up in the tangled energy of many other people’s rat races. I love NYC, I really do. And yes, I’m a city girl. I like being able to order Tibetan food at 11pm if I wanted, or wander into a gallery because it’s on my way home from the gym. I’m used to being able to grab a bagel at the 24-hr deli downstairs if I need it, and choose any type of food I feel like and have it in my mouth within an hour. But this “almost-that” is worth trying. This slightly calmer environment is worth sampling, before the roughness of NYC and all that comes with it makes me forget the alternatives.

Right now, as I type, bells from a nearby church are playing “Amazing Grace.” An American flag waves next to the house next door. There are Virgin Mary statuettes in front of many of the homes on my street. The next door neighbors sit on the front steps of their house, smoking cigarettes while one guy sips a Red Bull, their Boston accents thick and proud. The birds have calmed down since 5am. The frogs are quiet, for now. And I am sipping my coffee at my new desk, thinking… I like it here.

It’s a start. A good start.

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Filed under Boston, Life Stuff, USA

June 1, 2012 · 8:08 am

Danger: Thieves!

Last night I told this story to some friends, so I’ve decided to break away from the “life” posts and re-post an oldie but goodie. It’s about my tug-of-war with a thief in Spain. This answered the age old question: Are you FIGHT or FLIGHT? As future experiences would prove again and again, I continue to be all “fight” and never “flight” — for better or for worse. It’s not necessarily the smart move, but it is the way my body responds to danger. Which do you think you are: Fight or flight? (Originally published by http://glimpse.org/ in 2006.)

After living in Barcelona for four months, I was almost robbed three times. Out of the 40 Americans on my study abroad trip, only about eight of us had avoided the extreme inconvenience of losing money, credit cards and passports in another country. Somehow, I was one of them.

Week after week, I passed grown men and women sobbing on the gritty sidewalks of La Rambla, showing empty wallets and cut purse straps to unsympathetic police officers who silently nodded their heads at yet another hapless victim caught off-guard at the epicenter of Barcelona’s pickpocket scene. These people served as a reminder that I had made it another day without becoming one of them.

View from my apartment in Barcelona, with the Mediterranean Sea and La Sagrada Familia in the distance. Barcelona, Spain.

When I arrived in Barcelona, I was fully aware that the odds were against me if I wanted to get through the semester without being robbed. Unfortunately, the city has a reputation as a breeding ground for petty thieves—artists in their own right—whose clever ruses for robbing tourists would almost demand a certain type of respect if they didn’t evoke so much anguish from their victims.

It is hard to determine exactly why Barcelona has become so infamous for pickpockets. Some Spaniards believe the thieves—many of whom are Northern African immigrants—are attempting to recover lost riches from the English tourists after four centuries of war. With its myriad tourist attractions, Barcelona has no problem attracting a constant, year-round influx of wealthy visitors who wander La Rambla in a haze of naïveté, distracted by the many sites and sounds of the vivacious neighborhood while their bags and wallets bounce temptingly at their sides.

Constant reminders to guard my belongings were sprinkled throughout the city, as well as within the literature provided by my study abroad program. I knew to be careful and to never, under any circumstances, leave my valuables unattended. It was important to remember that the thieves could be anyone: the guy who looks like a bus-boy in your restaurant, the little old lady who asks you to help her cross the street, the friendly young tourist who can’t speak English, or even the little boy who asks you to help find his mother. Thieves in Barcelona have taken their tricks to a level that could almost qualify as performance art. They are so good at what they do that sometimes even the savviest travelers become unknowing victims, unaware they have even been robbed until they try and buy a glass of sangria and find their pant pocket has been cleanly slashed open.

Spray-painted image on a corner in Barcelona, Spain.

My favorite warning was a simple, black, spray-painted image that appeared on the corners of stone walls in the tiny, dark, romantic streets of the Gothic district. In it, a two-dimensional silhouette of a woman throws her arms in the air while a male silhouette runs away with her bag. Underneath the drama of the cartoon-like image are two words of precaution written suggestively in English: “Danger: Thieves.” These two words served as a blatant reminder that tourists like me are easy and attractive targets for the professional Spanish pickpocket.

For several weeks, I saw these signs and found them funny. But the stories about my friends getting robbed kept trickling in until the signs began to take on a more ominous tone. I even began to imagine that I heard a quiet tick-tock sound every time I passed one by. Yet despite my fears that soon I would be the black, spray-painted woman with my hands up in the air, on my last day in Spain, I had yet to be robbed and I thought I was in the clear. It wasn’t until around 11 p.m., approximately six hours before I boarded a plane that would end my four-month Spanish adventure, that the spray-painted man came to life.

Since my flight was leaving early in the morning, I figured I could fit in one last night of partying before my entire Spain experience would be tied up and packaged with a nice little bow to be stored on one of the cluttered shelves in my memory. I met up with a friend of mine, who was visiting from her study abroad program in France. She had some other friends in town, but we decided to meet up for dinner together before joining the rest of the group.

Sidewalk in the Medieval city of Girona, Spain.

As a temporary resident of Barcelona, I had learned by now that Plaza Catalunya, located just at the top of the most popular street in the city, was like a flytrap for robbery victims. Unfortunately, my friend Jessica had naively planned to meet her friends in the center of the circle at 11 p.m. so that we could all go out together from there. As soon as she told me this, I had the feeling that something was going to happen. My gut, my brain and everything I had read told me not to enter the Plaza, but we had to take the risk. Jessica’s friends did not have cell phones and they were in a foreign city without guidance. We had no choice but to find them in the dreaded Plaza Catalunya, and then get on with our night as safely as possible.

After a couple glasses of wine at dinner and the euphoric excitement of meeting up with a friend in a foreign country, a slightly tipsy Jessica and I made our way toward Plaza Catalunya, arms linked and my guard stiffly up. Blue-eyed, blonde-haired Jessica was all smiles, unaware of the potential danger that lay ahead. Without trying to sound too worried, I asked her if she could keep her voice down, knowing that as soon as we were identified as Americans we would be an easy target for thieves.

We approached the Plaza, which is a big circle, and I felt the presence of danger like a cat senses ghosts. As we entered the circular walled-in area, a homeless man interrupted his public urination to stare at us with a threatening smile. My instinct was to turn around and get out of there as quickly as possible, but we had to find Jessica’s friends, if only to warn them to be careful, so we kept walking toward the center.

Sure enough, Jessica’s friends were late. While Jessica talked to me about France and the wonderful places she had visited, I noticed six men sitting on a bench nearby, laughing and staring at us. I wanted to get out of that circle. I wanted to play it smart, like I had all semester, but instead I had to pretend I was in control. Just beyond the walls of the Plaza were hordes of people embarking on the earliest stage of their Saturday nights. Buses were slugging along and music was overflowing from nearby restaurants, where people casually drank beer and smoked cigarettes outside without a care in the world. I wanted to be outside of the Plaza with all of them, laughing, having a beer, safe. But I wasn’t.

“I see them!” yelled Jessica, blonder and with bluer eyes than ever.

My tension began to give way as we were finally allowed to leave the circle and shed ourselves of the giant bull’s eye that seemed to follow us inside the Plaza. As we made our way from the center to the periphery, I felt someone’s glare piercing through me, so I clutched the strap of my bag tightly and picked up the pace. Jessica, still laughing and talking, motioned for her friends to stay where they were. Then, I felt someone getting closer to me from behind my back. The walls to safety were right in front of us, but we were still in Plaza Catalunya, still vulnerable, and someone was following us. We were so close.

My left arm was linked with Jessica’s right arm and my bag was slung over my left shoulder in between us, which I also clutched tightly with my left hand. Suddenly, I felt an aggressive tug that whipped me around with unexpected force. Jessica screamed and jumped to the side. I found myself on the tiled floor of Plaza Catalunya, resting on one knee and one foot, facing a young man who must have been twice as strong as me, but I still had one hand tightly gripped around the strap of my bag. I wasn’t about to let go.

What took place after that initial shock was something I cannot fully explain. The man who had pierced my sense of safety with his eyes from a distance was now standing less than a foot away from me trying to pull my bag out of my hands. He had one hand on each strap of my bag, and I had one hand holding the center of the strap. At that moment, a surge of energy overtook every inch of my body. Much to my surprise, I was not scared at all; I was furious.

I managed to get my other hand around the strap and decided the strap would have to rip from the bag before I let go. I think that is the decision that carried me through the next few seconds. Everything else in the world just dropped out of focus; there was only me and my determination not to let this thief win. As he yanked angrily and fiercely at my bag, I yanked back just as fiercely, just as angrily, while staring him right in the eyes. His look of aggression and intimidation began to fade with each extended second of our tug-o-war until my eyes began to pierce through his confidence.

Me (Tavel) looking for the famous frog on the fascade of the Universidad de Salamanca building. The bag pictured here is the one they tried to steal. Salamanca, Spain.

I don’t know where it came from, but in the loudest voice I could muster, fueled by adrenaline and anger, I yelled, “Get off!” at the man. He gave my bag a couple more yanks, but I yanked back harder, until … he gave up. Before I knew it, the man had let go and was sprinting back into the darkness of Plaza Catalunya, leaving me on the ground with a new hole in my jeans and a couple spots of blood soaking through the knee area. But there in my hand, I had my bag, which somehow—like me—did not break.

When I got up and looked around, I had chills. People were everywhere, buses and taxis and cars were just doing what they always did. Jessica was covering her mouth, looking at me, asking me if I was OK. I think I could have lifted up a bus with the adrenaline still surging through my body. As I walked away, chills still running down my spine, I realized that I was going to beat the odds after all.

This third time someone tried to rob me in Spain was the most aggressive encounter I experienced, but I didn’t throw my hands up in the air like the spray-painted woman who had warned me on random stone walls of the city to beware of thieves. And the thief lurking behind the walls of Plaza Catalunya hadn’t become the spray-painted man running away with my purse.

After the ordeal, I was still in Barcelona, I still had all the valuables I had arrived with, and I had only one more night to complete the experience of living there for a semester. When I looked down at my watch, it was only a few minutes after 11 p.m., but after four months of thinking I had gotten to know Barcelona, those few minutes after 11 p.m. changed everything.

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Filed under Life Stuff, Spain, Travel, Travel Disasters

May 30, 2012 · 9:37 am

Tavel Does Beantown: A Big Apple in Molasses

For some New Yorkers, moving to Boston is like sleeping with the enemy. It’s like a Bowdoin kid transferring to Colby. It makes us feel like we’re cheating on our city — cheating on our Man(hattan), if you will — and maybe some people like that feeling. There is a very subtle sense of excitement when it comes to making the switch, like we are betraying a part of ourselves or someone (Manhattan) that we love. Or maybe we’re just teasing New York, and after years of it controlling us we’ve decided to play hard-to-get. I’ve been known to tease a little… Either way, for some reason, moving to Boston makes me feel like I’m crossing a line people didn’t expect for me to cross. But, as a traveler, it is these invisible barriers that tempt me the most.

Eye contact. Old Town, Quito.

Now that I am about a week-and-a-half away from becoming a Bostonian, I’ve decided to do a little research. For starters, I needed to know why Boston is called Beantown. Now, many of you might know this already, but if you don’t, Beantown gets its nickname from when Boston was part of a triangular trade route between the Caribbean, Boston and West Africa. Sugarcane was being shipped from the Caribbean to Boston, where it was turned into molasses, and then the molasses was shipped to West Africa, where it was made into rum (and then the rum was used to buy slaves in the West Indies). Because of this trade route, Boston was full of molasses — a thick, uncrystallized syrup formed from raw sugar. Cooking beans in molasses became a popular food, and that is how Boston became known as Beantown. I like beans.

Quitenos. Quito, Ecuador.

So, I know, Boston isn’t exactly the kind of travel adventure you’re looking to read about. Sure, NYC and Boston are both big cities with many cultures, religions, and socioeconomic classes represented. But lemme tell ya — they are also VERY different in their own ways. Sometimes, I feel like people don’t talk about these differences.

In the next few months, I’d be lying if I implied I might spend my summer exploring the Boston bar and restaurant scene. The reality is that I will be doing a two-semester sequence of college level physics (1 year of physics, in other words) condensed into 7 weeks at Harvard. This might be my craziest decision yet, but I did buy myself a “Physics for Dummies” book, so I feel a little better about things. I will be doing one week of physics material per day for 7 weeks straight, and something tells me I won’t get out much during those first two months in Boston. BUT, I am not a zombie. Even if most of what I get to see of Boston (initially) is the library, I will be taking it all in. For the first time in my life, I’m going to be living in an actual house, in what feels to me like the suburbs (our neighbors have an above ground pool, and I have my first ever backyard PLUS patio furniture and a fire-pit!!). No matter how similar Boston and New York are, living in Beantown is going to be different for me — very different. And I’m excited for that.

Ecuadorian family enjoying a Saturday stroll and some ice cream. Quito, Ecuador.

Obviously, TwT hasn’t been so much about “traveling” lately — at least in the geographical sense. Someone recently told me, “I miss all the traveling! I used to read your blog to live through you and now it’s all about school…I don’t want to live through that!” Yeah yeah, I know I know. And I’m sorry! Really. But as I explained, people used to want to live through all my travel adventures — they envied me! (I envied me!) And now, nobody wants to be me, so I think that’s a good balance, don’t you think? Now you can read my blog and think, “Whew — thank goodness I’m not in pre-med classes, unable to travel, and out of money like Tavel!” Meanwhile, I can secretly know that life is still awesome — just in a completely different, less sexy, less wild way. And I plan to find more of the “awesome” in Boston.

I have to admit: there is something flickering inside me, some remnant of the “old Tavel” (the one who fell for a Dutch-Caribbean swimmer and traveled to a Caribbean island to spend a long weekend with him after spending only one day with him 3 months before that in Argentina– yeah, her!) that I think will come out in some form when I’m in Boston. I make no promises, I make no predictions, but I do feel a sense of adventure in this relatively mundane move. I will try to channel it to keep things interesting for all of you but, as always, I keep some of the best parts to myself.

As I get settled in Boston, I’m going to write a sort of “New Yorker’s Guide to Boston.” As I search for the perfect brunch spot in what has been described to me as “not a brunch city,” and I find my favorite bagel place, I will record my findings and share my impressions. And maybe, just maybe, there will be more spice to this town than I expect.

Cathedral view. Quito. Ecuador.

It may not be the most exotic ride, and it may not be a long-distance one, but living in Beantown is still going to be a trip. The adventures might be more localized these days, but I can promise you that they never stop. So, with that in mind, I hope you continue to join me as TwT crosses the NY-Boston line and I take on the smooth and the sticky molasses of Beantown… and with it, another year.

(This video is from an Oasis concert at River Plate Stadium in Buenos Aires, Argentina, 2009).

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Filed under Boston, Life Stuff, School, Uncategorized, USA

May 5, 2012 · 9:30 am

The Art of Packing (For Those of Us Who Keep Moving)

A week ago today, I was knee deep in “stuff,” attempting to pack for a two-part move while finishing chemistry homework and studying for a quiz. I’ve packed and moved so many times now (7 full-blown moves since graduating from college… so far) that perhaps I’ve learned a thing or two about the whole process.

Piled up crates. San Telmo, Buenos Aires.

In fact, this last move, I tried to combine every tidbit I had learned over the years in hopes that this poorly timed move could be as efficient, smooth, and stress-free (on me AND the movers) as possible. I must have done an ok job, because — midway through the move — the two movers told me I should write a book on “how to pack to make it easy on movers.” As the child of a super-organized, neat-freak mother (of five children in an apartment in New York City — let’s just say she needed to learn a few tricks to stay sane), this was a sweet, sweet victory. It aint no book, and I am no expert on the subject, but hey — I might as well share what I have learned.

It all begins with my secret weapon: The Container Store. Gone are the days of cardboard boxes, 20 randomly sized and assorted duffle bags or zipper-less sacks. It’s all about the reusable, durable, stackable, hard-shelled plastic storage bin (Ta-Da!). The beautiful thing about these bins is that you can fit all the oddly shaped things — kitchen knives, mugs, coffee pots, vases, shoes — in them, and end up with a very neatly packaged mish-mosh of stuff. Not only does it protect your stuff from getting crushed, but it also protects YOU from accidental pokes! These bins, which are called “sweater bins” by the Container Store, are also perfect for packing clothing; you can put a ton in them (folded neatly, of course), and you can easily see right into the transparent bin so you always know what’s inside. It also comes in handy when you want to find your very favorite pair of purple spandex shorts… Just sayin’. (I may or may not be speaking from experience here…)

Tiles. Argentina.

Not only are these bins perfect alternatives to lumpy duffle bags and fickle cardboard boxes, but they are great for storing off-season clothing throughout the year. That, and they stack really well, taking up almost no space when empty. They are the perfect size for carrying, so that each bin is never too heavy for one person to hold, and they utilize storage space efficiently and effectively. I can’t worship them any more than I already have, so I will stop there.

As much as I’d like to take credit for this idea, it’s all my Mom’s. She is the Queen of Packing, and she taught me everything she knows. I have taken her knowledge and applied it over and over again, developing my own techniques and working off of hers until maybe now I have become somewhat of a pro-packer in my own right. Or so I shall pretend, as mentioned, for just this one post… Humor me. (Just for the record: A friend asked me to write this post, believe it or not!)

Unfortunately, my move has been a two-part move, so I did what any slightly OCD (well, not really OCD, but I am neat and like to be organized! And now I’m getting defensive, so I will stop talking…) person would do: I color-coded with Post-Its. Ah yes, this is how you move from the level of a good packer to a GREAT one! After assembling all my things into their various plastic bins, I had one of two Post-It colors taped to the side of each bin: yellow or blue. Yellow meant STORAGE. Blue meant HOME.

Neatly stacked logs at Estancia Dos Talas in Dolores, Argentina.

If anyone has ever used movers before, you know that they move quickly, so you’ve got to make it easy and obvious what they’re moving, and where it’s going. The plastic bins, while protecting your things, allow them to also see how heavy something might be, and — perhaps more importantly — how fragile! This works out for everyone in the end, trust me.

As the movers plowed through my neatly stacked assortment of plastic bins, I watched with slightly awkward gratification, (it’s weird to watch other people do manual labor when I secretly love doing it myself). I had a moment of happiness when they began communicating in terms of my Post-Its — “Is this is a yellow or a blue?” “That’s a yellow, yellow means storage, let’s put that in the truck last.” “OK, cool.” Yippy! (OK, you neat-freaks get it — all the rest of you, I can hear you making fun of me through the Internet, so shush!)

Neatly packed petals. Buenos Aires, Argentina.

When all seems to be going smoothly, there is one thing that gets me every time I move: the final odds and ends. This is officially the hardest “stuff” to pack, because the seemingly endless pile of things-you-don’t-need-but-don’t-want-to-throwout-because-you-paid-for-them always requires more bags than you estimate. Yes, ALWAYS, no matter how good of an estimator you are (and I used to be pretty good — I once estimated how many candy corns were in a giant jar in my high school and won the whole thing! I was off of 5,000-something by 11 CANDY CORNS! Yep, I remember, and I still feel pretty awesome about it, so just let me have my moment…).

So what else? Basically, when it comes to packing, you can either let the stuff decide how much you have, or you can let your bags and bins decide; I let the bags and bins decide. If I have too much, I donate the rest. There is a sort of Buddhist, cleansing aspect to moving. It always requires letting go of attachments, both materialistic and emotional, and hopefully some element of giving (away, to others). I used to have so much trouble letting go of things, but now I welcome it and look forward to it.

But before you start giving away your favorite pairs of argyle socks, when you think you’ve used all the space you have and it looks like a large duffle bag is completely full — think again! Start rolling clothing into a ball and filling all the air pockets you’ve created (you’d be amazed how much more you can fit this way!). Socks and workout clothes are great for filling in random gaps because you won’t care if they get wrinkled and usually they are the perfect fit for these spaces.

Also, I never ever pack anything that can spill without a ziplock bag. If you haven’t learned this lesson yet — you will. Especially when you fly and the air pressure starts messing with your fancy lotion. It’s easy, and makes toiletries really easy to find: just get a few large ziplock bags, cram as many bottles as you can into each one, and zip (-lock). Obviously, you don’t pack these bags in the “fancy clothes duffle,” which is for the stuff that must be removed as soon as you move and placed back on hangers. Duh.

Gaucho. Dolores, Argentina.

The bottom line is: MOVING IS STRESSFUL. Yes, every single time, for everyone. BUT, there are many ways to make it much less stressful, and that is my goal every single move. I’m still working on it, and unfortunately I anticipate much more practice over the next few years, but hopefully each time it will get easier until — some day — I actually stay put. Now there’s an intriguing idea…

No move is flawless, but with a few plastic bins — I’m telling you — the movers/your awesome friends who offer to help you will be MUCH happier, and so will you.

Finally, with that in mind, the perfect move should always end with a cocktail, a beer, or a glass of wine with a friend. This is a final touch that I can honestly say I have perfected. A special shout-out to all the friends/ex-boyfriends/family members who have helped me with my many moves, and to the ones who will (hopefully!) help me in the future: you make moving bearable, and I think I speak for everyone who’s had this sort of help when I say we appreciate it more than you know. [Now recruiting volunteers for part 2 of my move to Boston — both for the move, and for the drinks afterwards!]

Alright. I have some final exams to study for and a good schvitz to squeeze into this drizzly spring morning. I hope there were some helpful hints in there, and if not — well, there’s always the next post. (Please feel free, as always, to contribute your own packing tips as a comment!)

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April 26, 2012 · 8:41 am

Shipping Up To…

…Boston?!

I guess I should explain myself.

As many of you know, I am currently enrolled in the NYU post-baccalaureate pre-health studies program (AKA the NYU post-bacc). Most post-bacc programs are designed to implant out-of-college students into all the pre-med pre-requisites for med school (bio I, bio II, chem I, chem II, phsyics I, physics II, calculus, English/expository writing, orgo I, orgo II, an advanced bio/chem, etc.). Unfortunately, as a pre-DPT (a rarity in the post-bacc program, but becoming more normal) I have slightly different pre-reqs than a pre-MD. This has created quite the headache, I must say. And this headache is what has indirectly led me to Boston.

ARE YOU BORED YET?! (Here’s a blue-footed boobie doing an awesome mating-dance move to lure you back!)

What, lists of pre-med pre-requisites aren’t fun to read?! Look, this has been my life for the past year (you’re lucky I’m keeping the colligative properties and earthworm anatomical features out of this post). It has not been very sexy to read about, I get it. There has been no sipping of pisco sours in the sparkling evening light of a colonial plaza, no deciding which bikini to pack for my next travel adventure, no plane rides, no tans, no dancing all night in the sand, and certainly no snorkeling with hammerhead sharks (already checked that off the list!).

Rather than the usual rainbow of adventures, this past year has been, well, a couple shades of grey (in terms of adventure — no I am NOT referring to that book!). I’ve traveled so little this past year that the idea of going to Boston is actually thrilling! But don’t you go thinking that I didn’t get something out of the past year…

Maybe wandering down exotic cobblestoned streets was replaced with a repetitive 15-minute walk to Washington Square Park. Trips to Argentina were replaced with trips… to the library. My world shrank from everywhere to a few drab science buildings on the NYU campus. Part of me spent the year in withrdrawal from my cold-turkey life change, and part of me was too busy to even catch my breath and miss anything.

The good news is, I’ve (almost) made it through year one! It’s unreal. The difference I feel now compared to those first few weeks in Biology and Chemistry with a bunch of (echem, 800 of them) AP Bio and Chem kids is amazing. To say I sat there and had absolutely NO idea what the professors were talking about that first week is a major understatement. I felt like I was taking pre-med classes in Swahili. And, this might be news to you, but I don’t actually speak Swahili…

I went from feeling like a complete impostor pretending to be one of “them” to being the first one to grab a knife, cut open a fetal pig’s thoracic cavity, and pull out its heart. This transition has been weird and awkward, like becoming a teenager all over again, but somewhere along the course of the year, I began to feel right at home in my lab coat and goggles.

Speaking of home, let’s get back to the whole Boston thing. Here is the bottom line: my lease is about to end (moving tomorrow, in fact… I should definitely be packing), NYU does not offer a few of the courses I need, nor does it have space in some classes for non-matriculated “special students” like me. For better or worse, the allied health profession courses (pre-vet, pre-physical therapy, pre-phsysician assistant, nursing) are overflowing, and there are a limited number of dead creatures to dissect, so you can’t just squeeze extra students in. That, in addition to the whole NYC thing…

OK, this is going to come as a shock to many of you because I am the girl who was born and raised here and loves NYC to its core but… something has changed and it’s not NYC; it’s me.

Do I still love NYC? ABSOLUTELY. I always will. But do I hate it a little right now too? … Yes.

Being a student in New York is much crueler than even I imagined it would be. The rents are so astronomical, it’s hard to explain them to non-New Yorkers, and hard to justify them to myself. And it’s not just that; the whole apartment-hunting process is a NIGHTMARE. You can’t even start looking at apartments until you’re one or two weeks away from losing yours, and then you have to visit a bunch of crapholes (ok — that is my case since I am a student… echem) with a check-book in hand, because if you don’t put the first month’s rent, last month’s rent, security deposit, application fee AND broker’s fee (usually a pretty terrifying total) up front within a couple hours, you will lose the apartment.

I can’t live like that! Not to mention, I have this inner domestic side that has come out and is screaming for mercy. I want more space, more peace and quiet, maybe even a porch! But, I can’t give up city living completely. NYC is a tough town in general, but add being a long-term student to the mix and it is like choosing to live in the shitty basement over a beautiful mansion. I don’t need a mansion, but I do need and want more space, and more bang for my very small buck. The reality sunk in this year: I just can’t afford to be a student in this town. I hate to leave my family, but I can barely enjoy all that NYC has to offer. Even if I leave NYU (a necessity given the fact that I can’t complete my pre-requisites here), the other NYC options — Brooklyn College, Hunter, CCNY, Pace — are also overwhelmed with students. Sure, a few of those are a bit cheaper, but they require an application, and then, once accepted, that would make me a non-matriculated, non-post-bacc student, which basically gives me the scraps of course availability. I’d be registering AFTER everyone else, and after talking with admissions/bursars office representatives from each and every one of these schools, it became clear that this means I probably would not get into the courses I need… And I’m not wasting any time here. Let’s get this ball rolling!

And then there is the Harvard Extension School. I thought about this place way at the beginning, but after just moving home from Quito, Ecuador, I didn’t want to be anywhere but NYC. Funny how things change in a year.

To wrap things up, let me just say that — after years of telling myself I had absolutely no interest in living in Boston — I am now SO looking forward to this move. My dad is from Dorchester. He’s a real Boston guy, from Boston Latin School to Harvard… He’s still got the accent and the sports loyalties… I definitely have a little New England swag in me. In a way, Boston already feels like home. But now I have to make it home. The hard work begins in JUNE!

OK — I have a TON to do today. Let’s just end by saying I’m ready to pahk the cah in Hahvahd Yahd. That said, you can take the girl out of NYC, but you can’t take the NYC out of the girl… I don’t actually have a cah, so I’ll have to do without. It is now your job to tell me about your favorite bars and restaurants in Boston so I can enjoy the heck out of Boston the only way I know how.

Life is crazy. Another whirlwind year, another apartment, another city… Time to roll with all the changes once again. And here’s to hoping there is a little more adventure in the next year… in any form that takes on because, as you can probably tell, I don’t “do” boring well.

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March 19, 2012 · 10:38 pm

10 (ok 5) Things That Suck About Traveling: A Post To Make Tavel Feel Better

As some of you may have noticed, I’ve been doing a little sulking about my lack of traveling lately. Instead of changing the name of my blog and making too many people roll their eyes at me, I’ve decide to put together a list of reasons traveling sucks, purely to make me feel better. Travel isn’t all exotic encounters with locals, sipping Belgian beers under starlight, and horseback riding into the sunset. PSH! When we travel — like, really travel — we usually encounter some (many) bumps along the way. Sure, that’s half the fun, but what about the other half?! It SUCKS! Today, I shall focus on that half — take it or leave it, travel idealists.

1. Seasickness. So, yeah, maybe I got to spend five days, four nights on a luxurious out-of-my-league catamaran in the Galapagos Islands. Maybe I got my own bottle of champagne when I arrived, and maybe the food was the most delicious food I had eaten in months. But you want to know some other details about that trip? There were handle bars… in the shower… and I had to white-knuckle cling to those handlebars when I showered because the seas were so rough. I was almost thrown out of my bed one night (and I did physically fly out of it exorcism-style at least once — that is a fact). So yeah… Catamarans are awesome until you’re in the middle of the ocean sailing between islands that are literally DAYS apart. No amount of Dramamine or little weird bracelets and ear patches could save me from the nausea I felt that first night… but I never puked. That was my small victory. AND I’d take seasickness over altitude sickness any day (a true traveler has experienced both — or so I like to tell myself).

2. Public bathrooms. With the exception of Japan, where a public toilet in a train station offers ambient ocean sounds, a heated seat, and air-freshner that sprays automatically when you move away from it… (take that Penn Station!), most public bathrooms I’ve encountered abroad — particularly in Central America, sorry ticos — are pretty scary. Kind of like the pile of used toiletpaper (etc… ick) that accumulates within a 3-foot radius of the garbage can because the plumbing can’t handle more than a #1, the garbage cans are toy-sized, and most Central Americans are used to using their feet rather than their hands to hit a target. I once took a 6 hour bus ride through some mountains in Costa Rica, during which the only bathroom break was at a roadside hut that sold coconuts (pro) right in front of a doorless-bathroom that lacked flushing capabilities and toilet paper (con). I met a lot of locals that day without every saying hello.

3. Long flights. I’d be lying if I told you that I have done a lot of domestic flying. Most of the time, when I book a flight, it involves a number of time zone crossings, at least 3 meals, and usually a really sorry attempt at sleep. Take, for example, my direct flight from NYC to Tokyo — the last time I ever purchased a window seat. Despite the in-flight yoga, which I definitely appreciated, I was locked in by 2 zonked-out Japanese businessmen sleeping on their tray tables while I — usually someone against taking any sort of sleep medication ever (and, now, ever again) — consumed my first and last Ambien. I never sleep on planes, but figured this was a good trip to try out the whole sleeping pill thing. After popping the Ambien, and waiting for it to kick in, I spent 8 of the 14 hours drooling in a perpetual half-awake state. Most of the time, I’d “wake-up” positive that I had finally fallen asleep, only to realize each time this happened that only a few minutes had gone by. This is how you torture Tavel.

4. Language barriers. Sure, this is an obvious one, but whether you’re in an emergency room being asked to do things no doctor has ever asked you to do, or lost on horseback in the middle of a foreign countryside, dehydrated and hours away from your group and your hostel, everything is a little trickier when you don’t speak the language. I remember my first day in Barcelona — it was my 20th birthday. My friend Lisa and I had no clue where we were or what we were doing, but by 7pm we knew that we were starving. Lisa and I began wandering the streets in search of food. There was not a single restaurant open until 9pm. After getting shut down by one Spaniard after another, we began to get desperate. Two hours later, Lisa and I were so hungry, so tired, and so disoriented (nobody spoke Spanish — it was all Catalan!) that at some point, we just sat on a stoop, hugged each other, and cried — me because I was so hungry I couldn’t function, Lisa because she felt bad she couldn’t make my birthday more special. We eventually drowned our sorrows in sangria, and never looked back. I’ve come a long way since that night, but boy do I remember that feeling!

5. Unidentifiable cuisine. Ok, so exotic cuisine might seem cool until the whole “adventure” thing wears off, and you find yourself fighting a parasite, really just wanting your comfort foods… but they are nowhere to be found. All that you encounter is cuy (spit-grilled whole guinea pig) and mysterious soups with everything-but-the-kitchen-sink thrown into them (this includes actual chicken feet and the occasional animal penis, and excludes — oh, I don’t know — real noodles).

Confession: I was going to make this a list of 10 things that suck about travel, and then I realized I couldn’t come up with ten things. Darn it. The truth is, I actually enjoy many of the things that suck about travel. You can’t travel hoping for perfection every step of the way! You’ve got to go into a trip open to all the shit that might hit the fan before you go to bed (that is, if you’re lucky enough to have a fan at all!).

So, I will stop here. If you like me, you will add to this list by leaving a comment below about something that sucks about traveling (PLEASE DO!). Now here’s the bottom line:

Sure, there are many things that suck about traveling. But, while this post was intended to make me feel better, I will say that sometimes the absolute worst thing about traveling is that I can’t just fly away any time I want. That said, for a good amount of time, I could… and I did. So cheers to those days, and to a future full of more of those days, which I am now humbly working towards.

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Video

The Story About The Book I Almost Wrote

This morning, I woke up with a song stuck in my head. I haven’t heard this song in a long time, I haven’t thought about this song ever (at least not consciously), and I haven’t woken up with any song in my head for a while. So, I thought it was odd when I found myself singing it as I got ready for class, but quickly forgot about the moment as I headed to my 8am lecture. It took me all day — a bizarre Leap Year Day, I might add — to realize that the singer (Davy Jones — a name I, admittedly, didn’t know) died today.

Life is weird. Sometimes I try to make sense of things that are not meant to make sense, and I look for meaning in meaningless accidents. I don’t do it because I’m bored or hopeless, I do it because I sincerely believe in learning from life, and sometimes I try to learn something at the wrong moments, over the wrong people, from the wrong lessons. It’s like I’m constantly working on one giant puzzle and I’m convinced there are pieces missing (you know that moment when you’re convinced it’s not you, it’s the puzzle that’s wrong!? Just me? OK then…), when really it’s a brand new box, and I just haven’t found some of the right ones yet. But, for what it’s worth (and let me tell ya — it’s worth a lot these days!), I’ve finally gotten most of the straight edges in place; everyone knows that’s the first step, then you fill it all in.

Crumbling Wall. Dolores, Argentina.

Last week, I found out that a book project I had been working on fell through. It’s strange, because I don’t feel sad at all. In a way, I feel really happy — maybe even relieved — and I am confused by this reaction. Most people are giving me the absolutely appropriate and kind words that I would think I’d need. But honestly, I feel good about this dream-crushing experience! I call it that because technically this was a life long dream-opportunity that arose out of the pure certainty in my heart/mind that it would somehow come true. When life actually matches up with the dreaming, I have trouble believing that it’s real. But, even after getting my golden ticket — the most unlikely happening at the most bizarre time — reality still sneaks up and wins.

For those who don’t know, by a stroke of serendipity, the moment I quit my writing/editing life and began volunteering as a physical therapy aide, I found myself tending to the sprained ankle of a new patient. As I set her up with ice and electric-stimulation (better known as e-stim, for anyone who’s ever found him/herself beneath its oddly buzzing patches), she asked me how I got into physical therapy. Without wanting her to know how truly inexperienced I “technically” was (going through a total of one year of physical therapy myself didn’t exactly count as “experience”), I told her I was actually a career-changer just getting into the field. She sounded interested and asked me what I did before? I love this question, because the last thing people expect is for me to say “I was a travel writer living in Ecuador.” But it’s true, and it makes me happy every time I say it!

This launched an interesting conversation, during which I announced that writing will always be my first love, but that I had also always secretly wanted to go into healthcare. When even a dream job in South America didn’t cover up this inner urge, which I had tried for years to cover up by adventures and disguised satisfaction, I realized it was time to bust a move (so to speak). In a way, I felt like the ship I was on (publishing) had just hit an iceberg, and I could either stay on and know my likely fate, or jump off the sinking ship while I still had enough fight in me to swim to a lifeboat. It took me several jobs to realize that I didn’t have to get paid to write; if I loved doing it, I could do it no matter what, and still have a different career. So, I took that knowledge and finally (after MUCH thought, and in a way, none at all) began to run with it.

Unfortunately, I have a lot of dreams. Dreams don’t just “come true” — lemme tell ya! You’ve got to work hard (in some cases, work your ASS off) for them, but these “dreams” don’t come with promises of any kind. To my delight, the woman with the sprained ankle asked me more questions, and I happily answered them. I explained how I was a bit adventured-out after getting sick in Ecuador, getting my heartbroken over too many over-the-top romances (including a couple unforgettable international ones… mmm mmm), and, frankly, I was out of money. But I mentioned that even though I was switching career paths, I had to write a book about all my adventures because they were too crazy, wonderful, and sometimes heartbreaking not to. I felt like the only one of my friends going through the wonderful mess of questions with only temporary answers that I was going through (which is probably not true at all, but I’m waiting for you all to blog about it!), but I knew there were plenty of other people out there who may have wanted to simply know they were not alone. She asked me, “what kind of adventures did you have?” So, as she had 20 minutes to go with her ice and e-stim, I began to tell her.

Walking along the peak of Pichincha Volcano. Quito, Ecuador. (15,500 feet high)

It wasn’t until the end of our conversation that I asked her to tell me about herself, and what she did for a living. Her response intantly sparked one of those magic moments in life when you just KNOW something crazy is about to happen in your life. She said, “Actually, I’m a literary agent…” I gulped, laughed, let the words blow up in my heart, and said: “OH.” I knew this was it. THIS was IT.

~Magic moment!! ~

Then she asked me the question I didn’t even know I had been ready to answer for years. She asked, “How serious are you about that book?” My response was immediate: “I am DEAD serious. I’ve already started writing it…” She gave me her card, told me to email her with a little more background on the story. I told her to watch out if she wasn’t serious, because she was going to get an email from me the next day. She laughed and said she was serious. Clearly, so was I.

In that moment, I knew this was going to happen. It was always going to happen. I always BELIEVED this was going to happen, but at this point — fresh off of me quitting the writing/editing world and admittedly not brilliant– I just didn’t have a clue HOW.

A 30 page proposal and three sample chapters later (which I wrote in three weeks, mind you), I was signed with the agency. Within one week of signing, I started my post-baccalaureate pre-med program at NYU — my “new” life.

People often asked me how the hell I planned to both write a book and pursue one of the most intensely competitive/time-consuming academic endeavors I could possibly have chosen, and honestly, I had no idea what I was really getting myself into. I actually believed I could do both, because I had to! When a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity knocks on your door, you let that stud in.

As I studied my brains out, I realized how hard it was going to be to write at the same time (about REAL people – scary, to say the least), but I had to make it work. Around the holidays I got a call from my agent. It could have been any news, and she wanted me to call back immediately. I was suspicious.

Sure enough, after all these amazing dots lining up and a little “fairy dust” (as my friend calls it), she got a job offer in another part of the country, and had accepted. Just like that, I knew this was it. Even though my project got passed along to the president of the company, I knew I wouldn’t strike gold twice; not everyone is going to love my story enough to work their butt off for it, and I had found my golden ticket, the one person in the world who sincerely did, but I wouldn’t dream of getting two golden tickets. A couple months of edits and lingering hope later, the end of this opportunity became reality, and my dream book has been put back in the mental bookshelf for now, while my biology and chemistry textbooks remain open in my hands.

I am going to write this book. It is absolutely not “the end.” But frankly, I’m relieved that I don’t have to write it now. School is my absolute focus, above anything else right now. It is my new dream, my new passion. And while writing will always be there, and will always be incorporated into my continuously odd, bizarre, and (to me) exciting life, I’ve got some final touches to add to the ending of my twenty-something story.

This song that I woke up with today seems evermore fitting as I get myself ready for bed tonight. So, I leave you with it, and with this promise: I will write a book. I don’t know when, I don’t know how, but I will. Until then, I’ve still got my trusty blog. So thank you for being a part of it, and my ever-changing, always unpredictable, sometimes incomplete yet deeply gratifying story… so far.

4 Comments

February 29, 2012 · 9:13 pm

February 4, 2012 · 11:09 am

Two Gals and a Cucaracha

There comes a time in every gal’s life when she finds herself face-to-face with a giant cockroach. In that moment, how she behaves is strictly instinctual, complicated only by her desire to maintain control and some remnant of composure. Usually, there is only one option: KILL. But for many of us, this is not as easy as it sounds.

It happened only once. I had somehow skirted ever seeing a single cockroach in my apartment and I knew it was just a matter of time. It was summer in the city, after all, and one can only dodge so many bullets before he/she gets hit.

I was in my room, sitting at my desk, texting my then-boyfriend who lived in Chicago when I heard a weird clicking sound. In my gut, I knew exactly what it was, but in that millisecond when my head popped up and began to twist in the direction of the noise to identify the specifics of the sound, I prayed it would not be what I thought it was – the unmistakeable clicking of an exoskeletal creature wandering around the room. And in that same millisecond, from the corner of my eye, I saw the dark body of my dreaded enemy moving ever-so-slowly across the edge of my bedroom floor.

An Ecuadorian woman holds out a giant beetle we found on my bed while visiting the cloud forest in the town of Mindo, Ecuador.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

I screamed. I’m telling you right now, I’m not a girl who screams, and I fuckin’ SCREAMED. Then, I jumped OUT of my chair, watched it freeze against the wall, and I ran the hell out of my room. My med-school roommate, J, popped out of her room down the hall and said “What’s wrong?! Are you OK?!” I told her I just saw the biggest cockroach I have ever seen in my life. We both went into an immediate, girly panic. I’m embarrassed to say that this is my only way of responding to such an event.

Look, I know it’s easy to exaggerate what the biggest roach you’ve ever seen looks like when it is creeping its way across your bedroom floor, but in this case, I am not lying: it was GIGANTIC. It was straight out of Jurassic Park or some horrible museum exhibit that I hope never to attend. This thing was a monster, and it was a monster in my bedroom. Something had to be done.

My heart started racing. J started freaking out with me. GAH! SHIT, WHAT DO WE DO!?! We both started screaming and laughing and squirming and being totally pathetic and helpless as the giant cockroach kept exploring the crevices of my wooden floor like it had just been dropped off on an exotic island by a cruise ship.

This was a HORRIBLE situation. “WE HAVE TO DO SOMETHING! WHAT DO WE DO?!” I blurted out. I was almost shaking with repulsion. J responded, “I don’t know, I don’t know!! We’ve gotta kill it Tavel! YOU CAN DO IT!!” I said “ME? J, I can’t kill it!! AH! I don’t know what to do!” We searched for roach spray, only to find we had none. J, being a great med school student, even though we were both totally disgusted and continuing to freak out just a little bit, collected herself and came up with an idea.

“OK. How about this? YOU stay HERE, I will go knock on all our neighbors’ doors. There has to be someone who has roach spray on our floor!”

I squirmed at the thought of staying put, alone in an apartment with the giant cockroach, who continued to explore my bedroom.

“OK! But HURRY!!!” I yelled.

“You’ve got this Tavel! WE’VE GOT THIS! I’ll get help!” J ran out our front door. I heard her knocking on doors. I overheard the two gay guys who lived across from us tell her they didn’t have any spray, one said “ew!” and we then realized they were just as squeamish about roaches as we were. None of the other neighbors were home, except for the two Columbia students — both girls — at the other end of the hallway. They apologized and didn’t have spray either. J came back into the room empty-handed. We were on our own. A few minutes had passed. My heart kept beating as chills made their way up and down my body every few seconds. It was time to come up with another plan — and FAST!

J: “OK, Tavel, don’t panic but nobody on our floor has roach spray!”

Me: “SHIT! SHIT SHIT SHIT!”

Then J had a genius moment.

J: “Wait! What about that guy downstairs! The one with the pitbull?! He always liked us! He’d be a good neighbor and help two nice girls out, right?!”

She had a point. Honestly, I could care less who helped, I just knew I couldn’t stare at this bug much longer. I screamed: “YES, YES!!! GET HIM!!”

As soon as I said this, I realized how bizarrely we were behaving. Who behaved like this? What grown young lady spends this much time trying to figure out how to deal with a freakishly large, lone cockroach? We were not behaving normally, but that was beside the point.

J had thought of the guy on the first floor, Paul, who always flirted with us just a little and owned a large pitbull. He was a macho Puerto Rican guy who usually wore some sort of bandana over his bald white head, wore almost exclusively white worn-in wife beaters, a silver chain, and cargo shorts, and blasted reggaeton out of his windows every weekend. As much as he was a tough guy, he was always a gentleman towards us. This was our guy.

The plan was set: J would run down to the first floor (from our fourth floor apartment) while I stayed in the apartment and kept an eye on the cockroach. She would find Paul and ask him to come up with his pitbull to take care of our… err… problem. We were going to be FINE.

In the meantime, I was not to lose site of the roach. I had one of my gore-tex sneakers in my hand as I stood with my feet far apart in a sort of awkward half-squat, waiting for the roach to make a move. By now, it had crawled halfway up my dresser, and as long as I stared at it, it stayed still.

This was the absolute worst idea ever, because I can barely stand the site of a cockroach, and there I was barely blinking, staring into its eyes in a Tavel-Cockroach showdown. My body tingled with fear and horror, but I stayed in my spot, in ready-to-smush position, dreading the idea of wiping roach guts off of my beautiful dresser more than anyone can imagine. The LAST thing I wanted to do was smash that mo-fo on my own furniture, because I knew exactly who would have clean it up, and eventually sleep in the same room as its ghost. This situation quickly became lose-lose, and I began praying to the exterminator gods that this Puerto Rican guy downstairs would be home.

The minutes kept piling up, and the tension mounted between me and the roach. Whenever it moved just a little bit, I raised my arm to fire and it would freeze again. Crushing it with my shoe was an absolute last-resort (the clean-up from these incidents is possibly the worst part). The clock was ticking and I was stuck in the hellish position of staring at the most repulsive creature on Earth as I waited and waited for J to come back with our man.

Of course, all I could do was text my then-boyfriend, who lived in Chicago, things like “AHHHHHH!!!! OH MY GOD. I AM STARING AT THE BIGGEST ROACH EVER!!!! THIS IS HORRIBLE!!” His response, of course, was laughing at me, telling me to just smash it and get it overwith, and asking me to take a picture of it first so he could see how big it was.

As I waited, I nervously raised my shaking Blackberry up to take the photo. My hands were getting clammy, but I did something I still regret to this day: I zoomed in. What I saw in that photo was awful. I still remember it. I can see it when I close my eyes. I got the shot, I hit send and I promptly deleted the image. For what it’s worth, my boyfriend was very impressed (not with me, obviously — with the cockroach). Where was help though?! I needed HELP.

Then, I heard J yelling “Tavel! Hang in there! I GOT HELP!”

Best. Sound. Ever.

The roach was still in its spot, hiding underneath the handle of my dresser drawer when in walked Paul, exactly how I remembered him, laughing at us in his wife-beater saying, “Don’t worry girls, I got this, I got this…”

After he entered the apartment, I screamed (again) and ran out of my bedroom saying “THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! YOU ARE MY HERO!!!”

Paul laughed and said “No worries. I brought my smashing shoe!”

Indeed, he was prepared. In one hand, he had a ratty old sneaker. In the other hand, he had a plastic bag and paper towel. His pitbull was nowhere to be found, but he seemed confident and manly, and I was grateful.

Paul came into my bedroom, asked me where the roach was, and I pointed with disgust to where it had perched itself. It was like a Great Dane that thought it was a mini-poodle, hiding itself behind a pillow a tenth its size.

“Holy shit, that’s a big one!” Paul said, as he approached the danger zone. Something inside me felt validated by this.

As J and I squirmed, giggled, screamed, jumped around, covered our eyes and mouths, trembling in the other room, we heard the sounds of victory: Whack! WHACK WHACK WHACK!!!!!

I screamed one more time, laughing with J at the ridiculousness of our situation. Then I asked, nervously: “DID YOU GET IT?”

To my relief, Paul yelled back from the other room, “OH yeah, I got it! DAMN that thing was big.” Before he walked out, he said “Do NOT go in there yet…”

He walked into the kitchen, where we were hiding, with his smashing-shoe in hand and said, “Uh, do you have any paper towels and some cleaning spray?” I jumped out with the paper towels and some Fantastic (the bottle spoke for me) and began to thank Paul profusely. My biggest concern now was what might be left behind of the cucaracha. Luckily, Paul — in all his exterior hardness, or exoskeleton of toughness, shall we say? — had the sense to clean it all up afterwards. He was quite the gentleman, afterall.

We couldn’t stop laughing and tried to thank Paul the Puerto Rican Roach-Killer as much as we could. To this day, I’m not sure if he knows how much he saved us. Not only did he kill the roach, but he then proceeded to clean it up until my dresser was absolutely spotless leaving behind no remnant of the crime scene. To add to his awesomeness, Paul threw out all the dirty paper towels, put them in our garbage can, and insisted on taking the garbage down for us so that we didn’t have to deal with the aftermath of any part of this slaughter.

Paul, wherever you are, you are a SAINT. THANK YOU.

In retrospect, our response to the giant roach encounter, and the options to which we resorted, was all completely over-the-top. But between J’s quick-thinking and resourcefulness, my ability to stare my fear in the eyes, and the serendipity of having a guy who owns what he calls a “smashing shoe” right downstairs, we were saved and spared the indignity of killing and cleaning up this roach’s remains ourselves. Sure, Paul got a kick out of the whole thing, and maybe we got to make him feel like a man, but he really was our hero. I like to think that I could man-up in this sort of situation (and I know I can), but sometimes, it’s just nice to have someone else man-up for you. I can deal with almost everything EXCEPT roaches — let me just make that clear.

Later that week, I baked Paul cookies to thank him for his good-neighborlyness. Luckily, we never had another roach encounter. I didn’t see much of Paul after that, but I did hear the music blasting downstairs in his apartment. Every time I came home, just knowing he was right downstairs with his smashing-shoe was enough.

All I can do now is wait for the next horrifying roach-encounter. But next time, I’ll be prepared; not only will I make sure to keep roach spray on-hand, but I will also scope out the neighbors in every apartment I live in, just to make sure I know whose door I can knock on in the case of another roach emergency.

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