47 Hours in Tampa, Part II

Since returning to Park City, I have had several people ask the inevitable “How was your trip?” Normally this is a fairly easy question to answer, but the brevity of the visit in concert with an abundance of peculiar introductions and instances tripped my attempts to respond. Days later, I still am not sure I have fully processed the whirlwind that was last week. 

As I mentioned, I seemed to meet a greater than average number of strangers proportionate to the short time I was away. If I were to tell you of each of them, I would surely lose your interest to weariness (vignettes of cab drivers alone could comprise a novella). However, given that these characters were a major source of amusement, activity, impressions, and recollections, I must mention a few.

Enter the first of a long line of these strangers: Darnell. I met Darnell at a bar (where else?) somewhere in the coliseum that is the Dallas International Airport. Sure, it was ten in the morning, but I had a two-hour layover ahead of me and it seemed like the best way to pass time. Besides, isn’t that what people do on vacation? Darnell is a mechanical engineer in Philadelphia, who, upon hearing that I grew up in Los Angeles, divulged that he would like more than anything to move to L.A. but was bound to Philly because he belonged to the engineering association there (I had no idea such things existed). Anyhow, remember when I told you about the looks I received when relaying my “say ‘yes’ to everything” escapade? Well, Darnell was also the first of a long line of strangers to make me feel as though I had just uttered those words again. Except this time I was telling him that I was on my way to TAMPA to watch UCSB, a fifteen seed, play the Gators. Oh yeah, I’ve seen that look before. Coincidentally, Darnell was on his way to Vegas to place a number of large bets on the tournament. For the next hour, we watched last minute bracket tips on ESPN and shared our life stories. Before he left, Darnell picked up my tab (Blue Moon, to go with my orange juice at breakfast) and asked me to switch my flight to Vegas. I could be his good luck charm, and maybe he’d win enough to move to L.A. after all. I told him I would consider it if, and only if, he bet on a Gaucho upset. I boarded my flight to Tampa an hour later. But not before I saw that look again.

I should probably also make mention of the lovely disheveled girl who shoved me out of the way at the taxi podium upon landing in Tampa. With her mascara and off-the-shoulder sweatshirt running down the same tousled direction, she demanded to know where she could get a taxi (it was clearly marked). “Where to, ma’am?” asked the polite men in white. “I-onno!” She seemed offended by the inquiry. “Closest Walmart??” Despite the minor assault, I was relieved to find a girl more lost and confused about what she was doing there than I was.

I made my way to the opulent Best Western without another hitch. The first thing I did when I got to my room was to put on my UCSB swimsuit (purchased, coincidentally, at the Goleta Walmart). The fence separating the parking lot and the “pool” (winter foliage bin) may as well have been nonexistent, but I didn’t care one bit. I didn’t even mind that I could watch main street traffic from my plastic lawn chair (or the obvious converse of this view). I was bathing in 80 degrees of non-electronic, non-wood burning heat -- and it was glorious. An hour later, I was joined by my travel companion (who I did not introduce earlier in case he’d prefer to no longer affiliate with me after this trip. We’re good.)

Without further ado, meet Shahan, who was kind (though I could substitute other words) enough to join me on this off the cuff excursion:

Isla Vista, May 2007

He would be the gentleman resting on the roof. Clearly, Shahan is a Gaucho to the core. This, amongst others, is the reason I knew he’d make the perfect person to share the trip with. The funny thing is, prior to the two straight days we spent together in Tampa, Shahan and I had spent less than 47 collective hours together. I can list the number of times we’ve hung out on one hand. But I have found that Shahan is one of those people that I “know” without even really knowing at all. Additionally, I’ve certainly put him through some things in the few times we have journeyed off together and he hasn’t (yet) gone running for the hills. There was the time we went to a Dodgers game in San Diego. I was so distracted by the sights that I stepped off the curb right in the path of a maniacal cab driver. I’d likely be a permanent stadium fixture had Shahan not tossed me out of the way. Then a Padres fan accosted me, causing me to lose both Shahan and my ticket in the shuffling crowd. Miraculously, with no cell phone service, I found Shahan after the man who’d separated us gave me his ticket, which somehow happened to be in the same section as my original. Why Shahan chose to go on this adventure with me despite these and other (even less flattering) trials is beyond me. I’m just glad he did. Evidently, it is my tendency to wander. Back to Tampa...

Our first glimpses of the Tampa landscape occurred on our stroll to find the closest liquor store. Two men hanging out on a bench kindly offered to drive us there, but we opted to walk in favor of “seeing the sights”… and not being kidnapped. For dinner, we settled on a place within walking distance that served Chicago style deep dish pizza, i.e. substantial drinking food. I immersed myself in each step of the way. I loved the rush hour traffic at dusk, the warm and heavy humid air, the evening breeze. It had been well over five months since I’d worn a dress and flip flops, and I was so euphoric from the lightness of it all you may as well have let me loose in a nude colony (I hear there are plenty of those in Florida). Halfway there, Shahan stopped to ask three construction workers if we were on the right track. “He’s making you work for your dinner, eh?” one of them grunted. “Don’t they all?” I yelled back, already skipping away. (Of course, this contradicts the entirety of my previous post.)

After dinner we took a cab to meet up with the cheer girls. For fear of getting overly sentimental, suffice it to say that seeing their familiar faces was even better than I could have anticipated. They are quite simply some of UCSB's best and brightest, and a treat - in every sense of the word - to be around. I can’t speak for Shahan, but I would be curious to know what was going through his head playing dirty Thumper and Ten Fingers with a room full of cheerleaders. On second thought, maybe it’s best I don’t know. Ever.

March 16, 2011

From there we took cabs to some Irish bar. I cannot tell you much beyond that. I do know that I took a lot of pictures of random strangers singing karaoke, as evidenced by this gem I found in the morning:

 

Though, I don’t know what possessed me to do so. I also discovered that we karaoke’d to Chris Brown’s “Drop it Low” (more or less our theme song at last year’s Big West and NCAA tournaments; obviously a great American classic). I only pray that no one else at the bar was as trigger happy with a camera as I was.

Needless to say, I felt terrible the entire next day. I knew it was going to be a rough one when I stepped out of the hotel room and muttered, “I don’t like the temperature of this hallway.” I had one of those hangovers where every smell, sound, touch, and taste acted as a tormenting creature (melodramatic, maybe, but we've all been there). We walked across the street to have brunch at Ihop. And the warm climate I loved so much just the evening before? I despised it. The dense, sticky air made me feel ill. I loathed the waitress for sitting us next to the bright window. I kept my sunglasses on. I closed my eyes, propped my elbow on the table, and crutched my heavy head against a shade of fingers. I apologized to Shahan for not being social. He assured me that it was OK, that everyone would just think we were in a fight. “Or married,” I offered. Within five minutes, I excused myself to the restroom. Between dry heaves, I had to listen to a woman with three screaming toddlers ask the baby she was changing whether or not having a clean butt was important to him (in high pitched crooning much too delighted for someone wiping said behind). I was convinced I was being punished. When I emerged from the stall, I got the most unapproving look I’d seen in a while. I understood, of course. The last time this lady threw up so early in the day it was because of morning sickness, not bar shenanigans.  The food came out as I was sitting back down. I requested a box to go before the plate even touched the table. I was going no where with this International Passport. I conceded defeat to any dignity I had left (minimal at this point), recoiled into fetal position, and slowly made my way to lay on the cool, plush leather booth. Shahan made me leave, and not a moment too soon. I threw up in the hotel stairwell on the way to our room on the third story. Any shred of dignity left me at that point. Later Shahan told me that the waitress came back with the box, expectedly confused by my sudden disappearance. “She broke up with me,” Shahan covered. She offered him a free cup of coffee. 


I spent the rest of the day in and out of sleep, hating myself any minute my eyes were open. It was three in the afternoon before I could eat my boxed breakfast. Wasn't drinking supposed to be easier on my body at sea level? Despite the regrettable way the day began, the evening served us well. Shahan and I took a cab to downtown Tampa and found a hip little spot for dinner called Fly Bar. Our waiter was another memorable Tampa character. He seriously questioned why we hadn't pursued acting, being from L.A. or "the heart of it all." Then again, he also told us that his favorite drinking game was “America’s Next Top Model” (not, actually, far off from what you may imagine), and called us a "table full of liars" as he buried his face in his hands when Shahan told him the dish he'd recommended was just "alright."

March 17, 2011

I don’t think I have to tell any of you how the game went. On the bright side, our seats were awesome… except for the fact that we were in a sea of Gator fans. Most importantly, we were there. Shahan and I gave it our Gaucho best (or worst, depending on how you see it). Hell, we’d come all that way, and we weren’t about to back down. Even when the score was 13-31. Then 35-69. In hindsight, maybe we do belong in Hollywood, the way we masked our heartache with oblivious conceit. One Gator fan walked up to me at half time and said, "You are LOUD." Tell me something I don't know. "I used to sit with them," I sighed, nodding my head towards the cheer squad (goodness, I sounded like I'd just been shunned from the cool kids' table). Despite a valiant effort from Orlando Johnson (who led the team with 21 points), the Gauchos lost by almost 30. As Shahan so insightfully and poetically put it: “Gators drink Gatorade. Gauchos drink faderade. And it showed.”

Since I refused to go to any bars within walking distance of the site of massacre, Shahan and I walked around the arena until we found the bus depot. No one seemed to think it odd that two strangers were going around asking the whereabouts of a group of cheerleaders. We hitched a ride on the bus back to their hotel. As the saying goes, misery loves company. As a direct result of my hangover from hell, I’d sworn off hard liquor for the evening in favor of catching my plane home the next morning. However, as a direct result of, well, our result, nothing less would do. The cheer girls elected to go to an 18 and over club so that the non-21 year olds could come out on the town. Eventually I made friends with the owner of the club. He told me about a secret hidden in the back. He even wanted to add me as his Facebook friend. Our privacy settings made it difficult to find one another so I suggested he give me his email address. "SteadyRollin2@_____.com". You mean to say there is more than one of you? ... You may be able to deduce the "secret."


Later that evening, I walked into the bathroom of the club to find a group of younger girls sobbing in the corner about their "stupid" boyfriends and "clueless" parents (or perhaps it was the either way around). I felt as far removed from them as I had from the mom at Ihop. I had to laugh and shake my head, knowing full well that (really) not too long ago I'd been that wasted adolescent crying in the stall to my friends, and would probably be a nausea induced/inducing mother sometime in the (far off) future. But not that day. 


Or today, for that matter. Today I am a 23 year old bound to no location, plan, position, significant other, or dependent. And today I happen to be very happy.  

47 Hours in Tampa, Part I

March 18, 2011
Lovely to see palm trees again

I recently spent just under 47 hours in Tampa. I touched down in The Sunshine State at 3:50 PM on Wednesday, March 16 and departed the following Friday at 2:30 PM – a duration only a few hours longer than the time between my decision to go and the journey itself. Why did I go to Tampa? Why, to watch my Alma Mater play in the NCAA tournament for the second year in a row – after an eight year dry spell – of course. How did I get to Tampa? Well, that is a bit less lucid.

Rewind to the Saturday prior. Since moving to Park City, I have had the good fortune to live next door to a private chef and former ski instructor… and, apparently, some kind of fairy godmother. I don’t know that he’d appreciate the title, but as you will soon see, I can’t think of anything more fitting. Anyhow, last Saturday, I passed the day’s hours as I have many other weekend days this ski season – gleefully pretending I live in the lap of luxury, spending a few hours on the mountain with professional instruction then indulging in a gourmet meal prepared just a few yards away. Needless to say, the combination has made for some perfect (albeit illusory) winter days. At some point on this Saturday that started and proceeded like any other, I mentioned to my neighbor – with all the pride in the world – that UCSB would be playing in the Big West Championship against Long Beach, a feat I had witnessed first hand just a year prior and one of my most cherished moments in college. 

When I showed up to dinner that evening, he had kindly found the game streaming online. Despite my best attempts to be polite and act as good company, by the last quarter of the game my dinner had gone cold. By the time the buzzer rang, I was a veritable vat of sentiment. Worse, it ran the gamut. On the one hand, I was ecstatic and excited for the team and all of UCSB. On the other, it was a jarring cue that that moment for me was a year old…and equally out of reach. Never again would I experience anything as I had all those days on the sidelines. It was unexpected to process all of this in front of my neighbor. The intensity of the desire to be there and share in the moment caught me off guard completely. I hadn’t even really followed their season.  “You HAVE to go,” he asserted. ‘Of course I should go home. He must think I’m a basket case!’ I thought, mortified. 

“Use my sky miles to go watch your team wherever they are playing in the tournament,” he clarified. Oh.  

March 12, 2011
Bree stuffed artichoke...
played second fiddle to 
the Gauchos

Wait – what? Despite my insistence that I could do no such thing, my neighbor recognized the emotional investment I had in the team and the moment, and assured me he’d book the ticket himself if I didn’t. Upon my departure, I told him I’d "think about it." Intoxicated with the idea of watching UCSB play again in a yet undisclosed location (New Orleans, maybe?), I immediately dialed the number to the first and only person I could think of crazy enough to join me in such a trek, in such short notice. I could barely spit out the proposal. Miraculously, by the end of the conversation (or rather, the many exclamations on my end), I had verbal commitment. He probably thought I was joking.

4:00 PM took forever to come around the next day. But there it was, on my computer screen: #2 UCSB would play #15 Florida. In Santa Barbara! Oh, wait. No. The opposite.

By 11:00 PM, after what felt like a hundred phone calls to sort out flights and shifts and other logistics, I had myself a travel companion, three days of work covered, a plane ticket, a hotel room, and a phone number for the UCSB ticket office (in that order). I was in business… but what the hell was I doing? As you may all attest, spontaneity is not my forte. But as soon as the bracket was announced, I just went with it, never pausing to consider the absurdity of the idea, channeling what was likely panic and uncertainty to pure thrill and enthusiasm. I was going to Tampa, land of the Gators...

(By the way, try explaining all of this to your boss. Or your mom.)

Details of the actual trip to follow… from what I can remember, those get a little more interesting.

¿Por qué no?

Dear friends and family, 

I accompanied my friend David to a comedy show last Friday night. The opportunity to attend was presented at two in the afternoon, the exact time of day I find it hardest to be motivated about… well, anything. The work day is almost over (but isn’t quite), and my propensity to overeat by the time lunch rolls around leaves little zest to finish the day off strong. To make matters worse, I’d been hung over all day, and the only commitment I wanted to make that evening was to the bed I had ever so regretfully left earlier that morning.

But I went. And the show was amazing, as was the company. I laughed throughout the entire one-hour show, a two-man performance of the real life email correspondence between a con-man posing as the widow/son of a once wealthy Nigerian leader, and Dean Cameron, the show’s author and leading man, posing as a lonely, sexually wanton Florida millionaire just loony enough to fall for the scam (read the actual correspondence here -- almost too funny to be believable). After the show, the two actors even took up a collection for the number of scam artists Dean Cameron is currently engaged with. I offered my most recent fortune cookie slip (“You will travel the world”) and a one-dollar bill folded into the shape of a heart given to me on the day of my graduation. (I really like the idea of the “Russian model seeking help for escape money from her boyfriend/pimp/brother” walking around with my two items in tow.)

I digress. Why did I choose to go despite the strong desire to hole up and finally get around to nursing my hang over?

... ¿Por qué no?

My life has never been so promisingly affected as it has by these three words. Three words! Eight little characters (ten if you count the initial and final question marks, though the phrase has evolved to more of a statement than a question these days). But HOW my life has changed since their introduction. I adopted the adage from one of my best friends, Jordan. “¿Por qué no?” is the reason I made the decision at 11:30 PM to see midnight performances of Diplo and Method Man -- by myself; the reason I have braved skiing into the trees to follow my friends, despite the uncertainty that I would be able to ski back out; and, whether or not I gave the "philosophy" credit at the time, it may have been my biggest motive to make the move to Utah.

My favorite part of the whole thing is that it is not actually a reason (per se) at all. Rather, it conjures and pushes the questions one really should be asking. What do I have to lose? What’s the worst that could happen? I’d like to make it clear here that ¿Por qué no? does not give reason to be reckless. That would be missing the point.

If there is a good answer to the question – then there it is. Don't do it. If there is not -- go for it. Simple.
[Note: "I am tired/broke" does not qualify as a good reason - save the latte money you'd use the next day and take a nap instead.]

I must say, it is much better than the “say 'yes' to everything approach” I tried my junior year of college, after I’d just gotten my heart broken. I wanted to be irresponsible and carefree. I wanted to think it made me fun and adventurous. Spontaneous even. What I had really wanted -- and did not care to admit -- was to be kept busy and without time to reflect on my current situation. Needless to say, answering any and all offers in the affirmative did not produce good results for my self-esteem, my grades...or my liver. Plus, you get a wide range of funny looks when you tell people that that is the “new thing you’re trying.” Worried looks. Skeevy looks. Looks that make you feel like you should be committed.

I guess it is only fair to say that not all good things have come out of this new framework. It has led me to one less than favorable situation. One day in early January, while prepping my laundry, I found a piece of receipt paper with a phone number written on it. It was from a man I’d met a bar. On Christmas day. I decided to contact him. Why not? 

I met him for drinks that following week. The company itself was not bad. I even came home with a great story, as the former bassist of Train happened to be (belligerently) drunk at the same bar and at one point enlightened me as to the true meaning behind one of my all time favorite songs, “Drops of Jupiter.” (Not at all what I’d imagined, or artist interviews revealed, it to be). Anyhow, as work is a typical topic of conversation to cover with a new acquaintance, I told him where I worked. He showed up the next day. What a lovely (read: awkward) coincidence! “For business with your general manager,” he assured me (he was putting in a snow removal bid for our properties. This is usually secured prior to actual snowfall. Remember, it was now January). Afterwards, when I admitted to my boss that I’d had drinks with the surprise visitor the night prior, a concerned look formed on his face. He hesitated. “He’s been married to one of my former co-workers for four years now.” Excuse me? Say again? 

I met him one last time for drinks. 
"What'll you have?" asked the man behind the bar. 
With my strong love for irony in tow, I cocked my head, forced a self-satisfied smirk, and glared straight into Mr. Married's unsuspecting eyes -- "Polygamy Porter," I offered (the motto on the label: “Why have just one!”).  
"Now you've got him beat," teased the bartender mid-pour, referring to my companion's light beer. 
"Oh, in more ways than one." 
He caught on. I was on to him. He never called again.

In all respects, this take on life has led me down some unforgettable roads. It may sound cliché, but it is 100% true to say that this simple question has transformed my life, and pushed me to be open to a number of things I may have easily found excuses to avoid otherwise. I felt the need to share this wonderfully simple guide with all of you, since it has done a world of wonder for me.


So try it. See if you like it, and let me know. ¿Por qué no?

(Additional edit, September 19, 2011): Since the publishing of this post seven months ago, ¿Por qué no? has continued to procure infinite blessings. I have gone on trips to Florida, California, Indiana, and Wyoming; jumped off things and climbed other things I had no business to; and experienced countless "firsts" -- paragliding! tubing and rafting! paddle boarding! shark! (the last two are independent of one another, not to worry) ...just to name a few. It is by way of this approach that I am able to say I have no regrets about the use of my time in Park City. It is also only by way of this approach that I am able to jump head first and solo into my next adventure (it is quite daunting otherwise). It is really kind of unbelievable how unconditionally generous the universe can be (IS), simply by way of opening up and having enthusiasm for all it has to offer. I am thankful for this fact each day, to the point of actual giddiness at the idea of it all. Sometimes I feel like I could scream ... So I just did. I don't think I have to tell you why.  

Love and best wishes (and hopefully lots of adventure),

Jan

P.S. If I haven’t said it enough – Thanks, Jordan. I doubt I will ever look at any opportunity in quite the same way again.

Stock Exchange

Dear Family and Friends,

Jan. 28 Still dancing post Kaskade

If you asked me how I have managed not to write once in 3 months, I could not tell you the answer. I would probably rattle off some long-winded excuse about the crazy holiday rush at work in December; the lovely barrage of family visitors and the Sundance Film Festival in January; or the FIS World Championships and visits from college friends this past month. Additionally, Polly brought up a good point when she noted that any “free” time one has is likely dedicated to skiing (it seems to be a cardinal sin around here not to). In any case, I have pretty much failed at this whole letters back home thing. Normally, I would be disappointed for so irresolutely keeping my word. However, I cannot bring myself to apologize for one of the most exciting, demanding, and eventful winters of my life.

Feb. 11 Loving life w/ our visitors at The Canyons

Anyhow, this busy life has finally caught up with me. Once Jordan, Nick, Mike, and Roman left after their weeklong visit, I could almost feel my immune system hanging up an “out to lunch” sign and checking out temporarily. I would feel fed up and overworked, too, had I been forced to keep up with all my shenanigans. So, I resolved to take the week off, and this weekend is no exception. The only plans I have are with Netflix and novels; the only decision whether I want to do all this on the couch next to the fire or my bed with the space heater on. And of course, if your schedules allow, I’d really like to catch up on phone calls and Skype sessions with my loved ones.

For those I can’t connect with right away, here is a (somewhat) quick run through --

A friend asked me yesterday how I was doing on a scale of 4 to 29 (4 being suicidal and 29 being, well, I forget what he eloquently termed the high point). The first number that came to mind was 23. Maybe because that is how old I turned recently. But it felt like a fairly accurate estimate. It’s pretty high up there because of the aforementioned amazing past few months. It is not at the peak because I will always feel a little homesick (I’ve accepted it), and frustrations at work sometimes makes me want to gauge out my own eyes.

I know it is strange to consider, but I really do enjoy my job (for what it is, you must understand). I feel like I have gotten to a point where I can say I perform well. And my boss’s natural delivery of constant and continuous positive reinforcement, for all staff, is a lesson I hope to take with me throughout my life, in both work and non-work relationships. However, as is the case a lot of the time, I am already itching for more challenge, more responsibility, more variety. (Is it tacky to tell someone interviewing you for a new position that you are never content? Probably.)

Jan. 22 Bing Lounge

In the all-important arena of one’s “love life”, however, I am certainly not looking for the next best thing. Considering I have been more or less involved with someone since the age of 15, I am happy just to argue and make compromises with my own self. I admit that some of this indifference stems from not being over my last relationship. But as I explained to my friend yesterday, “I love him more than I should” is more like a background, matter-of-fact descriptor attached to me than it is a debilitating issue. Like my eye color. Wait. That is permanent. Maybe more like my weight – something I’d like to decrease over time, but know will not be an overnight process.

Lastly, since some of you seem to be curious, my skiing is improving. I don’t think I will ever (ever) face my tips down a double black, but at least blue runs no longer make me want to cry out to the nearest patroller on a snow mobile. I even went down my first black a couple of weeks ago. It was by accident (following my friends), to be sure, but I made it down just the same.  

To end with, I’d like to say what a good idea I think it is to take stock of your life and just acknowledge where you are at the moment. Maybe on a more traditional scale than say 4 to 29, but do it regardless. It gets a ball rolling, and the questions that come out of why you rated your life what you did are possibly better than the answers themselves.

Love and miss you all. Until next time…

Jan