So I went to a pole class for the first time yesterday and let me tell you, it hurts. I went along with one of my best friends who had gone 6 times before, her telling me that she isn’t good and how hard it is. She’s the kind of girl you’d love to hate; smart, beautiful, poised, former ballerina, current Pilates instructor, 5000+ followers on Instagram, and on top of that she is actually cool.
We went to Middle and High School together (ages 12-18) but did not become friends until our last few years in school together when we bonded over a love of alternative rock and smoking weed. Returning to live at home for the first time in 4 years, she has been a godsend. I digress though.
I knew she’d be good, I did mention she is a Pilates instructor. All I got are some jiggly thighs. Did I mention I have 0.00% upper body strength? I am not generally one to say no to things though so I went along, and you best believe I am sore enough that typing out this blog post is straining my non-existent biceps.
The class started with stretches and some basic yoga poses, which I am familiar with so I thought that maybe this would be okay. I knew I was wrong when the instructor asked for 10 push-ups. Ha, jokes on me cause I’ve never done on of those.
The pole part of the class itself was, of course, intimidating but the weed we smoked in my bathroom right before going to class definitely aided in the general not giving a fuck if anyone was noticing how bad I was, which of course they were. There were 6 of us total, all different levels, all better than me, so the teacher went around individually to each of us, telling us what poses to do.
The basic first step is to just hang and spin, which is not easy. Then, you hang and pull your legs up in a sitting position, also not easy. But by the end of the class I was spinning and moving my legs from back to front at the same time, and you guessed it, this was not easy. I say I did it, though I did not in the least do it well. Got to remember to keep the chest up.
I am going back today though, party because the entire week for as many classes as you want is only 10,000 colones (about $18 US) and because I have a friend who will drive me there and go with me. Also, in case you didn’t guess, she is bomb at pole already. Guaranteed I will not be hanging upside down, spinning and keeping my toes pointed on my 7th class. But it is true, it is much easier to exercise if you have someone to do it with, even if that someone is kind of perfect. Lets just call it motivation.
Three days after arriving in Spain (to read about my entire Christmas vacay head over to my previous post) my tense little family jetted off to Lisbon. If I were to pick a word about how I feel about Portugal, it is love. Amazing food, beautiful sights, interesting history, lovely people, sexy people…
I have come to deduce that the true measure of how nice a populations is in direct relation to how much they honk when tourists slowly get out of their Ubers. I am here to tell you, me and my slow moving family were not honked at once.
Portugal lacks a the pretension that you often find in Western European countries and their people (not naming names but you know who you are) while still evoking that royal character. The Mediterranean country is decorated with beautifully painted buildings in every pastel color you could imagine, charming trams, and palm trees.
Me attempting to pose for a photograph.
We stayed at a lovely house on a hill about a 10 minute drive from downtown that is dubbed the Presidential House, though it is owned by Lisbon’s former mayor. The best part of this Airbnb? It came with a dog. A very sweet dog named Bigotes (Mustache) that I stupidly forgot to take a picture of. A very sweet dog that ran away from the house not once, causing a huge screaming match between me and my father as I ran down the street chasing him, but twice. The second time he ran out he went to the neighbors and sliced his paw open on some broken glass, the poor guy.
I happened to be lucky enough to be in this beautiful city at the same time as one of my best friends from high school, Orlando, who I insisted on getting drunk with after said screaming match with my father. Night life in Lisbon did not disappoint. The night started off strong, with a bar that sold a wide array of shots, for the healthy price of 1 Euro each. We took 3 each.
After about a half hour of wandering around a neighborhood of bars, we quickly realized this was a cash town, not a plastic one, and if I am being honest my jeans are too tight to fit a wallet. We found an ATM and after a 0.2 seconds of thought I decided to take out all of the money I had allotted for this trip so I could avoid paying anymore “Out of Country” fees my bank so readily charges me. I pressed the button, the machine whirled, then sputtered (never a noise you want to hear from an ATM) then the phrase ATM OUT OF SERVICE appeared on the screen in English, Spanish, Portuguese and German.
Neither of us knowing what to do we stared, dumbfounded at the machine for a few minutes, intermittently attempting to pry open the money slot where we were sure money had been dealt. We called the help number, received no answer. Well, I was not going to be deterred from a night out in Lisbon. We popped over fast to the police station to hear their two cents on the issue, they told me to call my bank in the morning and sent us on their way. Luckily, we quickly found a bar that was serving two mixed drinks and two shots for 5 Euros total, and Orlando was more than happy to sponsor my evening. (At least until we found a bar that would take my credit card, a gay bar to be exact that he did not realize he was in until I pointed out that the lovely bartender he was checking out was trans. His first gay bar! So cute.)
The next day was given to the hangover mostly, though I did find time to indulge in delicious Portuguese pastries Nata Cakes. The food in Portugal has got to be some of the best I have ever had. Some of the freshest fish ever, and presented in the most delightful ways. My mother and I like to consider ourselves foodies and we were both treated to a new delicacy, black alien looking tentacles that when twisted open taste like crab, goose neck barnacles. At the same amazing restaurant we ordered the fried calamari, which ended up being a rather large plate of fried baby squid, no bigger than my pinky knuckle. If you have ever cleaned a cephalopod, you would have been wildly impressed too.
While I ended 2019 in this beautiful city, I did not do a single thing to round out the year. Except drink two bottles of the sweetest champagne known to man by myself. The hangover the next day was about as fun as you can imagine, especially because it took place in the back seat of a van bound for Sevilla. What can I say? The booze came with the Airbnb. I also did insist that my father stop playing his elevator jazz for the last few minutes of the year, and instead played the newly redeemed classic Bella Ciao to say farewell to the decade, and if you don’t know that song, then I can’t help you.
All in all I wish I could title this blog post Portugal and not just Lisbon, because I can not wait to explore more of this beautiful country in the near future. For now though, my European visa is expired so Porto will have to wait until next time.
Less than a month after I returned from backpacking in Europe, my parents decided we would spend the holidays in Spain and Portugal, as my sister was having visa issues and could not come home. We all wanted to go somewhere warm, so the Mediterranean seemed like the obvious choice. My father, unbeknownst to the rest of us, had also invited my third cousin, Dani. Great guy of course, but this already created tensions for the simple fact that he did not ask, or better yet, inform the three of us that he was tagging along.
We all arrived in Madrid on the 24th, my mother and father tense from a screaming match they had indulged in just before leaving the house to catch our flight (a very uncharacteristic indulgence). Like the good WASP my mother is though, everything was fine. Zoe, Dani and I walked around for many hours after dinner, vainly searching for Christmas fireworks, instead finding soggy french fries from a Turkish street shop.
Christmas did not arrive without a hitch, as I made my sister cry because she did not hear me thank her for the present she made for me, a lovely silver pendant with a purple stone. Meanwhile Dani was blissfully unaware of anything wrong with our little family. I did have one of the best meals of my life on Christmas at restaurant called La Pimienta Verde. Everything was delicious, from the confit artichokes to the olive oil. The piece de resistance however was my meal, which was not actually what I ordered. The most delicious risotto of mushroom, pumpkin and shrimp. Even after filling up on appetizers of marinated sardines, delicious fresh baked bread and fried calamari, I managed to finish the delectable risotto that will continue to haunt my dreams for many Christmas’s to come.
From Madrid we went to Portugal, Lisbon for New Years, though that is another blog post. From here we skip ahead to Sevilla.
We drove 7 hours from Lisbon to Sevilla, and by we I mean my father, cousin and sister. I can’t drive. I sat in the back of the 9 person van my mother rented in the name of comfort, nursing a hangover brought on by the sweetest champagne known to man, watching Gilmore Girls and Snapchatting my emotional fluffer. I had to buy more data 4 hours in.
Not sure weather it was the residual hangover or perhaps I was just sick of being around the same 4 people for this long, but I snapped the next day. And when I snap, I snap hard. Yelling at my sister and mother over absolutely nothing and refusing to leave the house with them, and spending the entire day alone. When my mother texted me later asking if I’d like to join them later, I said no and told her I would be out of the house by the end of January. Good one Leila.
It is always horrible to be the blight of the family, or a trip, or the super combo the blight of the family trip, but I always squarely win that prize. The rest of the trip was pretty uneventful, and after my mother stopped pretending she was not mad at me it even was kind of enjoyable. We returned to Madrid for 2 nights before our flight, Dani having left us in Sevilla to return to Portugal to go surfing.
All in all, a typical family vacation. At least for my family.
I returned from 2 weeks abroad with my family, and shockingly, we had no food. An ATM in Portugal ate all of the money I had allotted myself for the next few weeks, so buying food was out. And this here is the true beauty of pasta.
I did not have eggs, but I did have flour, so orecchiette was the obvious choice. Translating to little ears in Italian, orecchiette is made by nonas in the south that sit around, dutifully stretching out these little ears for hours. It is made with mixture of 00 flour and semolina, bound together using water instead of egg.
Really not as easy as it looks.
I used about 75 grams of both flours, and added warm water as needed, about another 75 grams. I think throughout the needing process I added a little too much flour making it harder than necessary to roll out, but after 2 hours I had completed my task.
My ugly little ears
Difference between my first and last one
By the time I had shaped all of the dough I was famished, so I quickly boiled some water and started to compose my sauce. Over medium heat I sauteed 3 cloves of garlic in a generous amount of olive oil, then added in a whole tine of olive oil packed anchovies. Once the water boiled I added in the orecchiette until they were al dente, then transferred them to my sauce, allowing them to soak up all that infused olive oil goodness. Topped off with some Parmesan, and this dish is worthy of being served at a dinner party. If you are so inclined, some chili flakes would really round out this dish. Never let it be said that you have nothing to eat. You just have to look close enough.
Ahh Slovenia. I feel like that is the only appropriate way to begin a blog or a story or an anything about Slovenia. I had heard about its endless beauty when I was in Rome, but I thought “pffff Slovenia? Alright lol,” (typical millennial am I right?) and did not think about it again until all of my travel plans went up in flames. I was supposed to meet my friend from university in Amsterdam, but a last minute bite from a tick and the subsequent diagnoses of Lyme Disease prevented her from flying. I suddenly had a month and a half of unplanned European time on my hands, and no idea how to fill it.
Notice the tiny little blue country to the right of Italy and below Austria
A friend I made in Rome told me to meet up with her in Vienna, but that was still a few weeks away, and truth be told, I was a little over Italy. So I pulled out a map of Europe (and by that I mean I Googled one) and looked at the countries between Italy and Austria. And there it was, Slovenia.
The trip started off not great to say the least. I went to the wrong train station in Florence, switched to the right one though I missed my train. Was able to catch another one that would make it to Verona just in time for me to catch my bus to Ljubljana, (Liu-blee-ana). I did not however catch my bus. I did arrive at the station just in time for me to have to run through the terminal, frantically searching for the international bus terminal. I was directed to a road behind a church, running frantically, and looking visibly stressed when I arrived just in the nick of time, though my bus did not.
A nice old man took pity on me and tried to help me read the elaborate bus terminal schedule, though it quickly became clear that my bus was not scheduled. After waiting a half hour, I went back to the train station to try and find help, to no avail. No one was helpful and I couldn’t help but think, how Italian. Instead of sitting down and crying like I wanted to, I said fuck it and bought a Flixbus ticket, having seen they had another bus scheduled to the Slovenian capital for a few hours later when I was frantically looking at the schedule. Checked my email for a confirmation, and found an email from my first bus telling me they were an hour delayed.
Moral of the story: always check your email, always book with Flixbus.
Sponsor me I love you #flixbus
Dragon Bridge
I arrived in Ljubljana around 8 o’clock, and it was love at first night. A beautiful city straight out of a fairytale, dragons and all. I don’t think I have ever looked at sidewalks and thought wow those are lovely! But they were. A river runs through the center of the city, willows looming over the embankments as people drank Aperol Spritz under heated lamps to protect against the early November chill. The river runs all the way to an Ancient Roman wall that was built in 15 AD.
On the highest mountain overlooking the loveliest city capital I have ever seen, is a real medieval castle. Inside they have galleries displaying modern art and photography, old military weapons, and a wonderful historical museum on Ljubljana Castle and Slovenian History.
I did not know what to expect from Slovenian food, though I had read online that it was delicious. They share a common thread with much of Eastern Europe like goulash, sausage with sauerkraut and Schnitzel, though they have their own delicious creations like cream cake (!!!!) and struklji. Not only were all of my meals delicious, but extremely affordable as well.
I took a day trip to Lake Bled with a different girl I had met in Rome, Aarisha, who had seen on my Instagram Story that we were both in the same city. Bled is an incredible azure blue lake with a small island and a monastery in the middle of it. It takes about 3 hours to walk all around the lake, across paths that veer into forests and over docks, always within sight of the lake. We got lucky with the weather, and it only rained when we first arrived and towards the end of our walk. What was most incredible was that there was hardly anyone else there. A few runners and a fisherman were the extent of our interactions, and when we stopped for a coffee at the town at the opposite end of the lake a waiter told me that in the summer you have to walk in a single file around the path.
Because I had planned on meeting my friend in Vienna, I decided to stay in Slovenia a few extra days and venture to Maribor, a city on the opposite side of the country, where it boarders Austria. I admittedly did not do much there, though I did see the oldest wine vine in the world. I mainly wanted to stay in Maribor though because it was close to Ptuj, the oldest town in Slovenia.
Just like the rest of the country, Ptuj is a charming city full of wonderful historical sights, authentic bars, cafes and lovely people. You can visit another castle here, and got through their museum as well, displaying the Royal Families rooms and ancient instruments. The star of Ptuj in my opinion though is the Roman hill across from the castle that looks over the residential area of the city and the river.
My beloved Cream Cake
I cannot wait to return to Slovenia one day, hopefully when it is a little warmer so I can enjoy the white water rafting and hiking that the country is famous for. My whole trip I could not recommend it enough, and have since then been telling people that they just have to see Bled and eat cream cakes. You should too.
I turned 24 last week (a fact I have chosen to avoid thinking about to the best of my abilities) so my friend and I decided to take a trip up to Tamarindo, the country’s officially-unofficial party beach. Our drive was long, but we arrived just in time to down a bottle of gin, cushioned by a few thin quesadillas.
Actual footage of me chugging gin, which I hate
We stayed at Selina’s, which is a hostel chain that until this trip I had high hopes for. Their marketing team must be their most funded department though because, to put it mildly, the place was a dump. Tiny, old cabinas that had been converted in to rooms big enough to fit a bunk bed, with an extra meter of standing room, and no windows. Did I mention that the entire place smelled like sewage and the company as a whole allegedly dumps their waste into the ocean? The only saving grace was that we didn’t have to pay for the room, because my friend knew someone staying there, so the 4 of us crowded into a room the size of a prison cell.
The night that followed included lots of shots, dancing, exchanging phone digits with a large Danish man, our friend pulling a feme fatale to distract the guard while we snuck back in to the Horrid Hostel, and back in bed with a packed bowl before 3 am, a fun but somewhat predictable ending to a twenty-fourth birthday. Wasn’t even drunk enough to warrant a hangover. Ah, the joys of getting older. The next night another friend gave us sanctuary at her home, saving us from a repeat performance of waking up in a jail cell.
Monday morning, we drove a half hour to Potrero, a smaller and more mellow beach where my parents house is. We beached [verb: the act of laying, tanning, eating, reading, smoking and swimming for long periods of time] for the next 4 days, and it was glorious. Our days consisted of early morning kayaking and breakfast, followed by tanning and reading. The frequent smoke breaks always made lunch come early, and enabled lots of snacking. In fact we set a counter to see how many beaches we could smoke on in the following months. We accomplished absolutely nothing, neither of us even finished our books. Actually, I won’t say nothing, seeing as I finally got tan for the first time in probably 8 years.
In the afternoons we drove to different beaches in the area, watching sunsets foreground by different islands and coves. Our final tally came to 6 different beaches that we managed to light up on, Playa Tamarindo, Playa Grande, Playa Flamingo, Potrero, Las Catalinas, and La Penca though we would have managed two more had it not been for a closed hotel that restricted access to Sugar Beach (how beautiful is that) and too steep a road that prevented us from getting to Prieta.
Sunset viewfrom Potrero
Our 6 days at sea-adjacent were a fantastic success of laziness and luxury, spoiled by incredible views and salty air. We are planning another trip for mid-January, and I am excited to see how many more books we can’t finish and how many beaches we can blaze on.
When I was 6 my parents dragged me and my sisters from the concrete jungle of New York to the tropical jungle of Manuel Antonio. The next 6 years were a stereotypical image of jungle life; monkeys in the house, almost daily beach trips, a boa-constrictor ate my kitty, tropical storms that would shake the house… and while the jungle has its charm, a small beach town in the early 2000’s did not have the best education system.
So we were dragged once again to the suburbs when I was 12 to engage in classic Middle School and High School shenanigans, where I would remain until the ripe age of 19, when I dragged myself to the University of Vermont.
But, as you may have surmised from the name of this blog, while I love my English degree it did nothing to help me figure out what I want to do, or where I want to live, or just about anything really.
So I have returned to the land of monkeys and boas (though still living in the suburbs sans monkeys and boas) to give myself a little time to figure it all out. While I am “home for the holidays”, I thought it pertinent to visit the places I have never had a chance to see.
About a month into being a waitress, I decided that I needed to do something else with my life. Every few weeks or so I would have a break down on my nightly walk home, triggered by something as small as a rude customer, or worse, a nice customer that didn’t tip. I would just tell myself over and over again “This is not my life, this is just my Summer,” and I needed to find a way to make that true.
It just so happened that my sister is in Goldsmiths School in Florence, Italy. Though the two of us never got along, when she came to surprise me for my college graduation Zoe told me I could come and stay with her whenever I liked. So I saved, and saved some more, and saved until my bank account was just shy of 5 digits. A great feeling. Actually, the best feeling.
By the end of September, I had been out of my summer sublet for a month and couch surfing across town, hosted by my incredibly gracious friends. Like I said, I was saving. The motto was: “I could spend this money in Europe.” And so I did.
The plan was to stay in Florence for 3 weeks, then head over to Croatia. This did not happen. In fact, nothing happened the way I planned it. I had signed up for a 2 week cooking course at a private cooking school, and fell so in love with the class that I stayed for a whole month.
We made everything in that class. Pasta, branzino with artichokes, minestrone, stuffed pasta, rabbit with blackberry, cuttlefish, colored pasta, 7 different types of gnocchi, boar, and did I mention pasta?
I learned to make pasta in Florence, Italy. True story. I spent a month taking a class on traditional Italian cooking this September at GiglioCooking School, under the guidance of the schools founder and main teacher, the wonderful Marcella. I gained 5 pounds and some serious culinary skills.
I found a passion there on Via del Ghirlandaio, and that is making fresh pasta. Mixing the egg into the flour, patiently waiting for it to become a sticky blob and then folding the dough onto and into itself until you have the most lovely dough with a slight yellow tint. Honestly this is the closest I have found to being able to meditate. Rolling out the dough is just as wonderful, slowly feeding this dense dough through a roller, getting it to the perfect thin width… like I said, meditation.
I made tortellini a few days ago to try out the pasta roller my mother purchased for me as an early birthday/Christmas gift (December babies!) and they came out great. I filled them with a simple stuffing of Ricotta, Parmesan, olive oil and nutmeg, then boiled them until they floated to the top. Topped off with some brown butter and fried sage, it really was the perfect lunch.
I find that a great way to be productive without actually having to leave the house is to cook. Pulling out the old pasta roller and banging out some homemade fettuccine in an hour or so not only makes you feel like you haven’t wasted another day doing nothing at all, but more importantly, it makes your parents feel like you aren’t just using their house for free rent. Which of course you are not.
No Real Job 