For your entertainment

I can’t think of a single job that doesn’t come with its fair share of monotony.  With professional baseball players its bench time, with doctors it’s the physicals administered to unattractive people, and with accountants it’s every hour that is not lunch.  Except for maybe Kathie Lee & Hoda on the Today show, who are usually drunk by 11am, every occupation has a certain level of tedium.

“Grab your ankles and hold onto your f*$#ing hat.”

With flight attendants, it is the safety demonstration before takeoff.  As frequent flyers can attest to, recurrence of this 4 minute routine can have you donning your life vest (before assisting others!) in your sleep.  But every once in a while I am shook from my seatbelt instructing coma.  The other day, as I was dutifully placing my oxygen mask over my nose and mouth, a young, pig-tailed little girl two rows in front of me was unaware of the masculinity of the flight attendant towering in front of her.  In a perfect stage whisper, she asked a question very cautiously.

“Mommy, is that a boy or a girl?”

Surely, she could not have referred to the extremely male specimen hovering in front of her.  I was already convinced she was referring to the homely woman in the front of the plane, until her mother gave her the discreet answer: “It’s a boy.  Shhhh.”

The evacuation of air from my lungs had me reaching for the fake oxygen mask.  Suddenly, I was no longer in the routine of the safety demo, but a whole new routine.  Now, I was a sideshow freak of an undetermined gender.

The difference between optimism and realism.

Step right up and see the astonishing bearded woman! 

Guess the stewardess’ sex and receive a waived baggage fee!

I obviously needed a rebuttal for this hurtful fire spewed from this little so-and-so’s hate spout.  Unfortunately, everything that came to mind was neither age nor job appropriate and I forced myself to swallow her words like a warm glass of airplane milk past expiration.  Once again, I was bested by someone less than a third my age.  At the end of the demo, I received a half-hearted applause and even a meager “whoop Nate!” from a few random passengers, solidifying the fact that I was no longer here for your safety, rather for your entertainment.

Another quick vacation from Blandville happened again in the middle of the cabin, when while crouching down to retrieve my trusty safety information card out of the demo kit, I split my pants.  The resulting sound got a chuckle out of the gentleman seated to my left, who I was convinced thought I had passed gas.  Needless to say, I felt compelled to explain myself by showing him the rip, which travelled from tip to crack.  Now that I think of it, I really should’ve received a compliment letter for that one.

The point is, it’s easy to get lost in the monotony of day-to-day tasks in my job, and sometimes the only way to survive is to relish the interruptions (or humiliations, in my case) and accept them as a welcome break.  A bump-free road is the real banality, and while a cloudless sky makes for a smooth flight, sometimes a little turbulence is needed to jolt you awake.

Someday’s Gone

Someday, I’ll go back to school.  

Someday, I’ll be doing what makes me happy.  

Someday, I’ll have a career and not just a job free of care and movement.

I’ve been repeating these phrases in my head for years, thinking ‘just enjoy your life’ and ‘live in the now, like Oprah says.’  But as an unnamed parental figure so deftly pointed out recently, I am “not a spring chicken anymore.”  This thought was fortified by the other unnamed parental figure, in a falsely consoling manner:  “Well, you’re not reaching for the rope quite yet.”

First of all, I’d like to object to these statements on account of unnessecary dramatics.  Secondly, I am in my twenties.  OK…very late twenties.  If my twenties were a carton of milk they’d be reaching their expiration date.  But Joan Rivers I am not.

And thirdly, “reaching for the rope”?  Is this one of those popular phrases from the 60s that I hadn’t yet come across?  I knew I needed to be watching Mad Men.  I am wagering the rope is my skinny tie with which I will hang myself.  But fret not, Nate!  You still have one more option before “hanging” it all up.  

“Bourbon and broads, son. That’s what its all about.”

I do get what they’re hinting at.  They are about as good at bluntness as a dead horse is at taking a beating.  That is why, after years of libra-style deliberation, I will resume my scholastic studies in writing.  Now I will be able to blog about useless things in MLA style!

With this comes a flurry of decisions to be made, the fine print at the bottom of the pronouncement.  The right answers are knocking and I’d be a fool to turn them away.  Am I scared that I may make the wrong choices?  Of course.  Am I scared of the commitment?  Any sort, yes.  Am I terrified of the debt monster?  I will check under my bed every night.  Am I scared of things staying exactly the way they are, having regret about would could have been, and not taking the opportunity to make a better life for myself?  Undeniably.

The minutia of fears about doing this are far outweighed by the 3 ton elephant of regret on the scale of life.  It is time to stop referring to ‘someday’ as a far off time where everything magically happens as it should.  Someday is gone, and today is the day I do something about it.

Gym Etiquette

I have an obsession with people watching at my gym.  I have a membership at Planet Fitness, which to those that don’t know is the home of Free Pizza Fridays and Bagel Mondays.  It seemed odd to me that a health and wellness establishment gives out these kinds of obesity delights, but when I really thought about it I guess it is kind of genius.  Planet Fitness’ official motto is “home of the judgement-free zone,” but I bet in the seedy gym underground it is actually “keep ’em fat and wobblin’ back.”  I imagine a ruthless head honcho, possibly bald with an eye patch, laughing maniacally and shouting, “More pizza!  More pizza for the fatties!” as he slowly strokes the hairless cat sitting on his lap.

But back to the people watching.  Planet Fitness’ no judgement mantra and “lunk-free zone” signs (sorry, lunks) seem to attract the most novice of gym-goers.  Now, I am no gym aficionado, as I’ve only had a handful of gym memberships.  In this scenario, let’s say a handful equals 2.  Excluding numerous hotel gyms, my inexperience with real gyms has still provided me the proper etiquette in the gym.  I’d like to point out some common do’s and don’t’s:

DO – RETURN THE WEIGHTS TO THEIR PROPER PLACE

It’s not a hard concept to grasp, as long as you can match your numbers.  For example, those 15lb weights go back on the rack where it says “15.”  The only excuse I could think of for not doing this is maybe the person can’t read.  And being the judgement-free zone, I guess I can’t judge you for your illiteracy.

DON’T – PERFORM YOUR ENTIRE WORKOUT IN FRONT OF THE WEIGHT RACK

It’s probably not the best idea to do side lunges in front of 5lb through 50lb weights.  People will give you stank face and tsk at you for being in their way, but will not actually say anything to you.  Maybe they will just blog about it.  Passive aggression rules.

DO – WEAR PROPER ATTIRE

This excludes sandals; jeans; jorts; skorts; men’s booty shorts; reflective, neon tops; wife beaters with yellow stains; and anything with fur.

DO – PUT YOUR BELONGINGS IN A LOCKER

Every day that I go to my gym, there is a woman who always carries around her purse, jug of Gatorade and one of those coats with the fur around the edges while working out.  She’ll hang it on the pull-up bar, sling it over a weight bench, or drape it upon herself while doing lunges.  I feel like maybe she doesn’t know about the locker room?  I desperately want to tell her about this wonderful, smelly, woman cave that houses tiny closets for anything you can dream of bringing to the gym.

DON’T – FART

This is self-explanatory.  Most of the equipment already smells kind of farty and it doesn’t need your help.  Farts are for your snuggy to be filled with.

DON’T – BLEED ON THE WEIGHT FLOOR

One gym visit, I was doing my workout and possibly daydreaming about the virtues of having a sugar daddy, when this pathetic sack of turd starting spewing nose blood all over the floor.  It was like a crime scene.

OK, maybe this was me, committing my daily embarrassment.  But that doesn’t make it right.  I told the nearest fitness attendant that worked there what had transpired before darting into the locker room.  He brought me a band-aid.  I wanted to clamp my nostrils shut to show how silly this was, but luckily I managed some self-control.

I have just touched on a few hot-button issues here, but know the list is vast.  I say hot-button because I am sure these issues are just as important to you, right up there with your next state senator or whatever.

Middle state madness

It’s hard to put into words the experience of visiting a nursing home.  It’s hard to put into words a visit to small town Iowa, let alone a place that can be likened to a complete stranger’s dysfunctional family dinner:  there’s uncomfortable yelling, a wiggly food source of unknown origin, and somebody just farted.

This visit was brought upon by my Grandmother, who was skillfully able to coax my Dad, Sister, niece, nephew and I all aboard a discount airplane for 2 hours followed by a lengthy drive into the heart of Iowa.  Well, if not the heart, then certainly somesort of organ belonging to the state.

In Iowa the kids ride in the trunk...trust me.

Upon arrival to the nursing home, my Grandmother began handing out snacks and treats that were hidden inside of her empty bag of tricks labeled “Depends.”  Thankfully, the kids didn’t seem to mind, as they are regulars in the diaper scene as well.  I felt as if we were gaining access to a secret prison stash of Doritos, cookies and Goldfish crackers.  Undoubtedly my Grandma had to trade with the other inmates for cigarettes and sharply carved toothbrushes to gain these precious items, so I eagerly took my share even when she repeatedly called me Dawson and “I don’t remember you.”

You may be thinking she was just confused, but I believe she is more capable than that and called me by several wrong names because I am by far the worst in my family about calling her.  Touche, Grandmother.  Touche.

Baby Mary looking on as the wheelchair races commence

Upon escorting her to lunch, we were able to meet some of her fellow cohorts, including an elderly man who played a Munchkin in The Wizard of Oz.  He jumped up and down on his chair giggling wildly while giving my terrified, 2 year old nephew a high five.  He will no doubt fear that movie for the rest of his life.

“My, you’re tall,” a lunchmate at the adjoining table said to me.  “Are you going to play basketball?”

“Ugh, no, I don’t think so,” was my meager reply.

“Well why not?  How old are you?” she inquired in an accusatory tone.

“I’m 27.”

“Oh, you’re too old,” she snorted, in the best example to date of pot calling the kettle black.

Back in our hotel room, I asked my nephew to fetch me a glass of water, as I felt he was having too much fun and I was incredibly parched.  He gladly took my empty cup and disappeared around the corner.

“I don’t think he’s coming back,” informed my sister.  But much to my surprise he came eagerly running towards me with a half cup of water.  After thanking him and gulping it down, my sister informs me that like our Munchkin friend, my nephew cannot reach the sink himself.

“Well…then where did he get it?” I ask in a voice of bewilderment.

“Maybe the toilet?  I don’t know,” she answers nonchalantly.  I throw up a bit in my mouth, and make a note to keep in mind this is one 2 year old who is taking a stand against child labor.

We then make our way to the hotel pool, where my nephew spots a legless woman in an electric wheelchair.

“Mommy, where her toes?” my nephew sweetly inquires in the echoing indoor pool area.  “Her toes go bye bye?  No toes, all gone.”  Kids say the darndest things.  And by “darndest,” I mean “rudest, most hateful.”  Luckily, he is quickly distracted by some diversion of his Mom’s doing.

After 4 visits to my neighborhood Applebees, 2 unbearable plane rides, and 1 cup of toilet water, I finally make it back home feeling plenty confident that my Grandmother does not know my name.

Terminal Singluarus

My name is Nate, and I am single.

Since my move, I’ve met a lot of new and interesting people lately.  And with these many introductions comes the inevitable question:  “Why are you single, Nate?”

It comes with a high degree of concern, like when your therapist asks you why you ate that entire family sized box of waffles on your home treadmill.  I have spent seconds upon seconds trying to understand the expected answer to this question.

“Because I’ve waited my whole life just for you, you strange person I’ve never met who smells of cabbage!”

Or, “because my undercarriage has rotted away due to years of  under use…”

I have found that this question usually comes from someone who is not suffering from the same tragic condition as me — terminal singularitus.  Have these people been in a relationship so long that they are no longer able to understand the concept of being single?

It’s not that I don’t like being single.  I actually enjoy it and it is definitely a choice I make.  No, that’s not the type of statement that I repeat while crying into my Cheerios.  (That statement would be “no one cares about your rotted off undercarriage.”)  So if I am a happy, functional member of society, why am I not allowed to be alone?  Many feel “alone” and “lonely” go together like peanut butter and my mouth, but this is untrue.  I often enjoy being left alone, not to be bothered.

Much like a committed person can’t grasp the idea of being single, I cannot grasp the idea behind this one question.  You say, “Why are you single?” and all I hear is “Why isn’t there a sleepy unicorn lounging in your underpants?”

You find an answer to that one.

The City Tour of Public Bathrooms

On my way home from the gym this morning I stopped off at a small convenience store wedged between hunkering, red stone buildings to get a drink.  The squat man in line in front of me was inquiring where he could claim his scratch off winnings.  The cashier inquired if the sum was over $10,000, and the man excitedly nodded as the clerk gave directions to some fancy, future rich guy claiming zone.  I imagine it is warehouse full of cash, with new lottery winners doing the backstroke through $100 bills.  I could be mistaken.

While some people may feel the urge to immediately buy a scratch off or lottery ticket after this lucky man, I steer closer to the notion that this righteous jerk has taken any chance of good from me.  Like a Hoover of fortune, he sucked the luck out.

I realize I need to do something to turn this douche of a day around, so I decide to embrace my not-so-inner tourist and take a trek down the Freedom Trail.  Often times, as I am scurrying around downtown pretending to know where I am going, I stumble upon a man dressed in colonial attire, or a woman yelling at a group of people with a Yankee accent.  These good citizens are not, in fact, members of the crazy homeless population, but tour guides for the Freedom Trail.  Ok, sometimes they are just crazy people, but either way they give a good tour.

Notice the minimal amount of cigarette butts. Such a clean city.

I decided to take a self-guided, iPod friendly tour, as the idea of walking around town with a guide brought me fears that he would be unable to break character, and I would be forced to make small talk with a grown man dressed in pantaloons.  Curiously, the first stop on my tour was Dunkin’ Donuts (the poor New Englander’s Starbucks) just as my audio tour guide suggested. I wanted to get the full tourist experience.

Lately, when I approach the counter to order a caffeinated iced beverage, my addiction takes over and automatically orders a ‘venti” no matter where I am.  Even when in my head I am saying “small, black iced coffee please,” what comes out is “venti unsweetened iced coffee!” in a manner that is much too eager.  The coffee mate behind the register got the point and handed me a super-sized cup in a hurry.  Looks like I will be enjoying not only the Freedom Trail but also the City Tour of Public Restrooms.

My propensity to use the loo actually proved useful, as I can now plan my trips around my potty stops when I journey downtown.  The search for public bathrooms (the kind that I don’t have to buy something to use and are not a port-a-potty) in the city is like finding a needle in a haystack.  A haystack that really has to go.

The Freedom Trail itself was actually linked together in 1951 when a red line was added between the many sites and landmarks making it easier for the directionally challenged tourists to navigate. I know Boston has its fair share of history, but I am actually surprised at how packed the 3-mile area is with the links of America’s past.  Thanks to my tour, I would never have seen

this donkey statue...

or this man straddling a globe. I believe it is called "Learning with the world betwixt one's legs." I could be wrong.

And this lovely stat--wait...sorry what's going on here?

Let’s just say there are plenty of sights to see, and I urge all of you to come visit and see them with me.

Mickey D’s*

It has been three weeks since taking the plunge and making the move up to Boston, and sometimes a hard day forces the question:  Did I do the right thing?

I don’t miss Orlando; just a few of its inhabitants.  And tonight I am making a pit stop in the dirty South to retrieve a few belongings left behind, including two of my favorite Orlando residents, Scott and Derek.  Our reunion site is designated Mucho Tequila and Tacos, not because they have especially satisfying tequila or tacos, but because it is just where we go and what we do.

Derek is scanning the attractive, young Friday night crowd while chomping on an overly salted tortilla chip.

“I’m hungry….”  He speaks of the type of hunger that cannot be satisfied with nachos and burrito grandes.

“I just need a boyfriend,” he sighs into the salsa.  Sensing an opportunity to share some sage “love” advice, Scott kicks into gear.

“Maybe you don’t need a boyfriend, maybe you just need a friend for the night.”  Derek and I exchange knowing glances, as Scott has merged onto a one-way road for which there is no turning back now.  A dirty, sex-riddled side street, actually.

“You see, Derek, sometimes you need to just forget about the fancy restaurant.  While, yes, it may be delicious, it is most likely going to cost you and there is a wait to be seated.  Sometimes, you just need to run over to McDonald’s once in a while to satisfy your cravings.  It’s cheap, it’s easy and it holds you over until you do find that one fancy restaurant that is worth the wait.” I have never met anyone who can take a random analogy and relate it towards sex so well.

“So you’re saying McDonald’s is the slut of the restaurant industry,” I offer.  He does not break face.

Ideally, my side road has a pastry shop on it.

“Yes, fast food can be unhealthy for you, but if you just treat yourself once in a while then you shouldn’t run into any problems,” continues Scott.  His wise words don’t seem to have the intended effect on Derek.

“I can’t cuddle with a Big Mac,” he quips.  This conversation is starting to give me odd mental images which need to be drowned in a sour margarita.

I realize this is the type of banter that I will miss the most, and it is something that I have yet to find in my new location.  Knowing what I am missing and still feeling happy with myself makes me confident that I have made the right decision.  The side road I have turned down is strange and unknown (and filled with baked beans and chow-dah) but leads me to my next destination.

 

 

*This post edited for young eyes.

RIP Mary Doris Darg

I was lucky enough to know Mary Doris Darg for 27 years.

I lived within 2 miles of her for the first 8 years of my life and practically right next door for the last 2 years of her life, where I was able to better witness her gentle grace and endless compassion. Her presence will remain in our lives for many years to come.
I was also fortunate enough to be near Grandma in the last few days of her life, when half the family traveled from opposite ends of the country to be at her side. It was great seeing how surrounded by love she was in the final moments before she joined my Grandpa Vic, her husband of 49 years. I think it is pretty safe to say that every person in this room has prominent memories of Doris, whether it is the smells coming from the kitchen as she prepared meals for anyone and everyone around, or the way she would playfully threaten those of us who were giving her a hard time with a shaking fist and a raised eyebrow.

When I was thinking of what I wanted to share today, I thought about the day or two after she passed when my mom and 2 aunts were sorting through some of her personal belongings, and they came across a book that Skylar and Kristopher (2 of her 13 great grandchildren) had made for her a few years ago. The book was titled “This is the Story of Our Very Special Great Grandmother,” and it contained very sweet hand drawn pictures with a little description at the bottom of each page, and there was one picture in particular that got to me. It was a drawing of Skylar and her Great Grandma, Doris, sitting at that cramped little white kitchen table making toast. There was smoke coming out of the toaster, which in turn was setting off the smoke detector. I found this picture to be not only incredibly funny but also very touching. This is one of the more prominent memories that I have with Grandma when I was younger, and I know that this is also a memory shared by most of us 12 grandkids, and even some of the 13 great grandkids as witnessed by Skylar and Kristopher‘s book: Sitting at the white table, buttering toast with Grandma that was way too burnt to be eaten. Of course she would never admit to this. She would fix the problem by using her butter knife to scrape off the charred part of the toast, and voila, the piece of toast was just as good as any other.  I find it pretty amazing that all of Doris’ grandchildren, whether they are in their 30s or are yet to be in their teens have this same cherished memory of her.

Looking back, I realized that that memory of sitting down with Grandma and scraping away all the charred bits of toast is representative of how she made people feel. It wasn’t important to her if you had a few spots that some may see as rough patches, because she would just clear all that away just like she did with the burnt toast and her butter knife and make you feel deserving of anyone’s love, especially her own.  She always took the time to let you know how much she loved you or how proud she was of you, even in undeserving times.

It was her love and acceptance of everyone that keeps our family united. She is already greatly missed by us all, but we will remember her through her enduring love, her relentless kindness and her ability for forgiveness. We can take comfort that Grandma is at peace now, with Grandpa, maybe sitting at a white kitchen table and watching over us, ready to shake her fist and raise an eyebrow at any trouble that might come our way. I’d like to end by reading a saying that Doris had framed and was very fond of, that I believe is very true today: “When someone you love becomes a memory, that memory becomes a treasure.”

RIP Mary Doris Darg

Dream catch me

A lot has been going on these past few weeks, ranging from unfortunate hospital visits to an inordinate amount of personal travel.  Yet it seems all this clutter that should be in my head has been cleared, like someone let loose a Roomba in there to keep the tile floors of my mind clear.  Everything is clean and tidy up there, except for the large, unvacuumable pile known as moving.

Moving up north is all I think about.  Do I have enough coats?  What is the general consensus on layering?  Am I just applying article upon article of clothing until I feel satisfied?  What in God’s name is a radiator, and why do I fear it is going to burn down my apartment building?

We are programmed to fear the unknown, and just about everything about moving to Boston is unknown to me.  The only thing I know for sure is I will not be driving.  This is something that I cherish, a fact I snuggle up to at night.  I liken this whole moving experience to skydiving.  For some reason, a few years ago I decided it would be a good idea to pay a large sum of money to jump out of a rickety old Cessna while strapped to another man.  I must have been suffering from some sort of temporary brain hemorrhage when I wrote that check.  If I began to think about it, a debilitating bolt of pure terror shot down my spine.  So the easy solution was to avoid thinking about it.  Don’t dwell on all the things that could go wrong, just hope that when you need it, your parachute opens.

I jumped out of the airplane like a raging maniac, and here I am today still standing.  This is the same perspective that I am adopting for moving a thousand miles from home.  Do petrifying terror pains shoot down my spine now and then?  Of course.  But deep down I know I am ready to jump, with only the hope that I will land flat on my feet.

When in Boston…

If given the choice between having our lives change or keeping our lives the same, many of us would choose the status quo. We tend to feel that even if the current state of things is uncomfortable, it’s still preferable to having to deal with the uncertainty and fear that come from transformation.  Of all the signs of the zodiac, you’re the one that’s most receptive to shifting the mood and experimenting with the rules. It’s easier than usual for you to imagine different ways of doing things. Take advantage of this superpower.

Libra (September 23 – October 22)

I wake on a hazy Wednesday morning by the sound of my phone’s alarm, a song that has seeped into my deep sleep and rustled me to consciousness.  The song is Maroon 5’s “Never Gonna Leave This Bed,” and I have never realized the bitter irony until this very early morning moment.  I reach the terminal and let my inner auto pilot guide me to the dreaded airport Starbucks.  Surprisingly, I am cheerfully greeted and given my correct, snark-free order in considerable time.  This is a good sign, like one on the side of the highway pointing me to my long-awaited destination.  At last.

I board flight 1715, with direct service to my hopeful future.  I nod off on the plane’s take off, and seemingly moments later I awake to find myself descending into the city of Boston.  It is a particularly foggy day, with a light rainy mist shrouding the city like an ocean engulfs the sea floor.  This won’t be a deterrent on my quest for housing.  My mission today is to discover my new residence, and I have brought New Yorker Candi to give her big city perspective (and have a little fun).  My prospective roommate does not get in to town until 3, and seeing how it is now 9:30am, we’ve got some exploring to do.

Like a pioneer trekking down the Freedom Trail we make our way to Faneuil Hall, a particularly touristy area of town that is historically as rich as a Trump.  Seeing as how it is a bit early for lunch (but never too early for a drink), we take our sightseeing indoors to City Grille and Pub.  I have drawn the idea a place like this inside my head so many times that I feel as if I have created it.  A dark and dingy figment of my imagination.  Irish and Bostonian paraphernalia litter the walls, leaving just enough room for the area behind the wall to be lined with a surprisingly vast selection of liquors.

Embracing my New England pale

“Oh they have Absolut Brooklyn here,” drools Candi, pointing to a bottle behind the bar that is apparently flavored like…Brooklyn?

“What does that taste like?  Garbage?”  As a new Bostonian, I already feel the need to hate NYC like the Kennedys hate the Schwarzeneggers.  We indulge in some Absolut Brooklyn, simply because I am still awaiting the creation of Absolut Boston.

“Maybe we’ll see Matt Damon here,” Candi Good Will Hunts.

“This bah has given me mowah stories than when I was a dance-ah for 10 yea-ahs,” offers the bartender in a wicked thick accent.  How quaint.

We never find our Matt Damon and make our way over to Ames Plow, a restaurant intriguing only in name.  We both choose to indulge in some chowdah and a glass of Pabst Blue Ribbon.  When in Boston…

Shortly after some more sightseeing and a shot of apple, cinnamon and clove infused whiskey that tastes dangerously like warm apple cider, we realize it is time to make our way to Dorchester, a large neighborhood within the city.  I struggle to find a correct pronunciation of this area of town, and end up with something sounding too similar to a popular steak condiment.  I am later informed by my future roommate, Will, that this is in fact far from correct, and the locals generally refer to it as “Dotchester,” or simply “Dot.”  My out of towner aura has never seemed so…pungent.

We view the deliciously New England apartment and I decide I need to explore the area around my new digs.  We pass countless Vietnamese grocery stores and Pho cafes (something I couldn’t be more excited about) on our way to The Blarney Stone, a casual-chic restaurant with an Irish flair.  After consuming some bone-warming Irish coffee, I declare the Stone my go to neighborhood restaurant.  We catch wind of the fact that there is a gay restaurant and bar a mere 5 minute walk from the apartment, and are obliged to make our way to check it out.  dBar is a name that suggests a glittering serving of douchebaggery, when actually it is a somewhat classy and relaxed bar that is quite enjoyable.  We are informed of “Show tunes & Glee Tuesday,” which couldn’t possibly get any gayer (without my presence).  Next to dBar is a coffee shop, and with that it is decided:  I will thrive in this neighborhood.  With coffee, gays Pho all within a mile radius, what more could I ask for?  Oh, look there!  A park lies right across the street from the soon-to-be apartment.  And it is well-lit, even late at night.  This means that as I am being attacked while stumbling home from singing martini fueled show tunes, I will be able to clearly see every detail of the experience under bright lighting.  Ah, the joys of being an urbanista.

The next morning, I am again awakened by Maroon 5’s “Never Gonna Leave This Bed,” but this time I find myself on half of a partially deflated air mattress and the song no longer holds the same bitter effect.  I make my public transportation trek back to the airport, a journey I will soon look upon with a  fond familiarity, and snatch the last open seat on a full flight back home. Orlando looks different under my Bostonian fog, and I look forward to the hazy days approaching.