Jamin says I don’t travel well.
I’ve never quite agreed with him, and thought it was downright mean for him to say. Like, he was looking for something to pick on me about. But it was especially obnoxious when the topic came up one night at dinner and my entire family agreed with riotous laughter.
You know that moment where everyone was thinking the same thing about you, and until that very moment you were completely oblivious to it?
Cue embarrassing stories that start with “Remember the one where she…” to follow from each individual family member. Like a long, drawn out Friends epi. Could I be any more difficult?! But I guess if the idea of staying at a Holiday Inn is roughing it, it should be a major clue.
You see, I think we all like to view ourselves as edgy and adventurous. You know… the whole I am killing it, do-it-all woman who fearlessly travels, and such. Throw ‘travels’ with ‘and such’ under that special section of my life’s resume because it makes me seem important-er or something.
Unfortunately, I think my entire family is probably right.
I try. In my defense, I really do.
I’m just not good at it. Because at some point depending on the location, having fun whilst traveling can turn into a survival episode with me. It just happens.
At a young age, I was a bit of a jet setter. To multiple places and countries I’d already traveled. One of them to London. {I’m telling you this because it makes me sound important-er.}
But then, something happened.
I don’t know if it’s settling down. Or being a mother. Or just the reality that hit me from my mid twenties in that I am not, in fact, invincible. And I like staying put thank-you-very-much. I enjoy my creature comforts, and I’m a real live bonafide perpetual homebody. Someone who doesn’t like to leave her little {gloriously comfortable} bubble of sorts. I glean more gratification out of creating and moving forward and pushing boundaries in my own world than traveling it. Theres a balance to be had, because on the other side of the coin, endless inspiration is to be found in the traveling. It’s a romantic notion, in the end… that balance thing.
But I’m starting to think he’s right.
So when we were invited to NYC with the wonderful Swiffer {more on that, soon!} Jamin decided we should book it a few days early and have our own celebration of sorts, before we met up with them. 14 years of marriage, three children and running a business together all while staying alive {aka not murdering each other}… deserves some props, I suppose. If you were following along on the social medias, you may have seen a few glorious looking photo ops. That’s because Swiffer did it right.
There was the one where we got to decorate some cakes at the notorious Cake Boss Headquarters. {I’ve always wondered how they did fondant-yes, it’s the little things.} Also, it’s a good thing we don’t decorate cakes for a living. Aren’t they purdy?
Then there was the one where we took a dance class with real live Rockettes and I realized how very very short I am.
{I am 5’4″ for the record, these are the center girls – it starts at 5’6″ so no matter how hard I practiced, my dreams would alway be dashed. Oh and the gal on the right just had a baby. God was all, handing out bodies and stuff and then he stopped and laughed at me. It’s cool because he spilled the awesome sprinkles by accident mid laughter, right into my batch of human. And decided to send me on to the place where they put the babies together. So whatevs. ;}}
In retrospect, I think I was standing on my toes because I felt so short. And frumpy. Frumpaliciously short.
But they were so sweet you’d never know I wasn’t one of them.
::Holds head high with stars in her eyes::
::Now stalks Rockettes on Facebook and Instagram::
And we visited some furry friends at the local humane shelter. I would have brought this sweet gal home if we had the room. I have this thing for big furballs.
We need to wait for Rigby and Fitz to get a few more years under their furs, though. I hope this sweetie is taken home, soon.
I’ve now been to the Big Apple 4 times. But this would be Jamin’s first. So I kind of reluctantly agreed to accompany him on such pre-trip shenanigans. It was time to see the sights. You know. Live a little.
And see the sights we did. A little pedestrian style, we explored it all.
Down 5th avenue,
Wall Street,
The 911 Memorial, {Which was both staggering and sobering – really the only verbs that to mind}
And Grand Central, to name a few. That ceiling is the prettiest.
There’s nothing like a big city trip to remind you how very small you are. ;}
We even rode the subway, though I must admit, I’ve seen too many movies and read way too much of the news. Because I kept watching my 6 in case someone wanted to shove me off the platform, and I studied every single passenger along the way. You know. Just in case we needed to run away and switch cars or escape kidnappings. And by kidnappings I mean murder because we’re not important enough to kidnap. I think what bothers me the most, is that there’s no security for what people bring on said subway… thus the news. So observing is how you stay alive, yo. And bonus: I didn’t really touch the hand thingies in case of pink eye or syphilis because ew.
So, we had our own little adventures.
There was the one with the unlocked side doors.
I guess I have a propensity to invite disaster into my life. Or maybe it’s just that I don’t get out much. I think it’s just my reluctancy to travel as a whole. Because you think one would be a little more cautious when opening up the doors of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
On a Sunday.
Morning.
Duh. But we are on vacay so it’s not like we are keeping up with days.
Because they were the only unlocked side doors that we tried. Where the entire congregation was meeting for church. Never mind that they had security in the back, but this side door of all side doors… opened. Right into the main grand cathedral where the Pope himself may as well have been speaking. We were close enough to see his priestly outfit and stuff. And I was mortified.
I guess they left it opened for the special people who were late? Heads turned in unison in their pews. In the middle of the service. And there we were in vacay/oblivion mode and had forgotten to think that they would actually be meeting that morning. Or that we’d be able to saunter right in. And we graciously backed away in slow motion, and quietly closed the door.
And then headed around back for the proper entrance because we weren’t going to let that shame us out of viewing some beautiful architecture. There were so many we assumed they wouldn’t know who’d just made a fool of themselves by interrupting church.
So the stained glass views were worth the humble re-admittance. It was gorgeous.
Or the one where we strolled into a fancy Italian restaurant in jeans. And everyone else was black tie. In our defense, it was in the bottom of our hotel at six o’clock and we’d been told it was casual. So happy anniversary to us because everyone else was fancy shmancy and we’d been out on a day of sight seeing so I suddenly realized how smelly I probably was. #rednecksonvacay
We felt immenselly better when some Texans arrived and asked for sweet tea and were also donning jeans. Our kinda people.
Or the one where I lost my drivers license. I realized somewhere along the way that it had fallen out of my bag. Yep. Of all the things. Seriously. Jamin said I’m like traveling with a teen and he should have collected my documents before we even arrived. Winning.
My mom was amazing and overnighted my passport so I wouldn’t go through serious crazy stuff with security. Good thing we knew where that was right after moving. I have no idea how.
Then there was the one where at some point, my anxiety took over and I woke up one night in the middle of the hotel room to study the fire escape procedure. 35 floors up, I needed to know the best route. You know, just in case. I’m not used to cramped spaces, and the hotel was kind of freaking me out. There I was lying in the bed, when I realized we hadn’t even looked at it. So I did what any other rational person would do, and walked across the room to study it. In the middle of the night.
The first hotel we stayed in {pre Swiffer} was a bit, well, cramped. Nice, but cramped. NYC is tight and I knew I was channeling my inner mother with the need to escape in an emergency. Picturing my children as orphans, this is how people stay alive after all. The southerner in me was feeling a bit claustrophobic by night two. And then upon examining said fire escape route, I realized we hadn’t really done the necessary background check for bedbugs, just trusting that this hotel was legit. And I suddenly started to itch. So I checked the mattress, even though it would have been a little late at that point.
Jamin woke up and muttered for me to go back to bed. With the bedbugs. And my phone light.
One can never be too prepared.
Or the one {yes, I’m still going} where I was talking to my youngest on the phone in front of the Plaza Hotel and I heard a voice hiss in my ear, “I worship SATAN!”
I kid you not, the voice of Satan himself. Hissing. In my ear. It actually frightened me because it literally came out of nowhere. And I felt a little Rosemary’s Baby standing there, and I could even hear some creepy music playing in the background.
I whirled around to find myself inches away, face to face with a man who stared at me for a moment, and then immediately turned his back to me and started rummaging through the trash.
I backed away, speechless. I wanted to say something like “Cool, BRUH.” But I refrained. Totally appreciative that this was all that happened since I’d been oblivious to his presence only moments before. So Jamin responded with a totally rational “Sounds like a personal problem man” and I didn’t wait around to see his response. NOPE. I literally ran away. Jamin was on his own. Not that Jamin seemed to care, he and I are polar opposites here.
The man probably saw us stumble out of St. Peters like idiots and wanted to invite us to his church or something.
And I wanted to look around for hidden cameras.
But nothing quite tops it like the one where we decided to go out for burgers and shakes at a bit of a famous local restaurant.
We covered endless landmarks that day, because we were determined to squeeze it all in. From Times Square to Central Park to Soho. After walking four miles and biking six more in the 100 degree heat. I’d had water all day. But at some point, I’d become dehydrated, and didn’t quite realize it. Dehydration has a way of sneaking up on you like that, and I’ve never experienced it like this.
I should have realized it when I got the chills. But I figured that was from the Satan worshiper and kept drinking that water, thinking I was fine. And then our milkshakes arrived and I was so excited. We’d waited an hour, because we heard it was worth the wait. I even took selfies with my milkshake because I don’t get out much, and such an occasion needed to be documented with photo ops.
I didn’t have that much. But my body reacts to sugar in a strange way. So much so, that I really have to watch my intake. And as soon as our burgers arrived, it hit me.
I didn’t feel so well.
Let me also add, that Jamin was officially over me at this point.
But I mean, who could resist this? I felt I’d earned it with all the calories I’d shredded that day. Here I was, sipping my milkshake, moments before in oblivion.
I only drank about 1/3 of it.
Happiness in a cup because when in New York…
And then, I stopped. Because this was like the sugar rush of all sugar rushes… and not the good kind. The kind that hurts your stomach and suddenly, you feel sick. Like in the third grade on field day after inhaling a combo of pop rocks and pixy sticks and ring pops and you’ve been bouncing in the bouncy castle and suddenly you toss your cookies.
Uh, I mean that never happened to me.
So I sat through dinner thinking I would feel better. But I didn’t.
And afterwards, we were over the subway for the day, {I kept thinking we just might die} and so we agreed to order a black car service which was actually cheaper than a taxi but nicer than Uber. We were all, treat yo self.
But by then, we’d left said restaurant and I was pulling a version of my walk of shame where I was pacing up and down the sidewalk.
“Jamin I don’t feel well.” I kept saying, while we waited for the car to arrive. As if I expected him to transport me magically back to the hotel.
Because the only thing worse than feeling sick and wondering from which end Mt. Vesuvius might explode, is having absolutely nowhere to retreat to. I had no idea where the next bathroom would be, except the one at our hotel. 15 minutes away and 35 floors up. Whhhhyyyyyy mmeeeeeee of all people… Was the only thing that kept going through my head. Deep breaths. Yoga breaths. Cleansing breaths. You’ve got this.
So when the car pulled up, I knew I was in trouble. But I had no option but to get in. It was coming in waves. What is with me and the waves? Seriously.
There was this mixture of relief, hope and dread. Because if you’ve ever ridden with anyone in New York, you know it’s this combo of jerks, starts and stops, honking horns and near death experiences where you’re holding on for dear life.
So I rolled the windows down and basically started panting like a dog.
And it escalated quickly. Because suddenly I’m making bargains with God like that time I was in college and I promised never again… Just don’t let me diiiieeeee… Except this time it was a milkshake. And I’m an idiot riding in the back of a taxi.
Which made it doubly ridiculous. Starts. Stops. More stops and starts. I hadn’t even had that much, but the no water / exhaustion situation combined with a sudden influx of sugar and I was doomed.
And I’m sucking in the fresh garbage-infused air via the window thinking… do I open the door in the middle of traffic and ralf? I’ll be the person on CNN who dies and has a mini headline at the bottom of the website. Tourist Opens Car Door to Vomit and Dies. Cause of Vomiting Still Unclear. And I’ll be all in heaven, yelling at CNN, “It was just a milkshake!” And my mother will be mortified.
So I realized I needed a game plan. And suddenly I remembered that we had an H&M bag in my purse, so I whispered for Jamin to get it out, just in case.
“I’m Sorry, I’m not feeling well” was all I could manage to the driver who I’m not sure understood me because I was mumbling into a plastic bag… and I dry heaved into the bag.
Like, three times.
Dry heaved.
And I’m pretty sure at this point, the driver was all…
You know that awkward moment where Chunk is telling the story in Goonies to the bad guys about the time he fake threw up on people? That was me. Except apparently I was so dehydrated, nothing came out. {Refresh if it’s not loading}
And I felt a small pat on the back from Jamin who was equally confused and mortified. A soft “there there” kind of half-trying pat.
Because in his defense, what else was he going to do.
And then I started laughing because for some reason, the dry heaves made me feel better. And I felt really really stupid. And I apologized profusely and promised the driver that I was not, in fact on drugs or crazy. I’d just had a milkshake. And that I didn’t mess up his car. Which sounded even dumber in real life. And I’m pretty sure he didn’t believe me.
And he stopped on the corner and pointed to the hotel which was code for “Get out of my car” and we tipped him extra and mumbled ‘sorry’ again.
And he left the window down because he didn’t want to die of EBOLA. Or something else I probably picked up on the subway.
I barely made it to the room because it officially did a number on me. Good times.
Oh, and this time, Jamin took the picture. After the soft, ‘there there’. He felt he’d earned the right.
I think I’m looking at the bag, relieved and surprised.
So why did I tell you this collection of short stories a-la Ashley?
I guess in case you’ve ever wondered if I’m this awkward in real life, the answer is yes.
Definitively yes.
And in case you don’t travel well like me. It’s okay.
There. There.
Or if you have any story like these that are similar. I’ve been there. Promise.
So while we had a deliciously amazingly wonderful time, I’m never short of the adventures. And over thinking. And freaking out. Because it’s what I do. These are the kind of stories that are always mixed in with things like Cake Boss and the Rockettes. It’s how we roll.
When we were finished embarrassing ourselves, dodging satan worshipers with “Cool BRUH” and surviving the subway by making sure no one shoved us off the platform or we contracted pink eye, that is. I feel enriched. With the good and the bad.
For the record, I very much wanted to kiss the acre of green grass of our front yard when we arrived back in Williamson County, to face the reality of a rehab, once again. Ready to roll, bring on the frustrating. The exciting. The progress. I can handle anything… I survived New York.
Kind of.
They say that traveling is a version of self revelation. {I have no idea if that’s what they say, but it sounds good}
I learned that everyone who knows me, is right. I do like to travel. I just don’t do it well.
Touché.
But in all fairness Jamin kinda brought this one on himself…
And let’s not forget this little forever gem of a story here.
Janet says
This. Is. Gold. I love it. I’m a homebody too so I can absolutely relate!!!
Ruth H. says
Hahahahaha! These are Awesome stories! We spent a year living in Germany early on in our marriage. Thanks to a strong dollar and a generous offer from my husband’s employer to let us take off “all the days the Germas take off” we got to see quite a bit of Europe. This was both awesome and awkward because the first half of the year I was nursing our firstborn and the second half I was pregnant with #2. So I have some stories. My husband’s favorite is the one where we decided to drive through Northern Italy while I had morning sickness. On mountainous roads with hairpin curves. We finally arrived in a small town and before my husband could stop the car I leapt out and sprinted to the steps of the local cathedral, where I collapsed in a nauseous heap on the (mercifully cool) granite steps gasping, “Sanctuary!”
ashley @ the handmade home says
Bahahahaha! I went with my family to Barbados. Jamin couldn’t go because he had to work, so I was all by myself. Two oldest and one in the belly – first trimester = horrid morning sickness. So I was keeping up with a three year old and Emerson probably wasn’t even a year. They decided it would be fun to tour the island with the driver in a van. I was sooooooooooo sick. And nothing tasted right. It was the most fantastic/worst trip ever. I have no idea why I went- I’m pretty sure I made everyone else miserable, too.
Anna says
This made my Day. Thank you as always for being so hilarious. And real!
Layla K says
This is amazingly hilarious! I thought it was just me who didn’t like to travel. And when I do, stuff like this always happens. Bravo to you for sharing because I needed a good laugh today. It’s me laughing with you because I can relate!
Mirna says
A wonderfully good and funny read!
rose l. says
I have IBS which can really interrupt a vacation or trip, so I can empathize. I have had some incidences, too.
I am not one for visiting big cities but prefer camping, but have been to France, England, and Scotland. Ah yes, there are stories that my family shares about me as well.
Bonnie says
Ashley, you had me laughing out loud when I was reading this story of your adventures. I’ve never seen a milkshake like that. I would have waited an hour also to get a milkshake like that. It looks divine. I’m so sorry that you got sick!!
Lesli Mataya says
Thanks for making my day Ashley! I hope to go to New York someday and I am sure I would be checking the escape routes, bed bugs et al. You bring your wonderful adventures to life and I really needed the laugh! Take good care, so glad I found your blog!
ruby says
you are absolutely too funny!! what a great sense of humor you have! i would tell the one about me and a bidet in Paris, but i have almost successfully totally blocked it out now…. Homebodies of the world, unite….independently in our own little worlds….