And believe me: we were far, far outside of Manhattan. Sure, it might have been only 20 minutes away, but the Hilton in Rye Brook, where we stayed, could arguably have been on another planet. Or another decade: just stepping inside makes you feel as though you’ve gone through a decorating time warp (Landing you in circa 1963. Seriously, the producers of Mad Men have got to shoot some scenes here).

And just in case that wasn’t enough weird, the hotel was hosting a girls’ dance competition.

Let me tell you: the sight of underage little girls dolled up like prostitutes, set against a backdrop of polyester and unfulfilled dreams is not one I will soon forget. In Eytan’s defense, the hotel we chose was not actually on his list of recommend ones. After all, why listen TO A GUY WHO FRIGGIN FOUNDED A SITE THAT PROVIDES REAL HOTEL REVIEWS? Why listen, when instead you can stay at the Hannah Montana House of Ill-Repute? HUH, RAND?

The craziest part of all of it? We had fun. We had so much damn fun in our crazy hotel in the middle of nowhere (when I wasn’t suppressing the urge to tell some 11-year-old to go wash the whore off her face). I can’t explain it. I blame Rand.

Self-Portrait, Rye Brook Hilton

But don’t regardless of fun that was had, I don’t recommend eating at the Hilton. We had one meal, of which we ate roughly 1/4, at the hotel bar. When the waitress came to clear our table, she looked somewhat offended, as I’m sure she spent the better part of a minute microwaving that pizza for us. We tried in vain to go somewhere else, but the only place we could find open was this:

Whatever, we were desperate and hungry.

At least, we thought it was open. Apparently their hours are 7 am to “whenever those hungry people walk up to the door.”

The next morning, after an evening spent raiding the vending machine in hopes of supplementing our hotel-bar-meal, we found bagels. Glorious, fresh-baked, why-the-hell-can’t-we-get-these-in-Seattle-because-they-really-can’t-be-that-hard-to-make bagels.

Ignore the green bagel.

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 This is the only exterior shot I could get of Hand Rolled Bagels. Notice the torrential rain. It would continue for the duration of our stay.

They also have awesome rugelach.

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Convinced, after 2 bagels and a half-dozen rugelach, that we had enjoyed absolutely everything Rye Brook had to offer, we drove to Nyack. This involved us crossing the Tappan Zee Bridge. You can make up your own joke (my brother chose the angle of “Tappan Zat Ass Bridge”. He’s classy like that.)

We cross the Tappan Zee Bridge in the pouring rain.

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Best read with a Valley Girl accent ... "Nyack ... Sooooooo Nyack."

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Why, you ask? Why the hell would we drive to Nyack in the pouring rain? Because my husband has always wanted to go there, obviously. Specifically, to the Edward Hopper House Art Center. The bottom floor of Edward Hopper’s childhood home has been converted into a museum and gallery, and the top floor bedrooms serve as artists’ studios.

Notice, again, the pouring rain.

Don’t let Rand’s expression fool you: he was excited about the museum. He’s a huge fan of Hopper, and he’d always wanted to visit the museum. Plus, Hopper’s works are rarely on display, so the fact that we were going to a museum dedicated to his work was totally exciting and -

Err … sorry, what’s that you say, lovely little old lady who works at the front desk? You don’t have any Hoppers at the Hopper House Museum? That’s a joke, right?

No, no it’s not a joke? You’re being perfectly serious? You don’t have the budget for security, and therefore you aren’t allowed to have any of Edward Hopper’s work in your building, even though his effing name IS ON THE SIGN OUT FRONT? ARE YOU SERIOUS?

Sigh. I am sincerely sorry, Rand. There was an upside to the whole thing, though. The inside of the house was kind of cool, and substantially drier than than the rest of Nyack.

Plus, we got to sneak into Edward Hopper’s bedroom. The artist who rents that space has been in Germany for forever and a day, so we were able to poke our heads through the door.

Working in a legend's bedroom is surely a way to set yourself up for failure, no?

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And we got to see his bicycle, which was downstairs, and hear stories from the woman who worked there. She apparently grew up just a few streets away, and she knew Hopper’s sister (who would walk her cat up and down the street).

I know it's frivolous, but I really liked seeing his bicycle.

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Alright, alright, I’ll admit, a rusty old bike, a messy studio, and stories about cats on leashes might not be everyone’s cup of tea. But after touring the gallery (which had the work of some legitimately talented local artists up), I left feeling not at all disappointed. Sincerely. It was nice. It just goes to show you that even if a place doesn’t meet all your expectations, it can still be great. Of course, I’m not sure if the gallery alone is worth a trip to Nyack, but hell, if you’re in the area (and I can’t think of why you would be), it’s not a bad stop.

We left Nyack, and noshed on some rugelach as the rain poured down on the car and we tried to figure out where to go next. We had joked briefly about going to Sleepy Hollow, and when we saw how close it was, it sort of became an inevitable destination. I’ve never actually read the short story by Washington Irving, but I watched the Disney cartoon at least a dozen times every Halloween in my formitive years. I even saw the sort-of-terribly-but-still-fun movie version that Tim Burton made. Without having ever really thought about it, Sleepy Hollow has been a fascination of mine since I was a kid. And now were were going.

I tried to remember the lesson we had just learned about the Edward Hopper House: how sometimes travel can disappoint you. You’ll have an idea in your head of what a place should be, you want the reality to match up exactly. Often times it doesn’t. In my mind, Sleepy Hollow was a spooky little town, full of expansive graveyards, Victorian homes, and, of course, the headless horseman.

In reality? It was exactly that.

No, I’m not kidding. It was everything I could have hoped for and more.

Sleepy Hollow: established 1640

The town served as inspiration for Irving’s ghost story, and rather than shrug off that association, the town of Sleepy Hollow and its residents seem to embrace it. There’s hints to the story everywhere, along with silhouettes of a headless horseman.

Notice the headless horseman logo.

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I love that The Horseman (Family Restaurant and Pizza) has a murderous, decapitated specter as a logo.

The barren trees and Victorian houses made even the intersections seem a little spooky ...

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Not to mention the tombstone carver, who's located very near the center of town.

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Even the street signs are exactly what you’d expect of the town. Pumpkin orange and black, they’re instantly reminiscent of Halloween, and have a tiny little headless horseman on the top.

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Other signs were burgundy and white – decidedly less scary looking, until you read the names of the streets. Seriously, some city planner had way too much fun …

If you think living on Van Ripper is bad ...

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Imagine how the folks who live on the dead end of Gory Brook Road feel.

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All of it was delightfully spooky, but none of it, absolutely none of it, held a candle to the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. I will say that it truly is one of the creepiest, spookiest, coolest places I’ve ever been to. It was pouring down rain, and while this added to the overall mystique of the place, it meant that we couldn’t partake in a tour of the cemetery, so instead we just drove around it. A lot of my shots are blurry (either because of the rain, or possibly auras) so please pardon that.

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Rand really liked the broken railing, because he said it looked like someone had escaped.

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This, by far, was my favorite grave. It creeped me out to no end. I had this idea that a woman had been trapped alive with his corpse inside that grave and she was depicted by the stone figure sitting at his tomb (what can I say? I have a healthy imagination) … It belonged to Edwin Lister, and while I couldn’t find that much information on him, you can read a notice about his will in the June 13, 1898 edition of The New York Times.

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Likely due to the weather, we didn’t seem many other people out. A few other cars were driving around the cemetery (the place was huge). Eventually, we saw two figures dart across the path ahead of our car, and disappear, apparently into one of the masoleums.

“Holy crap. Did they just go into that tomb?” Rand asked.

I didn’t answer, as I was too busy peeing my pants.

We pulled up to the grave, and spotted a man and his teenage son hiding underneath. They explained that there were scouting locations for a movie the son was making for film class. The man explained that he would hang out as a teen with his friends in the cemetery. He said that up along the hill, an accused witch was buried. Supposedly, if you lie on her grave, you’ll die within the year.

“Is it true?” Rand asked.

“Well, I did it 30 years ago, and I feel fine,” the man replied, laughing.

We offered them our umbrella, but they declined. I guess they were already soaked anyway.

Having been sufficiently creeped out and charmed by Sleepy Hollow and its inhabitants, we left. I told Rand that I wanted to come back for Halloween, though. And, realizing we were starving, and that the weather was getting worse by the minute, we did the only thing left for reasonable adults to do: we ate at the mall food court.

This was actually fantastic. And way, way better than the food at the Hilton.

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As soon as the lights started to flicker in the mall, we decided to head back to the hotel. The idea of getting stuck in a huge line of traffic as everyone tried to leave the parking garage at once didn’t sound appealing to either of us. The ride back to Rye Brook remains one of the more legitimately frightening experiences of my life. Rand’s driving, as always, was flawless, but the torrential rain and winds were bringing down trees and powerlines left and right. We even saw bushes igniting on fire from the downed lines (fortunately, the police and fire departments were on top of everything).

Apologies for the blurriness: a downed power line ignites a fire.

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Police re-direct traffic around a downed tree in the middle of the road.

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We were starting to worry one might hit the car.

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This was one of dozens of scenes like it. I've never seen so many police and firefighters in my life.

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I’m pleased to report that after numerous detours (a serious hazard when you’re unfamiliar with the area) we made it back to the Rye Brook Hilton safe and sound. The next day, we talked to some other wedding guests who said they were flying in during the storm, and it was an absolute nightmare. The plane felt like it was, at times, in a free fall. People were screaming and yelling at the flight attendants, demanding to know what was going on. As soon as they landed (thankfully, safely) medical personnel were waiting to tend to the injured and the panicked. It was, even according to the seasoned travelers we talked to, the worse flight they had ever been on.

According to someone else, they had read that a few people had died in the storm (one was electrocuted, another was killed by a falling tree). It makes me incredibly grateful that all we suffered from was a bit of inconvenience and crappy hotel food … and a little bit of spookiness.

Which reminds me:

A very early Happy Halloween to you all.

Besides, there’s just so much damn crazy that happens on the stretch of I-5 between Seattle and Portland. Last time, we saw someone who had decorated their mini-van in homage to the Jonas Brothers for whatever reason. Honestly, if you asked me to turn my car into a shrine for any of the following, I would be game: Indiana Jones, movie-theater popcorn (I love popcorn), the musical stylings of William Shatner, and/or comfortable footwear.

But the Jonas Brothers? What. The. Hell. I suppose, though, it’s about as legitimate as this guy, who turned his vehicle into a billboard for, well, I don’t know what.

I read this four times and still have no idea what it means.

The huge sign affixed to the back of his car reads: “All Christians & Atheists judge and deny Jesus is the god of life in us all & die blaspheming the whole I spirit.”

I dare anyone to make less sense.

Though it sounds like the Fascist Farmer would take that bet. This guy owns two billboards, one facing north and one facing south, along I-5 between exits 73 and 72 near Centralia, WA. He usually puts up whatever crazy has entered his brain at that particular moment. This time, he had up this gem, which is equal parts cryptic and moronic:

I guess it's better than the time he went off about Obama's birth certificate.

In case the image breaks, the billboard reads: “First NAFTA, then CAFTA / Now cap and trade / business good?/ how is your job?”

I … yeah. At least it makes more sense that the back …

Dude, THE SIERRA CLUB? You're picking on THE SIERRA CLUB? Why not just go punch the Women's Rotary Club Secretary while you're at it?

It reads, “Sierra Club leave our Centralia Power Plant alone.” I do so love theater of the absurd. And all this, before we’ve even left the state of Washington!

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Despite an incredibly mild winter, Portland decided to become freezing cold for the few days that we were down there. So, like any reasonable Northwesterner, I took this as a cue to eat outside. The Portland food carts, located at SW 9th and Alder, gave me plenty to choose from.

They're usually open every weekday from about 11 until 3.

I usually go for the cart that has the longest line, since I figure that’s a good sign. But on this day, I heard a woman telling her friend how awesome the food was at Ziba’s Pitas, a virtually ignored little cart at the end of the street, and I got in line behind them.

It doesn't look like much, but ... wow.

Her friend was Macedonian, and he told me the food Ziba served was pretty authentic. It was also awesome. I got the burek, a pita filled with spiced beef. A la carte, it costs just under $5, but I decided to splurge and get the platter, which comes two sauces on the side – cucumber yogurt and red pepper – rounding the price up to a whopping $6.

Mmmm ... that burek was so good, I wish I was eating it right now.

Ziba, who was incredibly sweet (when I ordered a bottle of water, of which she had sold out, she tried to give me a free soda), advised me to eat the burek with my hands, since using a fork and knife just causes the flaky, buttery pastry to fall apart. I did as I was told, wolfed down half the burek in the cold, and brought the rest to Rand, who was just across the street at our hotel.

Me: Have you eaten?

Rand: Yup.

Me: Doesn’t matter. Try this, anyway.

Rand: But I’m not hungry.

Me: Doesn’t matter. Try this.

Rand: (taking a bite) … holy crap. This is awesome.

Me: I know. It took all my willpower to bring it to you and not eat it all.

Rand: Aw, baby-

Me: Shut up and give me the rest.

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That’s more or less how it happened.

I also had a lot of free time on my hands, since Rand was preoccupied with work.  Since downtown Portland has a variety of cool shops and no sales tax, I spent some time roaming around, shopping, and finding nothing (note: The Goodwill on 10th is obscenely overpriced. I’m all for shopping at the Goodwill,  but used shoes should never cost $50). Fortunately, we met up later with our friend Laura and her husband Chris, who had much more success on the Portland shopping front. They even bought us these, which are both practical and hygienic:

Though honestly, I can grow my own.

The tag says they are made from 100% human hair. I’m sure that’s a key selling point. I bet a lot of people who are about to buy a fake moustache leave it when they find out  it’s acrylic. I know I would.

Laura's husband, Chris, and Rand, with their politically insensitive facial hair.

Laura and Chris joined us for dinner at Ping, which was recommended to us by some friends who are Portland locals (always listen to the locals). It’s a Chinese-tapas restaurant, and we found it to be awesome (though we mis-ordered, and ended up getting waaay too many meat skewers, and not enough noodles. Sorry, Laura. I owe you some ramen).

Notice the lack of noodles.

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Also, apparently not everyone likes chicken hearts as much as we. Behold:

Again, sorry, Laura.

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It was still a nice time, though. I recommend the pork collar.

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Afterwards, we roamed around in the freezing cold looking for dessert.

"Hey, that tree has bark made of shitty bands." - Chris

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For the record, Rand and Laura are really similar. They have this happy-go-lucky, let’s-run-around-town attitude that I adore. Except when it’s cold. They also insist on looking up everything on their phone. Which I normally wouldn’t mind … except when it’s cold. So, in the process, we got hopelessly lost.

Chris gives his patent-pending "What the heck is wrong with our spouses?" look.

Eventually we found a chocolate place. Do not ask me the name of said chocolate place, because I have no idea. In order to find it, just get drunk and follow Rand and Laura in 30-degree weather. When you are about to quietly strangle one or both of them for leading you down a dead end, Voila! The chocolate shop will appear, and no one will get hurt. (Update from the Everywhereist: After examining my photos carefully, the place is called Moonstruck Chocolates. You’re welcome.)

Also, the chocolates are adorable.

One of the sheep is missing. I blame the chocolate wolves.

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The reason the cats don't mess with the mice? Duh. It's cause they're the same size.

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Better than peeps.

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They started with only two chocolate bunnies.

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We ended up opting for less fancy candies …

Dont let appearances deceive you. It was great.

I don’t remember what kind of chocolate I got – only that I didn’t share it. And it may have had caramel in it. After having consumed chocolate, I decided we needed more dessert, so we went to a cafe called Papa Haydn. There are few comments about the cuisine there, since everyone seems to go just for dessert, which is stellar.

While we were there, Rand spotted a gentleman in an adjacent dining room who he swore looked just like William Shakespeare. This resulted in everyone wandering in to look at him, though we didn’t really have an excuse to do so (and he totally did look like the Bard. Facial Hair and all) . We even got our waiter to go look (his reponse after returning to our table was, “Holy crap.”) After a while, old Will caught on and started giving us dirty looks, so Rand couldn’t complete the second half of his vision, which was to wander by his table reciting sonnets.

Sadly, I have no pictures of the dessert or Willy.

But I do have photos of the four of us.

I took this.

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I think my coat makes me look like a porker.

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The next morning, Rand and I had breakfast at Kenny and Zuke’s Delicatessen, around the corner from our hotel. The portions are absolutely enormous (that’s what she said!) and I think it would be perfectly reasonable to split something. While it wasn’t incredibly busy, service was lightning fast and friendly, and it seems like they could handle a pretty large volume of people. The bagel was pretty darn solid. I don’t know why you can’t get a decent one in Seattle, but Portland has plenty.

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Rand had the challah french toast.

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Rand once again had work to do after breakfast, and since it was our last morning in Portland, and I had done nothing but eat and shop (yay!), I felt that I had better go to the art museum before my brain melted. It seems I was too late, because, given how long it took me to find the museum (roughly a half hour, despite it being a 10-minute walk from the hotel) it was clear my faculties had already left me. Which is perhaps why the name of the exhibit was so appropriate.

You know what else is disquieting? Not having even a smidgen of a sense of direction.

No photos of the inside of the museum or the exhibits, obviously, but the PAM is usually worth a visit. They get some great exhibits, and the place is pretty big (though hard to navigate – some floors are only accessible by going into the basement, answering some riddle told by the creepy guy under the stairs, and coming out on a parallel dimension on the other side. Kind of a pain in the ass to just see some Japanese wood blocks).

Afterwards, I neglected to take my own advice for lunch, which is that if you love a place, there’s no shame in going back again and again. Let’s face it – just because you’re in a new city doesn’t mean you have to try something new every time you eat. But I felt like going to Ziba’s twice in less than 24-hours would have been just too much, so I opted to try the falafel stand just a few carts down. I could actually see Ziba’s from where I was.

It was like the time I went to a high school dance with a kid whom I could never see as anything more than a friend, and I spent the whole night thinking about the boy I did have a crush on (who was there, amorously dancing with his girlfriend. Sigh).

The point is, the falafel was good. It was great even. It might have even been some of the best damn falafel I’ve ever had.

Really, I'm not giving this falafel its due.

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But it wasn’t Ziba’s. Sigh. Next time, Portland. I’ll brace freezing cold weather, expensive thrift stores, and even getting miserably lost … just as long as I have burek.

They are the sort of folks who run marathons.

That benefit good causes, like the American Cancer Society.

And they do all these wonderful feats on the morning of their wedding.

My friend Rachel is one of these such people.  While we were roaming around New Orleans, she was running a half-marathon (and simultaneously making the world a better place).

On, in case you didn’t catch it the first time I said it, she ran a half-marathon in New Orleans on the morning of her wedding. But I’ll get to that in a moment.

The morning of the wedding, Rand and I walked around town. Prior to this trip, I had assumed that New Orleans would be broken, quiet, and bitter. But it wasn’t any of those things.

It was bright, beautiful, and so damn caring, it would break your heart.

Big wheels keep on turnin ...

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Dude, I really should have read Huck Finn.

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She was wearing quite a lot of beads, esp. considering she wasn't a topless statue.

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But I'm sure she earned it, nevertheless.

It’s kind of like how you would assume a woman who’d just run a half-marathon on the morning of her wedding would be cranky, exhausted, and a little bit nuts. But instead, she was the same radiant, sweet, and utterly content Rachel she always was. Well, maybe a little more so.

After all, on this day, she had beignets.

Oh, and she was getting hitched, too. That might have had something to do with it. Maybe.

This photo warms the brittle lump of coal that is my heart.

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As soon as I am home for more than five minutes, I will print this photo and frame it on my wall.

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Oh, and the beignets. The beignets! They’re the sole item of food on the menu at Cafe Du Monde. And really, the only thing that needs to be. We were at the French Market location, which is open 24-hours a day, and which Rachel explained was her late-night hangout in her high school days.

Rand and I decided to split an order of three, which was a mistake. Get three to yourself. Trust me.

We ordered some. In the warm, early spring breeze, eaten alongside a cup of iced coffee, any woman will find herself glowing like a bride on her wedding day.

And if you really are a bride on her wedding day? The rest of the folks nearby had better wear shades.

The French Market itself goes on and on. It’s worth a visit.

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Sadly, there was very little haggling taking place.

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There were rows and rows of palm and tarot card readers, but I couldn't convince my husband to try it.

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By far one of my favorite scenes was this one:

City in microcosm.

As we walked around, I couldn’t help remembering all the stories I had heard about New Orleans after Katrina. The impression I had – of a city lost and in ruins, didn’t jive with what I saw – people laughing, playing music, dancing, and so damn happy to see one another. I don’t want to sell you a fairy tale. Everything isn’t sugar and daffodils. Not even close. But the thing is, it is so much better than you could imagine, and I suspect that things will continue to improve.

And one of the reasons why I believe that things will continue to get better? This:

For those of you who don't know, that's an image of Drew Brees, the quarterback for the Saints, holding the Superbowl trophy.

Here’s the thing: I stand by what I said in an earlier post – the number of people who jumped on the Saints bandwagon pissed me off. I’m not going to abandon the Colts and cheer for the Saints just because it’s the cool thing to do. But if you ask me to root for the state of Louisiana, and New Orleans?

In a heartbeat.

Salvation comes in a lot of forms. For NOLA, appropriately enough, it came with The Saints. I’ll gladly have my team lose, any day of the week, if it means sending happiness and hope to New Orleans. And I hope the people who live there continue cheering for their team until the end of days.

You must mean "Go NOLA." I'm on board with that.

But the rest of the poseurs should shut up.

Anywho, where was I before I went on yet another tangent about the Superbowl? Ah, yes. New Orleans. Rachel getting married.

Before the wedding, Rand and I searched for a spot to get lunch. We bumped into Gastrognome, who gave Coop’s Place a glowing recommendation. Naturally, we couldn’t ignore her, and I’m glad we didn’t.

Mmm ... 'gater.

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Cajun fried chicken and rabbit, sausage, and seafood jambalaya.

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Rand and I might have fought over the chicken. And his bloody mary. And everything else we ordered. I’ve heard everything there is pretty damn fantastic, and from what I tried, I believe it.

And while it was a singularly fantastic meal, it wasn’t the best one of the day. Not even close, because dinner was still to come.

Rachel and her groom (who will forever be immortalized by these events) decided to have their dinner at Restaurant August. And from here on out, anyone who is planning a wedding at any other location is making a grave mistake. Because while I am sure the church where your grandparents were married is a lovely and sentimental venue and all, it doesn’t serve food like this …

This was the starter: gnocchi, with crab and truffles. Just thinking about it makes me smile.

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MMM ... lamb lollipops.

At one point, I was un-self-consciously gnawing on my lamb rib chop, explaining to a few others at the table that “meat lollipops” were possibly one of my favorite things in the world. As I was doing so, I caught a glimpse of Gastrognome across the room, deftly gnawing on her rib chop.

“I love meat lollipops,” she would say to me later, because she is awesome.

The food was exceptional, but it wasn’t really a surprise.

“What else would you expect of Rachel and Chris?” someone said. And they were absolutely right.

Radiant, right?

That night, full of gin fizzes and bread pudding, I got to thinking. I thought about New Orleans. I thought about hurricanes. I thought about love. And I thought about Rachel, running a half-marathon on the morning of her wedding.

I realized that even if New Orleans hadn’t been so wonderful, I’d still love it for one reason: it was her hometown. Fortunately, like I said before, I found it bright and beautiful. And so damn caring.

Not unlike Rachel.

I’m glad she’s in Seattle now, and we get to see here often. But if she ever needs us to go to New Orleans again, we’ll be there in a heartbeat.

I just hope it’s not during play-off season.

Plus, for reasons both varied and funny to me now, I’ve never seen Good Will Hunting. If I had seen it when the opportunity presented itself, I likely wouldn’t have met my husband. So now I kind of refuse to see it.

So in Cambridge, I felt a bit out of place. But after walking for a while, it wasn’t so bad. I did see rich kids with neatly parted hair, but also rich kids with dreadlocks. It all evens out.

While Rand met with important folks, I spent my time trying to talk like a Kennedy with varying levels of success (hint: aiming for Mayor Quimby is the best way to go). I also walked around campus …

Admit it: you want to park your car here, in this yard at Harvard. YES YOU DO.

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I considered taking a tour, but it was full of bright-eyed Pre-Froshs who had yet to learn the magic of Jell-O shots.

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Translated from the Latin: If you can read this, you paid too much.

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And, of course, there’s the famous statue of John Harvard, who was apparently not responsible for founding the school:

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The statue has slender little legs (a nod to his TB). Visitors tend to rub his foot for good luck, though apparently some spoiled douches who go there like to pee on the statue. Lovely:

Shine your shoes, gubnor?

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At this point, Rand managed to escape from his captors to come hang out with me! We toured Harvard Square together and walked up and down Brattle Street, which was particularly cute. Not unlike other college towns …

This was just the newsstand. It was not the entirety of Harvard Square.

And since I hadn’t eaten in about 2 hours, I was obviously hungry again. We ended up at Sweet Cupcakes on Brattle. And while I am uber-picky about my cakes, theirs were awesome. Gourmet and highly adventurous, it’s definitely worth a visit.

Heaven ... I'm in heaven ...

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We ordered a Boston Cream Cupcake, which seemed fitting (I was pleased to find that Boston Cream Pies are actually from Boston. Unlike German chocolate cake, which isn’t German):

It was way too small. I will tell you that now. Buy four.

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Insert caption here: something about the sweet eating a sweet, or my cupcake eating a cupcake. You figure it out.

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We then stumbled upon a shop called Black Ink, also on Brattle, which may have been a bit too clever for its own good.

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The kids who work there stamp out witty little signs for all their products …

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Hee.

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This was one of my favorites.

I highly recommend stopping in if you are looking for a gift, or just want to experience some of that famous coastal elitism we hear so many bad things about from Fox News. Speaking of uber-conservatism, while we were in Cambridge, we also had the opportunity to visit the extreme-right-wing head of HubSpot, Dharmesh Shah!

Here he is with my husband, laughing about the plight of poor people:

"And then ... then they want free medical! Why? So they'll continue to live their poor lives? HA HA HA HA HA."

Okay, fine. So Dharmesh isn’t an uber-right-wing Neocon. I just needed a good transition, because this post has taken me WAAAAAY too long to write (I know, I know – it certainly doesn’t seem like I spent a lot of time on it). He’s just plain awesome, and in a lot of ways, he reminds me of Rand: he’s engaging and clever and hopeful and so darn optimistic about the world and mankind. It makes you want to hug a bunny.

We visited Dharmesh at the Hubspot offices, which were brightly colored and fun in a way that only successful startups can be.

I told Rand to pretend he was drowning in the porthole. I love that I don't need to explain myself anymore.

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And here I am thinking about something important, I’m sure …

"If you fart in space, will you explode?"

Sadly, I have no photos of Dharmesh’s wife, Kirsten, but she’s hot. Like, super hot. And smart. I know, I know – it sounds like I made her up. And considering there’s no photo, that might be true. Perhaps her awesomeness transcends reality, and she exists only in my mind. Whoa.

Dharmesh took us to dinner at Oleana, a Turkish restaurant in Cambridge that offers a vegetarian tasting menu he wanted us to try. Now, keep in mind, before I tell you about this place, that I love meat. LOVE it. I carry salami in my purse. I’ve eaten chocolate with bacon in it (and vice versa). I’ve eaten tripe, ear, tongue, foot, kidney, liver, heart, and a variety of other things from a variety of animals. I respect vegetarians in the same way I respect people who get up at 6:30 in the morning to go jogging: I wish you all the best, but there’s no way in hell I’m doing that, because I might poop my pants.

That being said (and I can’t even believe I’m typing this, but it’s true): our dinner at Oleana was one of the best meals of my life. No, seriously. Top five at least. And I realize by telling you that, I’m setting you up for disappointment should you ever go there, but tough – I want to relive the memory in all its glory.

With the tasting menu, we each ended up with different courses (I’m pretty sure I told our waiter to tell the chef that we were a table full of hot, gamine women, in hopes we’d get even better food. LIKE THAT WAS EVEN POSSIBLE).

I think this was Rand's. Beets or something. It was awesome.

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Salad with cherries and awesome sauce.

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Awesom-sparagus.

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Mush-awesomes!

There are more photos, but I’m tired (and I ran out of adjectives, like, four posts ago … AWESOME!). So let’s just get to dessert. Which was so delicious that I think Dharmesh may have tried to shut me up because he didn’t want me TALKING OVER the flavor of the food. I might be paranoid. But I think it happened, so it did.

Insert caption here: something something EFFING AWESOME something.

And, as payment for trying to shut me up, here is a photo of “Cranky Dharmesh” which I found hysterical, because he’s really not cranky at all in person. Maybe he was hungry. HEY DHARMESH, MAYBE IF YOU ATE MEAT YOU WOULDN’T BE SO TEMPERAMENTAL. HA HA HA HA.

"Lucy, you got some 'splanin to do!"

Seriously, he and Kirsten were great. I’m just really bad at saying thank you. They made Cambridge a place I want to go back to, and soon.

• Fall is coming and New England seems a nice place to be this time of year.
• It was my husband’s suggestion and I thought it might be a nice change of pace to actually heed his advice.
• I am a lazy ass.
• Our next trip is three weeks away, and I needed something to write about.
• Boston has, for a variety of reason, been on my brain. (But that’s another story.)

So please ignore the fact that these photos are obviously from early spring. And also that there are huge gaps in my memory about this trip. And that I look kind of exhausted and freaked out in most of the photos. I had about 500 Jewish in-laws surrounding me, some of whom were not in any mood to ignore the fact that I am Catholic.

Anywho, back in April we went to Boston for Rand’s third-cousin’s Bat Mitzvah (no, I could not make that up). Rand also had some business to take care of. A statement which, upon reading, sounds distinctly mobster-esque.

I like Boston. It feels familiar – a phenomenon that can only be explained by a childhood spent watching Cheers. Because really, there’s nothing else that ties me to that town. I feel welcome there, as though I’ve just walked through the door for the thousandth time and everyone’s shouted my name. Then Woody asks me a question and I have a clever reply. Also, I’m George Wendt.

Speaking of …

The theme song will now be stuck in your head all day. You're welcome.

There’s actually more than one Cheers in Boston. The original, The Bull and Finch, is located on Beacon Hill and was used for all the external shots of the show. We didn’t go in because it’s sadly super touristy and apparently not all that great. Besides, as long as I see it from the outside, my disbelief remains willfully suspended. Oh, and then there’s the other Cheers location in Faneuil Hall, Quincy Market:

That's right - there are CUTOUTS of Kelsey Grammar and Rhea Pearlman. JOY!

It’s an actual replica of a bar from the show, which is much less depressing because it was created to be touristy. It has a LARGER-THAN-LIFE FRASIER CRANE out front. Take a moment to reflect on how awesome that is. The Bull and Finch, on the other hand, once had its heyday, and then slowly became more touristy. It now offers menu items like Ma Clavin’s Bahston Clam Chowda and Sam’s Turkey Wrap.

And now I am depressed.

Fortunately, the rest of Quincy Market is pretty neat. I strongly suggest going, especially if, like me, you are a sucker for markets.

Notice how everyone looks cold? Remember that. It will come up again later.

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I am also a sucker for well-labeled candy. Unlabeled candy, no so much.

And then there was this display of butter-soaked, cheesy pretzels, which seemed to be fighting with itself:

Pretzels: the healthy choice (some restrictions apply)

Okay, fine. These pictures aren’t very compelling. I can’t be 100% all the time, folks. They don’t pay me for this crap. Now, what was I complaining about? Oh, yeah. It was cold. Which is why we didn’t do very much. We tried to go to the aquarium, but it was about to close. We’d been to the Boston Common (which I recommend, especially if you like old graves and American history) and decided to skip it a second time. And neither of us felt like doing the entire Freedom Trail, which I’ve heard is worth it. We did pass by the old statehouse, though …

It's history! Just sitting there in the middle of an intersection!

And some statues.

Honey, I feel your pain. Pigeons suck.

And then we saw a sign for a Neil Simon play that flashed, “My Mother’s Italian, My Father’s Jewish, & I’m in therapy.” Rand and I thought that was particularly funny. I tried snapping a picture, but the screen kept changing too quickly, and this came out:

Rather prophetic, no?

Which brings me to the point of our trip to Boston: to ride around in a cab, screaming “THE JEWISH ARE COMING! THE JEWISH ARE COMING!” out the window. Right? Err, apparently not (and I suspect my husband will say the following upon reading this: “Jesus Christ, Geraldine.”).

The point of our trip was to visit family and celebrate his little cousin’s Bat Mitzvah (which I kept calling “a Jewish Confirmation”. Sigh. I really need to stop talking). And while there were moments that I felt a little intimidated by scores of people who genuinely believe we’re related (aww …) it was really quite nice.

For one thing, Rand’s cousins are kind of adorable (Note the sundresses. The weather went up 30 degrees in one day):

Only three of us are drunk! Guess which.

And it’s always nice to see where someone you love is coming from …

Rand's grandparents.

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My hubby with our hosts.

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... and with the lady of the hour.

Plus, I’m Italian. That means I can appreciate a good party, even if there’s (tragically) no bacon involved:

I mainly posted this because both of them will be mortified.

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Bow-chicka-chicka-wow.

We left the next afternoon. It was in the 80s – a stark contrast to when we arrived, and total pain-in-the-ass circumstances under which to pack (coat, sweater, … shorts?). But nevermind that. Because the sunshine gave me the opportunity to take two photos, both of which I am quite proud.

Exhibit a: I was trying to take a photo of the fountain, when this little girl ran in the shot.

Philip says I shouldn't take photos kids I don't know, but I wasn't trying to, so I think it's okay.

And Exhibit b, which pretty much speaks for itself:

This is how folks from Jersey tan. I KNOW - I love it, too.

Like I said – sometimes it’s worth it, just to know where the people you love are coming from.

All in all, I didn’t get an entirely favorable impression of the town. HOWEVER, my good friend Natala is from there, and we met up with some awesome folks, so I’m willing to reserve judgment … a little.

We left Seattle on Monday night, and had dinner at Pallino, which is one of the best places to eat in Sea-Tac Airport.

We ordered the four seasons (Quattro Stagioni) pizza, but rather than four distinct quadrants of toppings, they had all run together. So perhaps our dinner was a subtle commentary on global warming. Either way, it was yummy:

We then had to haul ass to our flight, because there was some sort of security breach and they weren’t letting people through. So we had to take two trams and transfer once, and were among the last to board. On the flight down, I made some astonishing revelations:

Mainly, that Alaska Airlines now occasionally has cheese crackers instead of soy nuts in its snack mix.

If you've noticed this, too, congratulations! You travel too much.

And that responding to every question in the crossword with “Dale Midkiff” is really amusing, if only to me:

11 Across was "moist". 22 Across was "responded excessively". I nearly peed my pants with happy.

When we arrived, we took the tram at SFO airport to the rental car offices. I noticed that in San Francisco, they carpet the little shelf at the end of tram, so you can sit on it without your ass sliding right off.

Friction = no ass slippage

No such luck in Seattle – it’s brushed stainless steel (though I remember a time when it wasn’t) so your ass slides right off. It’s this dedication to rules that sometimes kills me about my hometown.

Brushed stainless steel = ass slippage.

Oh, and we were able to get a rental car without waiting in line or talking to any humans. SCORE. Thanks, Alamo, for making life a little more efficient and a little less personal! I feel so German. We drove to the Sheraton Palo Alto, which is weirdly impossible to get to. After making 17 lefts and handing some dude an egg, we found the entrance.

The hotel was fairly nice.

I had to take this photo twice, because in the other one, my half-naked husband was visible.

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They have a koi pond. Apparently if you try skinny dipping in it, they get all pissy.

But do not eat at the Sheraton. Heed my words. Do. Not. Eat. There.

Downtown Palo Alto itself is pretty darn adorable. It looks, in my opinion, exactly like Bedford Falls from It’s a Wonderful Life.

Exhibit 1: Palo Alto

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Exhibit 2: Bedford Falls

During one of his few breaks from the insanity of meetings he had, Rand and I had lunch at a place called Han’s Korean Restaurant.

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FYI – Seattle has amazing Korean food, so while Han’s was very good, I’ve had better. And my friend who’s a Palo Alto native recommended Tamarine.

While Rand was off at his many meetings, I roamed around town. I didn’t really feel up to touring Stanford, since the only guy I knew who went there was kind of a douche. So I stumbled upon the Elizabeth Gamble Garden Center …

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And was scolded by some crazy lady.

At this point, I have to say, I really was not feeling Palo Alto. It’s hard to navigate,  people were mean to me, and did I mention no one let me merge in traffic? Fortunately, Rand knew exactly what it would take to cheer me up.

Rand: We’re meeting my friend Gautam for drinks.

Me: WHO?

Rand: Gautam.

Me: I am the bat.

Rand: No, no – not Gotham, like the city, but Gautam. It’s a pretty common-

Me: I am the bat.

Rand:  No, you see-

Me: I am the bat.

Rand: (Sighing) Yes, yes. You are the bat.

Me: I am.

Sadly, it turned out that Gautam didn’t know Batman, or even Bruce Wayne (or is that what he wants me to think?). He was however, really nice to talk to, as was his wife. Sadly, I have no pictures of them, because I didn’t bring my camera. Though hardly anyone gets photos of the Batman, anyway, so it’s likely a moot point.

Fortunately, I brought my camera when we met Nirav.

Nirav Tolia, as best as I could gather (I had trouble hearing on account of the choir of angels that sang every time he looked at me) is a colleague of my husband’s, and started some company that has to do with sports or athletes or something or other. Plus, I’m pretty sure “Nirav Tolia” is Hindi for “George Clooney” (but I am a little rusty). I’ve just taken to calling him REDACTED (Sadly, Rand won’t let me include the nickname I came up with for Nirav. Something about it being “absolutely mortifying”. Also, it might have included the word “Yum”).

We drove the 40 minutes up to San Francisco to meet Nirav. According to Rand, there are two highways that go into S.F. from Palo Alto – the 101, which is the poor man’s highway (goes from the poor section of Palo Alto (the east) to the Tenderloin) and the 280, which is the rich man’s highway (and goes from – yeah, you guessed it – Sand Hill Road to the Embarcadero). Apparently, the 280 has better views and fewer cops.

Don’t ask me how, but that’s the highway that we ended up taking. I was completely freaked that our rented Toyota with Colorado plates was going to land us in prison because we were clearly out of our element. This was one of the houses we passed:

Frank Lloyd Wright's homage to Tropicana.

And then I saw this, which confused me …

Where America's neighbors go to laugh at us.

There were even scenic viewpoints all along the way. We pulled over at one, and I was going to ask someone to take our picture, but everyone was in a Mercedes and in the middle of a business call – plus, I’m allergic to wealth. So Rand took the photo:

Have I mentioned how much I recommend marrying Rand?

See? Don’t say poverty doesn’t make you adorable, kids.

What always amazes me is that you can actually see the fog rolling in as you approach San Francisco. It just sort of hangs and clings to the city. It’s really strange.

"It moves faster than the cabs ... OF WHICH THERE ARE FIVE."

We started out in sunny Palo Alto, and by the time we got to the Ferry Building Marketplace near the Embarcadero, it was overcast. Inside isn’t bad (nothing like the Pike Place Market, but still worth a visit). We walked around a bit …

And Rand found every hedonistic Jewish boy’s dream …

That'll do, pig.

And … sigh. This happened:

I am apparently drunk. ON CHEESE.

And then we went back to Palo Alto, gas prices be damned! After all, Rand had another meeting, and I really wanted to check out Stanford’s National Accelerator Laboratory.

This completely cancels out being prom queen, I think.

No, really. I did. I’m insane. I know I’ve mentioned that before, but I feel the need to stress this again: I am NUTS. Take my weird fascination with particle physics. I used to draw little cartoons of massive neutrinos on my notebooks. They looked like this:

After looking at this a while, I realized it will be a MIRACLE if I don't die alone.

Rand told me he was pretty sure they had tours of the center, and I just about peed myself. I was completely ready to go all Sam Beckett on that thing, and step into the particle accelerator and VANISH. Oh, boy.

But I was foiled. Again. DAMN YOU, PALO ALTO! DAMN YOOOOOOOOOOU! Apparently, they won’t be doing tours until next year. And when they do, I suspect the tours will be for actual physicists. In the meantime, the look on the guard’s face when I asked him if I could go in was somewhere between confusion and laughing hysterically. Sigh.

Then it was time to go back to the airport, and home.

Apparently SFO has a free speech booth, where you can legally solicit funds.

I’m tired, so make up your own joke. I’ll get you started: something about actually having more rights in the airport than we do in the real world / something about your mom soliciting funds / something about my perenially broke, incredibly big-mouthed brother. It basically writes itself.

And Rand and  I were forced to eat at the airport, which would have been really depressing if either of us had been alone (and I think we each have been, at that exact airport). But somehow, the shared experience of a so-so meal makes it better. Mediocrity, apparently, loves company as well.

It's like a sitcom premise: rival Airport restaurant owners HATE eachother. Hilarity ensues.

Rand had a burger, which he described as pretty decent …

I think he's cute even when he's eating. That's how effed up love will make you, kids.

And I had whatever this was.

Go ahead. Guess.

Quick tip: There aren’t any good restaurants on the other side of security if you are flying from SF back to Seattle. So eat beforehand. It’s what we did, and still …

Oh, and on the flight back, we once again go to see the fog gripping the coast. Kind of amazing, really:

So, all in all, not the best trip, but not terrible either. I met some amazing people at the expense of crabby locals, airport dinners, and, saddest of all, no super-collider. I’m taking it in stride. Because it’s still worthwhile, it’s still an experience, and that’s what travel is all about.

Plus, that’s what the bat would do.

And for the past three years, I’ve made a bit of a pilgrimage down there. The first time, Rand thought I was nuts (also, I kept drooling on him and screaming, “SLOTH LOVE CHUNK”, which he did not entirely appreciate). The second time, he still thought I was nuts, but he had just married me, so he had to go. And on this, my third time down to Astoria, Rand couldn’t make it, but I managed to convince my friends Mike and Dan to go. And bless their souls, they went. Even though I’m pretty sure they now think I’m nuts.

We stayed at the Comfort Suites Hotel, where Mike booked us a room.

Notice how I’ve torn off my bedspread? That’s because it was dotted with stains of an unknown origin. Presumably it was the same dried-milky-substance that dotted the window. But let’s not dwell on that. Instead let’s admire how an attempt was made to patch up a hole in the bathroom with what appears to be a spit wad.

Screw you, Bob Villa.

Please, don’t get me wrong: this hotel effing ruled. It was $160/night for a double, and they had fresh-baked chocolate-chocolate-chip-marshmallow cookies. In a very I-smell-ice-cream move, Mike smelled them first. That’s how we found them.

This is where happiness and cavities come from.

Besides free cookies, Comfort Suites also offered us a view of the Goonies house. FROM OUR HOTEL ROOM.

It's that tiny little thing up on the hill in the distance. I KNOW. AWESOME, right?

Okay, maybe it’s not a view of the whole house so much as a view of the roof of the house. But still. Plus, we had a view of the school from Kindergarten Cop. At this point, we pretty much peed our pants from excitement as we started to scream, “IT’S NOT A TUMOR” (and by “we” I mean I.)

And even this wasn’t the end of the amazing-ness of the Astoria Comfort Suites Hotel. For it was also conveniently located next to a Safeway. But not just any Safeway. The most MAGICAL SAFEWAY EVER. For example, there were two kinds of fake cheese. And they were both on sale:

God bless America.

There was also a mylar balloon that consisted solely of a torso …

It's also apparently some sort of guide's torso. Unless you are celebrating the birthday of a cannibalistic friend who also loves Rick Steves, I don't know why this exists.

And a melon … with a hole in it. I had to take a photo, or you’d never, ever believe me.

I ... just ... WOW.

Like I said, the Safeway was magic. But Astoria is pretty magical in general. It’s one of the only places I’ve ever been to where there’s a JCPenney that isn’t in a mall. It’s just on the main drag.

Mike and Dan look so enthusiastic because I have been talking about this JCPenney for 2 years.

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Okay, fine. Once inside it's actally more "depressing" and "horrifying" than "magical". But still.

And of course, there’s The Goonies House.

Dan and Mike were right: There is no way you could build a friggin golf course right here.

I was under the mistaken impression that we were all going to do the "Truffle Shuffle" together.

I won’t lie: I think it’s a little sad that the house hasn’t been transformed into a Goonies museum (as woefully impractical as that is, especially to the home’s owners). Still, the folks who live there get so many people driving up to their house and taking pictures, and they never complain. They even have a sign indicating where they are, because the house is kind of tricky to find. A hint to those going (and I am sure, after this post, you will ALL want to go): the house is on 38th, but you can’t turn up 38th from the main drag in Astoria. Instead, head up 37th, and make the first left you can. That will take you to the bottom of 38th, where you can walk up the driveway and see the house.

I wonder how many people drove up before they had to put this sign out.

We then headed to the Astoria Column - the largest column in Astoria! - and on the ride up we had this fantastic exchange:

Mike: What’s the column in Astoria called?

Me: The Astoria Column.

Mike: (sighs)

It’s only a 10 minute drive up to the column from the Goonies house, and on the way you get to see the school where Ahnold filmed Kindergarten Cop.

Mike doing his impression of Arnold running out of the school.

I forgot what I was talking about. Oh, yeah. The column.

Hee hee hee hee.

We lucked out, managed to head up on one of Astoria’s 5 clear days of the year. After paying the $1 annual admission fee and climbing the 164 steps to the top, we got to see this:

Astoria and the Columbia River.

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Um ... more Oregon!

I also bought some biodegradable gliders which you can launch from the top of the column.

They were 75 cents each.

Unfortunately I kind of dropped my glider off the top of the tower (instead of launching it) and screamed “OH NO!”. On a related note, don’t scream when you are very high up with people who don’t like heights. They don’t appreciate it.

I believe his exact words were, "GAH! Why the fuck are you screaming?!"

After the column, we went to the Columbia Maritime Museum, which is supposed to be awesome. It was closed. Fortunately, we found an exhibit just outside the museum: an ancient device that sailors would use during shore leave to call up their girlfriends.

Mike is confused by the primitive contraption.

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... and horrified that it is right next to a sewer overflow pipe.

During this entire excursion, we heard what sounded like barking dogs. But they weren’t dogs. They were exponentially more awesome. And we found them on the pier just past our hotel.

Best. Danger. Sign. Ever.

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Sweet.

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Minus the sea lions, this looks a lot like my senior class portrait.

I then dragged Mike and Dan to two more Goonies locations: the Flavel House (Mikey’s dad’s museum) …

One day I will pay admission and actually go inside. Really.

… and the county jail from which the Fratellis spring Jake:

Mike looks kinda fed up, because this was the 5 millionth photo I'd taken.

While we were taking pictures in front of the jail, a van pulled up. The driver jumped out and offered to take our photo. Unused to small town friendliness, this scared the hell out of us. He even implored us to sit down on the steps (at this point, Dan and I both thought it was going to be like that scene in European Vacation where the guy tells the Griswolds to get in the fountain, then proceeds to run off with their camera).

Obviously he didn’t run off with my camera. Instead, he was very friendly (if insane), and talked about how much he disliked the big city folks in Portland, who think their town is so great, when Astoria is clearly superior. And he told me not to take Dan and Mike into any bars, because they’d get shanghaied.

Riiiight.

And then, at the corner of 15th and Franklin, we found what might possibly be the scariest house in Astoria. And therefore, also the most awesome:

I so wanted to go up and knock.

I can’t imagine anyone lives there, but I saw a light on inside. I can only assume the evil flesh-eating clown that lives there uses it to lure children in before devouring them whole.

Also, why the eff are there curtains? Just to make it spookier?

That night, we had dinner at Drina Daisy, a Bosnian restaurant that I’ve been raving about possibly as long as I’ve been talking about the friggin JCPenney. In short, the place is amazing. Order whatever you want – it’s all awesome – plus the roasted lamb.

At this point, we headed back to the hotel to lapse into a food coma (okay, fine – first, we bought champagne and chocolates and raspberries, and then we went back to the hotel and watched SNL. We’re left-coast yuppies, okay?). The next day, we started out at the Astoria Sunday Market, which is not only affordable, but has some of the best food in town. Most specifically, the hand pies …

Mmm ... hand pie.

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Mike said we didn't look enthusiastic enough in the first photo, so we took a second one. I look deranged.

… and handmade quesadillas, filled with zucchini, corn, and cheese, and topped with crazy-hot homemade salsa.

I want this woman to come live with me.

There’s lots more to see at the market, but I strongly suggest you stop at these two places. Also, if you have the opportunity to buy cookies from some lady named Phyllis, do so. That is all I will say about that.

 Next, we headed out to Cannon Beach, where you’ll find Haystack Rock (the rock that Mikey lines up on the medallion in the movie).

It's this misty in the middle of the afternoon.

It’s a beautiful place, but keep in mind, it’s not particularly warm or sunny, even in August. That’s the amazing thing about the Pacific Northwest: you think no place has shittier weather than Seattle, and you’d be wrong.

"What's this? You're wearing the shirt of the band you're going to see? Don't be that guy."

On the way back, we stopped at Yummy, my favorite restaurant in Seaside, blah, blah, blah MARGARITA CUPCAKE!!!!

There was tequila in the FUCKING batter. All this time I've been drinking my booze, like a peasant.

The food was great, too, as always. But the cupcake: after it was gone, I found myself picking pressing my thumb into the crumbs and licking them off. It was an act of desperation. A very yummy act of desperation.

And after that? We went home. It was a great weekend, which wasn’t really surprising. After all, I love Astoria. And cupcakes. And haunted houses. And …