On Halloween day, I headed to the Tribeca firestation made famous in Ghostbusters. That night, I channeled Margot Tennenbaum on the streets of midtown, eating stick after stick of candy cigarettes.

The next day, I realized I wasn’t yet done paying pilgrimage to movie locations or obsessing over Wes Anderson.

And so, on the first day of November, which was bright and clear and curiously warm, I left our hotel with a specific goal in mind: I was going to see the house on Archer Ave that Royal Tenenbaum bought in the winter of his thirty-fifth year.

The Royal Tenenbaums was the first movie I even saw in the theater with the boy I later married. I don’t know if that is part of the reason I can’t watch it without my heart hurting, without sighing longingly and thinking that life is beautiful and hilarious, even when it’s sad.

It might be something more – like the fact that my father has always sort of reminded me of Gene Hackman. That in a few early scenes of the film, Anjelica Huston‘s character speaks Italian. That weeks after it came out my brother called me and the first words out of his mouth were not “Hello” or “How are you?” but, “Have you seen The Royal Tenenbaums?” 

If you are unfamiliar with the film, please take a minute (or 109 minutes, to be exact) to watch it. I’ll wait. Really. (Seriously, go. This post will be waiting for you when you get back).

There. Good, yes? Your life is changed, isn’t it? Yes. I know.

Though Archer Avenue itself is fictional, the house that Wes Anderson used in The Royal Tenenbaums is not (his draw to the building was so strong, it actually influenced parts of the story). It stands on the corner of West 144th and Covent Ave in Harlem.

Harlem. Prior to that November day, I’d never been further than 112th street. I knew nothing of Harlem besides its eponymous globetrotters, and the fact that my husband’s mother had grown up there.

I looked at my map. Harlem sat at the very top, threatening to fall of the edge. I decided to take the 3 train. This was a mistake. The A, B, C, or D will place you around the corner from the house. The 3 will drop you off three-quarters of a mile away. But I’ve never been one to have much direction, in travel or in life, and it was a beautiful day. I stepped off the subway, learned of my mistake, and began trekking across a portion of Manhattan that I never knew existed.

It was like time had become undone. It may have been the 70s, the 80s, the 90s or now. Or perhaps all of those things at once.

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I crossed Malcolm X Avenue. I saw old churches made of stone and small, family-run restaurants with neon signs. I listed to men laughing loudly inside a barber shop, their chatter bouncing off the walls and onto the street. Everyone I saw was on their way somewhere. There were no tourists in this part of town, save for me.

And I, too, was on my way somewhere.

The sun lit up old, graffitied buildings, forever cementing the impression in my mind that Harlem is bright and beautiful.

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The house is in a wealthy little enclave called Hamilton Heights. It’s beautiful and somewhat disorienting, not just because you feel like you stepped onto a movie set, or because you need to remind yourself that this is, in fact, still Manhattan, but also because all the houses look like they could be the one where Richie, Chas, and Margot grew up.

Like this one, which sat across the street from my destination, and also had the telltale spire:

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Or this one, which was just down the road.

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Or even the church across the street.

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But I’d seen the movie enough times. I knew the spire I was looking for. The wrought-iron fence out front, the stairs Eli crashed into. The rooftop on which Margot and Richie shared an ancient cigarette. I knew it when I saw it, as if there had been tiny dalmatian mice hiding in the corners.

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It’s a beautiful house. I only saw it from the outside, but still, it was lovely.

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I spent far too much time capitivated by everything.

The leaves on the cement banister.

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The three stories of windows, out of which each of three Tenenbaum children stared.

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The scrolling metalwork on the fence out front.

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I went knowing I couldn’t go in. The house is a private residence, a discovery which caused me the same mixture of envy and pain that I get when I pass my childhood home here in Seattle. You simply hope that the current inhabitants who live there know how truly lucky they are. That they wake up every morning and think, “This is the greatest house in the world.”

And then you dream, quietly, of the day when your writing career will take off (because it is your dream, after all) and you are able to buy it. And every morning after, you’d open your eyes and sigh wistfully and think, “This is the greatest house in the world.”

But back in this reality, you have to say goodbye to the house and return to midtown.

As I walked through Harlem again, this time to a nearer subway stop, I began to wax poetic (the way one only can when they are wandering through uncharted parts of New York alone). I thought about how life isn’t a straight comedy or tragedy – how it’s all those things in one, and it leaves you wanting to laugh and cry at more or less the same time. It’s not unlike how I feel after watching a Wes Anderson movie. And perhaps that’s why he resonates so well with me.

And why I trekked all the way to Harlem. Just to look at a house, and only from the outside.

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The Essentials on the Tenenbaums House (West 144th and Covent Ave, Harlem):

• Verdict: Yes. If you saw the movie (and consequently loved it, because, really, HOW COULD YOU NOT?) it’s worth a visit. If you haven’t seen the movie, why didn’t you do so when I told you to 18 paragraphs ago?
• How to Get There: This should be easy for most people. You hop on the A, B, C, or D, and it will graciously drop you off around the corner. I’m just kind of an idiot.
• Ideal for: Wes Anderson fans; folks who have spent too much damn time in New York and have started roaming aimlessly into seldom-trekked sections of the city.
• Insider Tips: The house is a private residence, so banging on the front door while screaming, “I ALWAYS WANTED TO BE A TENENBAUM!” is ill-advised. True fans will also want to check out other filming locations from the movie.
• Good for Kids: Dear lord, no. The Tenenbaum house is not appropriate for children.

Because the seat did not adjust properly, I needed to sit on a large pillow to see over the steering wheel (I am short). Because the breaks were not the strongest in the world, I had to stand on the brake pedal with both feet (with so much force that it lifted me off the seat) in order to stop the vehicle. That vehicle was not with me long, because, as I politely informed my mother, if I was going to die prematurely young, I hoped it would be from something slightly more creative than “death by shitty car.”

So the Pacer was sold off, and I got myself a Hyundai Excel. The brakes worked and I could see over the steering wheel, which I suppose was better, but damn it, was it dull. And so bourgeoisie.

I quietly wished to have the Pacer back, to rock out in it while eating licorice and listening to Queen, but  I said not a word. I wasn’t that ungrateful a kid. Besides, all the money that had gone into those cars was my own, and I was now broke. When I effectively destroyed the Hyundai (rear-ending someone in Seattle traffic), I cried. I cried for a car I didn’t really want.

My family is known for buying clunkers. Because the defrost never worked on any of our vehicles, we’d boil a pot of water on chilly winter mornings and toss it on the windshield to melt the frost that had accumulated there overnight. I learned to drive on an old Volvo that wouldn’t park (like, the actually gear of park would not work, so we had to rest it against light poles or whatever was handy so it wouldn’t roll away). When I was in elementary school, my mother briefly drove a white station wagon with rust spots in the floor that were so large, you could see through them to road underneath. On the wagon’s hood my brother spelled out in silver duct tape, rather inexplicably, “WHO’S YO DADDY?”.

I’d watch my teachers squint as they read the hood of the car whenever my mother drove me to or from school. The look of confusion on their faces was delightful. It’s the sort of magic only an awful car can provide you.

My family tried to bring me into that world of exciting, exhaust-scented unpredictability with that dear Pacer, but in my youthful ignorance, I wanted nothing to do with it. I rebelled by opting for boring, dependable cars. They had short names that sound like (or actually were) computer programs. Excel. Neon. Spectra. They’ve been good to me, those cars, they really have. My KIA almost always starts on cue, has electric windows and a CD player. It’s literally everything I’ve ever wanted from a vehicle.

But when I see a clunker drive past? When I see a group of friends pushing a vehicle down the street to get it started, and running alongside it before managing to hop in? I get sentimental. I think of my family. And I smile.

It’s one of the things I loved about Peru. Everywhere we went, we saw old, broken down vehicles. We piled into cabs that were a battle ground of odors: stale leather, gasoline fumes, and the faintest whiff of a pine tree air freshener that had been hung in hopes of combating all of it. Some people might regard these vehicles as an indication of the country’s poverty. But my view of them is much more favorable: they are the embodiment of not being wasteful. These vehicles are the opposite of a consumer culture, the antithesis of keeping up with the Joneses. Every dent is a memory, every scratch is story. These automobiles may be old, but they are loved.
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I like the newspaper window-tinting.

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These are the cars that I grew up with. Cars with silly, strange names from far-away lands. Volkswagen. Peugeot. Datsun. They the original expats, retired and lounging in the warmth of the South American sun.

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For years I wondered why our cars were always partially grey. (Answer: it was Bondo.)

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These are the vehicles my family crowded around in chilly garages, replacing pieces with other ones they had purchased at the junk yard. These are the cars of my youth, long since sold for parts. On the streets of Lima, I saw them again.

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I am 90% sure my mother actually owned this car.

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They are everything a good friend is not: dirty, unreliable, and constantly wasting your time and money. My KIA, which I found patiently waiting for me in the garage back home, is none of those things. It is a good car. One I can’t complain about.

And yet, some days I still find myself thinking about that Pacer. I almost wish I still had it. Equipped with some new brakes, of course. And, since I’m dreaming here, a CD player and a licorice dispenser, too.

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"Don't hate me because I'm hairless."

(Okay, fine – so today is actually Thursday, and not Wednesday. But I’m sure you’ll agree – “WTF Thursday” just doesn’t have the same ring to it. I’ve been on the road this week, and blogging’s been a little slow. Cut me a weensy bit of slack and I’ll love you forever.)

Allow me to say something which, though painfully obvious, we tend to lose sight of more often than not. Ready? Here goes:

Looks aren’t everything.

I know, I know. This isn’t shocking news, right? You’ve probably been told this since you were a kid. But the more I watch television, and see countless tanned beauties with veneers (because at some point as a society, we started to think it was cool for people to have chiclets instead of teeth), shaking their glossy locks as they parade around in skin-tight jeans- AND YES I AM TALKING ABOUT BOTH MEN AND WOMEN – I begin to wonder if we’ve lost sight of this.

I’m so committed to proving there’s more to a person than their physical appearance, that I dedicate hours to making myself look disheveled. If you bump into me on the street, I may be, at any give time, rocking at least one of the following:

• a prominent zit
• something weird going on with my hair
• something weird in my hair
• jeans that were purchased without the benefit of a three-way mirror
• a cupcake (or the remnants thereof, somewhere on my person)

And poor thing – it was really, really ugly.
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My travel buddy Meghan tries to get the hairless pup's attention.

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It looked like the lovechild of a doberman and an old leather ottoman. As I got a closer look, I realized that the dog had the teeth of an NHL hockey player. This is common for the breed – apparently the same genes that cause the dogs to be hairless also leave them in want of a couple of molars. On top of all that, they’re prone to sunburns, acne, and clogged pores.

A while back, when the Obama family was shopping for a new dog, Claudia Galvez, president of the Association of Friends of Hairless Dogs of Peru (I am kind of dying with joy that such a thing exists) offered the first family a hairless dog. The offer was declined, because the Obamas are clearly superficial types who want the sort of dog that wouldn’t give their children nightmares.
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Beauty's in the eye of the beholder, right?

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Fortunately, in its native country, the Peruvian hairless dog is appreciated much more. One of our tour guides smiled brightly as she told us about them – explaining that they resembled big, hairless bats. The breed has been around for literally thousands of years, dating back to Pre-Incan times. Though once nearly extinct, the Peruvian government has placed special protections on the animals, requiring every archaeological site on the coast to have at least two of them (which explains the one hanging around outside of the museum).

And despite their looks, they’re supposedly great pets – affectionate, intelligent, and, being hairless, allergy-free. According to folklore, being in contact with one of the dogs can help cure all sorts of maladies.

Given the number of twee poodles and designer dogs running around the planet, it’s hard not to respect Peru for their decision. Not only did they pick the hairless dog to be a symbol of their country, they’ve made sure it can be found in dozens of tourist destinations. It may be homely as hell, but its distinctly Peruvian.

It’s a sentiment that, if you think about it, is really … well, beautiful.

"You killed my father ... prepare to die."

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I was a vegetarian for 6 weeks when I was 19. It was a confusing, misguided time for me. I was dating a young man who didn’t eat meat, and, well … who hasn’t done something stupid for a boy? When he broke up with me, I treated myself to a dinner out: bacon-wrapped shrimp followed by a rack of baby-back ribs. I might have had a pork chop for dessert. I don’t really remember (it was, after all, ages ago).

The thing I realized as I nibbled on those ribs- or the thing I had started to realize at least (because I wouldn’t really get the message until I met Rand) is that you’ve got to be yourself, and you have to find someone who will love you for it. In my case, being myself involves eating meat. It’s not something that I hide from, it’s not something that I’m ashamed of.

I’ve understood from a tender young age what the consequences of my actions are. When I was four or five, I told my mother I wanted some of my aunt Maria’s chicken, and as we drove away from my auntie’s house, I saw her catching the bird in her front yard that we would later eat. Later, she brought it over to our house, cooked and cleaned and cut up, in an old margarine tub. I peeled back the lid and peaked inside and I understood: this was the chicken that I had seen running around before. Even the feet were in there, and this didn’t alarm me at all. In fact, they were favorite part.

There was no denying it: my desires had ended that chicken’s life. I had literally asked for it, and I had gotten it.

That’s how it went in my family. There was no pussy-footing the matter. My grandmother was constantly defrosting enormous blocks of meat which were threatening to overflow our freezer. She and my mother would cook up animal parts most Americans toss out. Pig’s feet. Snout. Tripe. I ate it all. There was no such thing as a vegetarian in my house. I had never even heard the word applied to a human until high school (before then, only certain animals could be vegetarian. Not people).

From snout to tail and everything in between, including entrails, I’ve eaten it. Over the years, I consumed a veritable Noah’s ark of creatures. Duck. Rabbit. Gator. Goat. Quail. Tiny baby squid and octopus. Caribou. Partridge. Elk. Kangaroo. And, most recently, guinea pig.

Yes, guinea pig. Or, as they are known in Peru, cuy.

They came right up to me and sniffed. "I can smell the corpse of my brother on your lips," one seemed to say.

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Thanks to Anthony Bourdain, I knew before arriving in Peru that guinea pig was part of the traditional cuisine, especially in rural areas. The guinea pig originated in the Andes. And I did not think twice about eating one while I was there. When in Peru, eat like a Peruvian.

Yes, guinea pigs are often kept as pets in the states. But so are rabbits, and I eat those. And I eat loads of chicken – which was my mother’s pet of choice when she was a little girl (odd duck, that mom of mine).

Besides, my philosophy on meat-eating is pretty simple: you can’t be hypocritical. You can’t eat chicken breasts, individually packaged and sealed (so far removed from the animal it once was that you can almost pretend it was grown like a plant) and then refuse to eat meat on the bone. You can’t eat cheeseburgers and then turn up your nose at tripe. You don’t have to like everything, but if you eat meat, you have to at least be willing to try everything. It’s all or nothing (with exceptions, of course, for dietary restrictions and religious beliefs).

Plus, how can you say you visited a country until you eat the regional cuisine?

So I tried cuy. Twice no less. I ordered it at Cicciolina, an upscale Peruvian restaurant in Cuzco. I was slightly disappointed that the cuy came picked off the bone – it could have been any type of meat, really. Still, it was delicious. My dish had shredded guinea pig meat spiced with mint and apples, placed upon a terrine of mashed Andean potatoes.

Mmmmmm ... guinea pork.

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The same entree after I dug into it a bit.

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The dish was fantastic. Savory and sweet all at once. The acidity of the apples cut the potatoes and meat perfectly. The cuy itself was moist, sweet, and mild in flavor. It reminded me of shredded duck, or dark meat turkey. I found it wasn’t particularly gamey – guinea pigs aren’t the most active of animals, it seems.

We enjoyed that meal at Cicciolina so much, we went back a second time, and I ordered cuy again. This time it was roasted on the bone, atop a paella-style rice dish. It had less flavor that the other cuy I had tried, but the texture was fantastic – a crispy and crackly exterior and moist inside.
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I ate the whole thing.

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Did I think about the fuzzy animals that died in order for me to enjoy these meals? Absolutely. But it’s something I think about before I consume meat. It’s something I make myself think about. It’s my modern-day equivalent of watching my aunt catch that chicken. I know it was once alive, I know it’s dead, I know I’m the reason.

And I keep doing it. I try to honor the sacrifice the little creature made by making sure that the bones are picked clean, that the meal is enjoyed (though that probably brings them little comfort). I think about it and I appreciate it, but I don’t really feel guilty. At least, not enough to stop eating meat. Perhaps it’s wrong. But it’s who I was raised to be. It’s who I am.
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And fortunately there’s someone who will love me for being exactly that.

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I am a fairly new New Yorker, having moved here in the middle of June from Philadelphia, and before that I was living in Switzerland for a while. Having grown up in small-city Virginia, I have been used to fairly homogeneous surroundings (I’m not saying that’s a good thing, I’m saying that’s what it is). Since I’ve moved to New York though, I’ve become enthralled with the variety of people around! I started this Instagram pictures series a few months ago on Google+, and Geraldine loved them so much that she asked me to write this guest post for her.

Some of the subway photos may come across as creepy, but I think they give us an interesting view into the world of New York City. The shots of the protesters at Occupy Wall Street will hopefully help put a face to the people that you see on the news.

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Occupy Wall Street
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The protesters down in Liberty Square were peaceful when I went down there on the afternoon of October 8th. Shouts were rising from back in the square and music was playing, but everyone was calm and peaceful. Here are a few shots of what I saw.
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The American Dream is the American Plight

"The American Dream is the American Plight."

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And that government, of the people …

"... And that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth." - Abraham Lincoln

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“Everyone pays their tax” March

"Everyone pays their tax, everyone but Goldman Sachs" was their cry.

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Who would Jesus foreclose on?

Protesters and NYPD marched alongside each other. The sign says "Who would Jesus foreclose on?"

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Life on the NYC Subway
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The Reading Girl

I saw this girl reading in the subway late on evening. She was first standing by the door with her book in her hand, looking around sheepishly in between times of being engrossed in her book. Then she sat down and I noticed that she was actually sounding out the words to herself as she was reading. I was quickly overcome with how beautiful of a scene it was, so I had to take a photo. Living in New York, it can sometimes become easy for me to be disillusioned with a lot of the world I see around me, but this girl restored my faith in humanity. Read on, girl!

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The Suit Reading

I’m often overcome with curiousity about the vast differences between so many of the people I sit across from. When I start my journey in Union Square I usually get a very homogenous crowd, with guys like this dressed in suits reading the newspaper. When I get down to where I live, it is a predominately black crowd, which I love.

The diversity keeps the city beautiful.

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The Elderly Gentleman With the Hat

I frequently hear about the death of the newspaper, and how the newspaper is increasingly going online. On the New York subways, however, I frequently see people reading the newspaper on their way into work. I happened to catch this gentleman reading his newspaper on the way into Manhattan in the morning. But people of all styles read the newspapers in the city in the morning. As much as life changes, life stays the same.

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The End of an Error

This poor chap slept, leaning on the rail, with his bag tucked under his arm. The bag’s message, which is hard to decipher in the photo, contained a picture of George W. Bush and stated “The End of an Error”.

Are you kidding me? That’s hilarious. Only in New York.

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“Mommy, when’s Mothers Day and Father’s Day?

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These two were rather rambunctious on the subway, which normally annoys me, but the little guy stole the show when he turned to his exhausted mother and said “Mommy, when’s Mother’s Day and Father’s Day?” She replied, “Not till next year”, sounding absolutely exhausted. “Ok”, said the little guy, “I’ll make you a card next year then.”

D’awww!

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That’s it! I hope this has given you a different look into the people and happenings of New York City. If you want, you can follow me on Instagram (dohertyjf) and keep updated on them as I post!

Can't we all just be adults here?

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When I left for Peru, I took a small pack of tissues with me. I’d read that in more rural areas, we might not find toilet paper in public bathrooms. This didn’t really phase me: one time in Italy I’d peed in little more than a hole in the ground. A place not offering toilet paper isn’t that big an offense.

While the tissues came in handy, what was far more difficult to get used to, and what I discovered immediately upon arriving in Lima, is that in Peru (and, indeed, in many parts of the world) it’s not customary to toss your toilet paper into the bowl to dispose of it. Instead of flushing it down, you throw it in a trash can that’s conveniently placed next to the bowl. I’ve read a variety of reasons why this might be the case (everything from the drainage pipes being narrower to septic tanks being designed differently, and even one account that it might just all be an Old Wives’ tale) but the bottom (heh) line? You toss your t.p. in the trash. It’s just understood.

The pristine toilet bowl and trash can in our hotel in Lima.

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(Interestingly, this now makes one of the things Philip mentioned in his “Toilets of Japan” post a while back make sense. They were clearly catering to visitors who were accustomed to not flushing their used paper.)

I, unfortunately, had trouble following the rules. Even after I read a sign and comprehended it (in both Spanish and English! Hooray for bilingual bathroom etiquette!) I still kept tossing my paper in the bowl. It’s really a reflex – I did it without thinking (next time you’re in the bathroom, you’ll find the same is true. Tossing paper into the bowl is not something to ruminate over. And if you do decide to get pensive over some soiled Charmin … Sigh. Well, whatever. I’ve found inspiration in weird places, too.)

I figured I’d never get the hang of peeing in Peru. I probably ruined several septic tanks across Lima and Cuzco, and I started to feel guilty about it. A few times I remembered to use the trash can, but that didn’t make things better. I felt … unclean, knowing my paper will still around. I may have gone a little Lady MacBeth while washing my hands a few times as a result.

Seriously – where is a nice hole in the ground when you need it?

I finally did get the hang of things, you’ll be pleased to know. I used an airport bathroom and tossed my toilet paper discretely in the small trash can in my stall. The only problem? I was in Los Angeles.

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One hot summer’s day, seemingly a lifetime ago, when I was in Kansas, we drove and drove.

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We drove through a part of the country most people only fly over. We drove until there was nothing but sky and grass. It didn’t take us long.

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Occasionally we’d encounter a spare tire by the side of the road. Or a bit of barbed wire, separating I don’t know what from I don’t know what else.

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It was quieter than any place I’ve been in my life. No hum of the freeway. No honking of horns. No distance sound of the waves crashing on the beach, of family members having the same argument they’ve had for decades. Not even a screeching crow, or the rapid beating of an insect’s wings. Nothing. I kind of liked it.

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We were heading to the Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve. There’s not much between there and Wichita. Just lots of road stretching out into nowhere, and the sort of landscape that I’ve always envisioned when I thought of Kansas. It didn’t disappoint.

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We stopped at the Pioneer Bluffs – a ranch house that’s now home to a community center and non-profit organization. It was a scorching hot day, and we were the only visitors.

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The inside of the farmhouse was comparably cooler, and impervious to the passage of time.

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On that afternoon, I learned that children do not suffer from heat, and that tractors are not merely ornamental. For this childless city girl, it was a revelation.

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From there, we headed to the town of Cottonwood Falls. It was 102 degrees out, and there was not another soul to be found on the streets. In the event that you do not believe me, here’s proof:

Missing: everyone but us.

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We had lunch there, at the Emma Chase Cafe. The food was good, but not great. The fried chicken was a little dry, the beans a little overdone, the mashed potatoes dished out with an ice cream scoop. But the service was polite and the proprietress was a patient yet formidable woman who you wouldn’t want to mess with.
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Though there were more options on the dessert menu that the actual menu, it was actually too hot for me to have much of an appetite. I know. I, too, was alarmed.

Raisin pie. Color me intrigued.

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Cottonwood Falls a beautiful place, even when the heat has driven everyone from the streets. The population hovers at just below 1,000, and with an attitude like mine, I’d be sure to alienate most of them within a day. I’m not cut out for small towns. I like to visit them, and then I like to go home. We left, and continued our journey towards the Tallgrass Prairie, stopping at a cemetery along the way.

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I’ll spare you the jokes about it being dead quiet.

Some of the tombstones were teeny tiny.

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We got back into the car, and after the wandering around the tombstones in the unrelenting heat, I was dizzy. By the time we arrived at the Tallgrass Prairie National Reserve, we had pretty much had it.

Amen, little brother.

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Some of us (ahem) weren’t even awake to see the tall grass in the distance, for which we’d driven all that way.

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The Tallgrass Prairie once covered more than 140 million acres of North America, but today less than 4% remains. Most of what’s left is under protection of the National Park Service. The visitors center is not yet constructed, and renovations are under way for some of the other buildings in the park. I’m sure it’s lovely to see on a cooler day, but we just didn’t have it in us. So we turned and headed back. I suspect we missed more of this:

On the plus side, now I have an excuse to go back to Kansas.

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I’m sad we didn’t get to explore more, but … did I mention it was 102 degrees? Besides, though I may have missed the Tallgrass Prairie that day, I got to see Kansas. Considering how many people merely fly over the state, that, I suppose, was enough.

By the way, that latter technique? TOTALLY works.

He mentioned this phenomenon to me one afternoon while I was standing in the middle of an IKEA on the verge of one of my patented and adorable nervous breakdowns. If you are unfamiliar with the Swedish furniture mecca that is IKEA, let me tell you now: it could drive the most resolute soul into a mad rage, could reduce the happiest of mortals into sniveling mess. In 1998, Gandhi punched a dude who was trying to snag the last OMSORG shoe tree in stock. True story.

It isn’t just that IKEA is a sensory-overloaded, windowless maze that forces you to go through the entire store before you are able to escape (a forty-minute excursion, if you maintain an average running speed of 1 mile every 6 minutes). Or that it’s filled with dozens of items that seem like a good idea until you get them home, and then have to explain to your husband why you bought a pack of 5,000 votive candles (“They were only $3.95!” is not a sufficient excuse), a mosquito net (WHEN YOU LIVE IN SEATTLE), or a lamp that only works with a wattage of bulb that is not available in North America except at friggin IKEA and YOU ARE SO NOT GOING BACK THERE. And it’s not even that IKEA products take several long years to assemble, and absolutely everything, even trash cans and garlic presses and wooden mixing spoons, need to be assembled (though that’s a big part of it. My marriage has been tested by an IKEA file cabinet. It currently sits in my office, quietly mocking me. One day I will hurl it out the window with the battle cry of a Norse god. But right now it holds my paper clips).

All of these elements contribute to the dark evil that is IKEA, but the biggest problem with the entire place? There are far too many options.

No matter how specific your needs, IKEA will have 17 potential solutions available in four different colors. Rand and I had spotted a wardrobe that looked perfect for us. When I asked an employee for help, he explained that it couldn’t be purchased in one package. We’d have to select the width of the wardrobe, along with the height and depth, all of which were available in 6 different sizes. We had to select the color of the wardrobe, the color of the doors, trim, and handles. We needed to chose all the interior features: coat racks, shoe racks, hat racks, sliding drawers (available in a myriad of sizes and colors), mirrors, cabinets, and hooks.

“There are,” the young employee told us, his eyes shining with perverse pleasure, “thousands of options.” (I hope he gets a splinter while assembling his IKEA coffee cup. I really do.)

And when I heard those words in the middle of the IKEA showroom, I did what so many have done before: I began to panic.

That, like always, was where Rand came in.

“You know,” he said calmly, with a sort of inner peace that would make the Dalai Lama proud, “we could just forget we ever saw this thing.”

I looked up at him, tears in my eyes. What was this madness coming from his lips?

“Wha … wha?” was my eloquent reply.

Rand eyes twinkled, and his voice came out in an excited whisper.

“We could just buy that bookshelf over there to store our clothes. And then we wouldn’t have to worry about any of this.”

“Hubba wha?” I said. My brain was fried. IKEA is awful.

And so Rand gently grabbed my arm, and took me to the restaurant, the only safe haven in all of IKEA, where options are few and glorious, and bought me a piece of cake.

Then we bought a bookshelf in which to put our clothes, took it home, and didn’t fight at all when we assembled it. We are going to be married for a bazillion years, and all of them will be glorious. Here’s proof:

We store our clothes on a bookshelf. We're SO wacky.

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That day at IKEA came to mind when I was once again faced with too many options. I was at Bogey’s in Hutchinson, Kansas. And sadly, Rand was not there.

Jason and I headed to Bogey’s after our journey to the Kansas Underground Salt Museum.

Whenever a restaurant has an image of ice cream on the sign, it's probably not going to be terribly healthy.

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Bogey’s offers fairly standard fast food fare. They have a handful of fried entrees and side orders to choose from. I got a burger, which didn’t impress me much, and some fried okra, which did. Why we don’t have okra in the northwest is beyond me. Someone call the governor and tell her to get on this immediately.
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Oh, and I also got a shake, for which Bogey’s is known. IKEA may have 500 different closet combinations, but Bogey’s has 101 hundred different flavors of milkshakes. ONE HUNDRED AND ONE. For those of you who are bad at math, that’s one milkshake for every dalmatian. The list is daunting.

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Faced with so many choices, very little time elapsed before I began to lose my mind. My eyes began to blur. Some of the flavors, like Dutch apple pie, made no sense at the time. Others, like hot-fudge-butter-pecan-banana still confound me.

Others are repetitive. I question whether one would be able to distinguish between chocolate-banana and chocolate-banana-nut.  Or chocolate cheesecake and chocolate-chip-cheesecake. The differences, I suspect, are slim.

I scanned the menu, and my eyes stopped on s’mores. I love s’mores. They one on the growing list of reasons I will never be a vegetarian.

But I’d read less than a tenth of the menu. Surely I couldn’t stop there, right? But as soon as I tried to read on, I got dizzy.

Strawberry marshmallow chocolate chip? THAT IS NOT A FLAVOR. THAT IS A GROCERY LIST.

Could I get something as relatively boring as s’mores? Didn’t I have to try a strange flavor? Or seven? My heart rate quickened. I was tempted to crawl into my shirt and scuttle out the door. But I remembered what Rand had said in IKEA. Sometimes, you can forget that you saw all those other options.

“I’ll have a s’mores shake,” I told the girl behind the counter.

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And I was very happy with that decision.

There are times is your life when you are asked questions to which there is only one correct answer. If someone, say, asks if you would like whipped cream on top, you say “yes”, regardless of what you’ve ordered. Really, there is never a time when “no” would be an appropriate response.

So naturally, when I was in Kansas a few weeks back, and Jason (my friend Christine‘s husband) asked me if I wanted to go to the Kansas Underground Salt Museum, I knew I had but one answer.

“UM, YES,” I said enthusiastically, and it was only after the words left my mouth that I realized I wasn’t entirely sure what an Underground Salt Museum was. I understood the individual elements involved, but was unclear on how they worked together. In this respect, it is not dissimilar to my understanding of the Spanish-American War. Or deep-fried ice cream (how does it not melt?). Anyway, I’m sure you’ll agree: both of those things would be improved with whipped cream.

Despite having no earthly clue as to what to expect at the Underground Salt Museum, I was giddy with excitement for several reasons:

• For someone as neurotic as I, museums are a godsend: clean and climate-controlled with pristine bathrooms.
• If potatoes, treasure chests, and gophers are any indication, everything found underground is necessarily wonderful.
• Salt is delicious. Sometimes I roll chocolate chips around in salt and eat them while standing in my kitchen.
• I am somewhat ashamed of that last admission.

What I did not carefully consider, and perhaps should have before agreeing (with such zeal!) to go to the Underground Salt Museum, was the fact that I am a bit of a claustrophobe, and spending an afternoon BENEATH THE SOIL LIKE A CORPSE might freak me out. But I soon convinced myself that everything would be fine – we’d probably just be a few feet below ground. It would be like spending the day in someone’s basement. Someone who really likes salt!

As with most things, I was woefully misinformed.

The museum, it turns out, is located 650 feet underground inside an actual working salt mine (in one of the largest rock salt deposits in the world). I realized this when were actually standing outside of the museum (which is located not far from Wichita, in Hutchinson – pop: 43,000). In other words, when it was waaaay too late to do anything about it. So I put on my best “I’m having fun” face, and vowed not to freak out.

The day was so hot, I managed to get sunburned through my shirt during the 20 seconds I was actually above ground.

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In the ground level lobby, we were ushered into a room to watch a brief safety video. The narrator explained that because we’d be entering a working mine, it was mandatory that we wear hardhats and carry breathing devices called “rescuers”. In the event of a cave-in, or release of noxious gases, we were instructed to activate the rescuer (by snapping a seal on the top) and hold it up to our lips. It would convert carbon monoxide to carbon dioxide, which is very thoughtful of it.

“The rescuer may become hot and burn your lips,” the video’s narrator said ominously, “but do not remove it from your mouth.”

Wait, WHAT? Rescuers and cave-ins were bad enough, BUT BURNED LIPS? I glared at Jason, and, ever the lady, delicately mouthed the words, “WHAT THE FUDGE?” (only, you know, I didn’t say fudge).

We soon found that the rescuers are a rather unnecessary precaution. There are no explosive or harmful gases in the mine, and no visitors or workers have been injured in its entire history. But after a few deadly cave-ins in coal mines, the laws on the books are that all visitors to any mine must wear a rescuer. Even if it’s a salt mine. The contraptions were about the size and weight of my camera (which is itself a beast). The trade-off of having to lug one around is that you know you’ll never have to use it (it’s the same reason I keep an inflatable raft and four cans of tuna in my car).

The elevator ride down to the museum is pitch-black, except for annoying tourists who keep taking photos and blinding everyone with their flash (HI!).

Pity this man. He was stuck in a mine. WITH ME.

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Once inside the mine, we were hit with a blast of cool air. It is, without fail, 68 degrees and 40% humidity in the salt mines at all times. The museum had record-high attendance this summer, and I have trouble imagining that the weather was not part of the reason. Though a heatwave was searing the earth above, it was downright pleasant, being entombed 65 stories below ground.

Everyone was staring at this sign, but in reality I suspect we were all just thinking, "Man, it is REFRESHING down here."

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Surprisingly, I did not freak out. Sure, it’s underground and windowless, but the place is positively huge, there’s ample lighting in parts, and there’s groups of schoolchildren running around (if they were keeping it together, so could I). It helps to know that the mine is incredibly secure, and that Kansas has no history of earthquakes. Plus, as Jason noted, it would be a great place to be in the event of a zombie apocalypse, provided zombies can’t use elevators.

There were three separate entities within the mine: The museum, a secure storage facility (Underground Vaults and Storage or UVS), and the Hutchinson Salt Company (which is still operational). The salt in the mine is full of impurities (mostly slate and shale) and can’t be used for human consumption. Consequently we were told, rather repeatedly and to my sheer delight, not to lick the walls.

Which is a pity, because now I’ll never learn if the snozzberries taste like snozzberries.

The majority of the salt harvested from the mine is used for de-icing roads in major U.S. cities (most of it went to Chicago) and a small portion of it was mixed into feed to provide nutrients to livestock (one of the guides took distinct pleasure in telling me this slowly and carefully, as though city life has made me ignorant to the eating habits of agricultural animals. Which it has. The last wildlife I encountered was a squirrel eating a french fry, which, to be fair, probably provided it with plenty of salt).

DO NOT LICK.

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But hey, please touch!

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The mine is huge, and guests are encouraged to explore at will, with the warning that the museum closes at 6pm during the summer, whether you are still down in the mine or not. The staff explained that they did a last minute sweep of the area, and that to their knowledge no one had ever been left down below overnight (“…yet”, I kept adding in my own mind.)

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And so, with this one guideline, we were free to do as we pleased, which turned out to be this:

Jason, me, and good-old hole-faced Roberta.

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And this:

Salt-Body Man: worst super-hero EVER.

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Thanks to the high ceilings, the lighting, and the inherent goofiness that is Jason, I was actually having fun. I, the woman who is still kinda-sorta afraid of the basement, was 65 stories below ground and was having a delightful time.

Creepy can be enjoyable!

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Of course, we’d only seen one small portion of the museum. The tours were next. Things were about to get exponentially spookier, far below the Kansas prairie.

Tune in tomorrow for the exciting conclusion of my visit to The Kansas Underground Salt Museum!

“We’re taking you to the Keeper of the Plains,” I was told, and there was little elaboration after that.

“Okay,” I said. “And the Keeper of the Plains is …?”

“You’ll see.” I must hand it to my friends. They know how to create suspense.

It turned out to be a 44-foot-tall statue of a Native American man standing at the crux of the Big and Little Arkansas (pronounced “Our Kansas”, for the record) Rivers in downtown Wichita.  A raised hatchet in one arm, its headdress and fringed pants seeming to blow in the wind, the statue looms tall over the nearby bridges and park that offer views of it and the river. It is a tranquil place, but as a white American woman from a devoutly-PC part of the country, I found myself looking around and thinking, “This is cool, right? We aren’t offending anyone?”

It’s the same twitchy concern that I suspect many European-Americans feel when they see anything relating to the Native Americans. The desire to raise up one’s hands and say, “Hey, we’re cool, right? I’m somewhat aware of all the atrocities that happened to the myriad of native peoples in North America, and feel that it ranks fairly high on the scale of genocidal heinousness, but you and I … we’re cool, right?”

The question usually goes unasked and unanswered. Instead, I simply try to appreciate where I am with a good measure of reverence and quiet nodding, and try to casually mention to anyone within earshot that my family has only been in the United States for 30 years or so, so really, I can’t be held accountable for anything. Never mind that no one is accusing me. Never mind that this is beside the point.

Putting aside America’s complicated and less-than-stellar history with the native peoples of North America, the statue, billed as one of the finalists for the 8 Wonders of Kansas (but not actually making the final cut), is worth a visit. Designed in the mid-seventies by Native American Artist Blackbear Bosin, the statue manages to not look out of place next to the decidedly modern suspension bridges that span the rivers.

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From the pedestrian-only bridges, you can get a fantastic view of where the rivers meet. This area was once home to the Wichita tribe, who considered the land sacred.

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Though it was closed when we reached the statue at sunset, the Mid-America All-Indian center is nearby, and features a museum with flags of the 549 sovereign tribes of the United States. Instead, we roamed around the surroundings areas and enjoyed the view while we waited for the 9pm Ring of Fire show.

I am ridiculously proud of this photo, despite the fact that it is underexposed.

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I found this spot of dried mud particularly fascinating – and no, there is no sarcasm to detect in that statement. I come from Seattle, where mud never, ever has a chance to dry. Indeed, it’s rare that there is dirt that isn’t mud.

Seriously, I've never seen anything like this outside of shows on the Discovery channel.

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It was slightly cooler by the river, and there are misters in the ground that shoot up gentle sprays of water. My friend’s three-year old pressed his hand against it and astutely noted, “It’s water.”

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I found it all surprisingly peaceful. The integration of the new construction with the old, the man-made features with the natural landscape – the result was downright harmonious. It made you want to pause and look around and take it all in.

Yeah, kinda like that.

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Even the nightly Ring of Fire show manages to not be terribly jarring or nerve-wracking, and it involves huge, gas-powered pits of fire that light up around the statue (considering that the day’s temperatures had peaked at well over 100 degrees, close proximity to a giant fire was not ranking high on my to-do list. I suspect it’s nice in the wintertime, though).

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If you happen to be in Wichita, it’s worth a stop. It’s the kind of place that you can appreciate with quiet reverence. Even if you happen to be three years old.

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The Essentials on the Keeper of the Plains statue and surrounding plaza:

Verdict: Recommended

How to get there: Bwah ha ha ha – you think I know my way around Wichita? I get lost on my way downstairs. (Okay, fine – it’s at 650 North Seneca, in the conveniently named Keeper of the Plains Plaza. You will obviously need a rental car.)

Ideal for: Families, bird-watchers (there are a few indigenous species hovering around the river), architecture lovers. The entire park is wheelchair accessible.

Insider Tips: The plaza does not offer a lot of shade, so choose a day when temperatures aren’t too extreme, or go in the early evening after the heat has died down. The nightly Ring of Fire show lasts 15 minutes, and starts at 9pm during Daylight Savings months (spring and summer) and 7pm during standard time (fall and winter). The show may be cancelled due to inclement weather, high winds, or if the depth of the river is deemed too high. If you want to visit the Mid-America Indian Center, you’ll have to arrive earlier (check their website for exact hours).

Good for Kids: We wandered around with my friends’ 3-year-old son, and while he enjoyed running around the area, there’s not a lot to stop a precocious toddler from hurling himself into the water, if he so desired (at one point his father declared, “I just know I’m going to end up diving in after him”). So keep a close eye on little ones, especially if they’re the adventurous sort. Older children should be just fine, and the statue/Ring of Fire show would probably be fun for them.