Street signs. Major themes in books and film (I watched Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy and was woefully confused because I kept getting distracted by Benedict Cumberbatch’s hair). And often, when I travel, I tend to miss precisely what it was I set out to see on that day.

This past summer, when I visited Florida, my friend Giselle took me to the beach so I could see a rocket launch from Cape Canaveral. Not as grand as a shuttle launch, mind you, but still something pretty cool to see, especially if you didn’t grow up with it.

As we waited, we got a little bored and one of us really wanted a snack (sigh. FINE. IT WAS ME), so we wandered into a Starbucks. We got drinks and chatted, and then the kid behind the counter started flirting with Giselle and I politely suggested that she “tap that”. She protested that he was too young and I argued that this meant she could teach him a thing or two, plus he was employed and probably smelled of cappuccino.

(I still think she should have gone for it. I once dated a guy for two months because he had a Smiths poster on his wall and one time, he made me a nice steak. That was it.)

So I sat, quietly planning her and coffee boy’s wedding while sipping an iced tea, when Giselle suddenly stood up and said, “The launch!”

-

We ran outside just in time to see the exhaust plume fading in the blue sky. So I missed that, too. But I didn’t mind all that much, because I was having a nice time. Giselle didn’t seem to mind either, and the way I figured it, she had more to complain about: she had managed to miss both the launch and had to cut short her flirtation time with her future husband.

That’s the power of good company. When you miss something, it doesn’t leave you empty-handed: often times, you get a story out of it. And something to laugh about later.

It is why our failed outing to see the dancing fountain in Barcelona wasn’t a complete loss.

I remembered the Fuente Magica de Montjuic (“the magical fountain of Montjuic”) from a high school trip I took to Spain when I was 16. It was a technicolor marvel: the water was lit with an array of hues that left me craving Starburst candy, and the fountain bubbled and shot streams into the air in synch to music.

I couldn’t quite remember what time the show started, but I figured it would be around midnight, because the Spaniards have no problem doing all sorts of things while the rest of the world is fast asleep. If they were a more militaristic culture, I’d be alarmed that they were planning something. But while we’re vulnerably unconscious, they’re usually dancing to awful club music or eating toasts with cured ham on top, sipping wine, and yelling at each other. Clearly, they are a country with their priorities straight.

The four of us hailed a cab and told the driver to take us to Montjuic. We later discussed it and found that we all, at one point or another over the course of our brief car ride, thought we were going to die in that vehicle.

Rand suspected the driver was high. Joanna merely stared at the rest of us and raised her eyebrows from time to time, her subtle way of saying, “Um … guys?” I looked out the front window and stifled a giggle, which is apparently what I do when confronted with my own mortality. And Kenny, who sat in the front seat, held on to whatever he could until his knuckles were white.

Later, on terra firma, Kenny screamed, “HE WAS GOING TO KILL US. WE ALMOST DIED,” and we all laughed, because Kenny’s rage is hilarious and charming.

We made it to Montjuic in record time, which was pointless, because the show was long over. The fountains were dark and quiet, and except for a gaggle of drunk girls in mini skirts running to catch the cab we gratefully vacated, we were alone.

“Shit,” I said, looking at the darkened plaza before us. I began apologizing profusely, but Rand and Joanna and Kenny ran ahead, undeterred.

“It’s really awesome,” I said, trying in vain to explain how the fountain lit up. I remembered being 16 and enchanted and thinking that the world was bigger that I knew it to be. But my cohorts didn’t seem all that interested in how great the fountain had been an hour before. Nor were they that disappointed, really.

They seemed content to just run around and take a bunch of photos. So I perched my camera on my bag, set the timer, and obliged …

I ... I don't know. It made sense at the time, I swear.

-

It is, for the record, remarkably difficult to capture everyone in the air at the same time while the camera is on auto-timer.

-

Then they ran up to the now-quiet fountain, and barely noticed the cautionary sign nearby.

In all fairness, I'm not sure what this is supposed to be warning us of. Groundwater?

It was something about how you shouldn’t roll around in the grass because you’ll get electrocuted or something. To be honest, it wasn’t very clear (how does groundwater lead to electrocution? Can someone please explain?)

But at this point, we feared nothing. After all, we’d already cheated death once on the ride over. So this happened:

So ... yeah.

-

Don’t worry: they were fine. Fate doesn’t kill beautiful people in their prime (with a few notable exceptions).

We were the only ones there at that late hour – running and shouting and goofing off against a quiet backdrop where a fantastic fountain show should have been. We were seemingly alone, until a booming, disembodied voice shook through the plaza.

I don’t know where it came from – the same PA system that plays music for the water show, perhaps – but it was deep and ominous, and had you told me it was the voice of god, I’d have almost believed you.

It leveled out a harsh warning, and I looked at everyone wide-eyed. I had temporarily forgotten no one but I spoke Spanish.

They stared at me, confused. In reply, I looked at them calmly, before screaming, “HAUL ASS!” and tearing down the stairs. For the record, this is a great way to freak out your travel buddies. Don’t translate, just start running. (Not recommended for family trips or when vacationing with the elderly,)

Seeing the looks on their faces, I laughed, stopped, and explained that the voice had announced that the park was closed, and we were trespassing. Amused by our own lawlessness, we continued our screaming run down the stairs, to find another cab, and to laugh in the face of death again.

In the car on the way back to the hotel, we chatted loudly about our previous stoned driver, the empty park, and disembodied voice that sent us running into the night. Our cabbie kept glancing at us in the rearview mirror, trying to decipher if we were completely nuts.

I tried, in my broken Spanish, to explain to him what had happened. How we had tried to see the show, how we had run around in the shadows, how we had, as Kenny was so keen on reminding us, almost died.

But it was pointless to try to describe it to the cab driver. It was one of those things, really, that he’d have to miss for himself.

Forgive me for such a hideous attempt at poetry (if, indeed, that’s what’s going on. It might just be a really awful LOLcat). This sophomoric attempt at prose is the result of the fact that lately, I’ve been feeling homesick for Italy.

Let’s ignore how stupidly privileged and spoiled such a statement sounds, and focus instead on its sheer stupidity: I am feeling homesick for a place in which I have never lived. Absurd, right? But my mother lived there. And my grandparents did. Surely that counts for something.

Because while Italy has never been my home, my home has been full of Italians. I suspect it’s that which I long for more than any particular city or town. I don’t necessarily need to see Rome, but I need to sit at a table full of people screaming and yelling (often in agreement) about nothing at all. I can skip Naples, but please, let someone pile too much pasta on my plate with a dismissive “Oh, you’ll finish it.”

And then let’s linger for three hours over a meal, while we shout and gesture and laugh and slam our hands down on the table.

That’s it, really. It’s not that I long to be home in Italy. It’s just that I long to be in an Italian home. The one from my childhood. The one that was full of people, many of whom are now gone. The one that no longer exists, no matter how hard I look for it. And Italy doesn’t really cure that. Not really.

But it sure as hell couldn’t hurt, right?

Almost.

Anderson is a polarizing figure for a lot of people. Even I, from my perch of adoring fandom, am able to see he’s not perfect. The sentimentality of The Life Aquatic felt forced. Darjeeling Limited was unnecessarily misogynistic. But most of the time, he strikes the right cord, and makes me believe that life is meant to be full of sepia tones and musical vignettes and narration by Alec Baldwin.

This adoration of Wes Anderson has colored my life for the last decade. The Royal Tenenbaums was the first movie Rand and I watched together in a theater. He gave me the DVD as a gift when I graduated from college. References to that movie worked their way into my wedding vows (no, I’m not kidding. Then again, at some point I was merely rambling, so lots of things worked their way into my wedding vows. Whole Foods. Brownies. Truck drivers. Indiana Jones. Those of you who were there know. Those of you who weren’t can imagine). In fact, when Rand first grew a beard, years ago, it was anticipation of a Halloween costume never realized: Steve Zissou.

The beard stuck. And every October since, I thought that maybe, maybe, I would finally make that costume. My husband would finally dress up as Zissou, and I would dress up as Margot Tenenbaum, and we’d walk side-by-side on a chilly, sepia-toned fall evening. And Peter Sarstedt would play. And some disembodied narrator would tell me it was time to kiss him.

Sometime in September, when most reasonable souls are not thinking about Halloween, I decided that this would be the year. I bought clothes from thrift stores, eBay, and Etsy. I purchased clothing dye and inadvertently turned my hands blue. I pricked my fingers at least a dozen times trying to sew trim on Rand’s costume.

I enlisted my mother’s help to tailor a dress, because my hips are not now nor will never be the size of Gwyneth Paltrow’s. (Mom did this without comment about my vast posterior, and for that, I am thankful.)

In the end, I was left with two handmade (but no less impressive for it, say I) costumes, and a slight problem. We would be in Barcelona and London in the weeks that preceded Halloween, arriving in New York on the morning of the 30th. So I mailed them to NYC ahead of us, and on Halloween morning, they were waiting.

This was the result of my labors:

-

Since I am not tall, not svelte, nor blonde, I figured the only way I could really be Margot was to act like her. Aided by severe jetlag, I spent most of the night looking bored, shrugging, and being completely indifferent to my surroundings.

Some people got it. Like my dear friend Monique here, whose eyes really are that glacial blue-grey.

"How long have you been a smoker?" "22 years."

-

Those that knew me laughed, because reserved and quiet and miserable is not my natural state.

-

Others were concerned. One colleague of my husband’s asked me repeatedly what was wrong, and gave me a comforting hug in an attempt to cheer me up (I broke character long enough to tell him I was fine. And to hug him back.)

I resisted the urge to smile. Even when I caught Gilligan and the Skipper making out.

-

Or when we bumped into Burt and Dolly.

Though to be fair, it was actually more that we bumped into Turd Ferguson and Dolly.

All through the night I didn’t smile. Until I couldn’t really hold it back any longer.

-

I don’t believe I can be blamed for the dissolution of my resolve. It’s all his fault. It always is.

-

And so I smiled, and was reminded that I don’t live in a Wes Anderson film. My world is not sepia-toned. It has no narration other than the blog posts I’m constantly writing and rewriting in my head. And I’d make a terrible Margot.

-

But every now and then, music plays, and my life becomes the stuff of movies.

—————

P.S. – A special thanks to David of Zwickerhill Photography, who took the first photo of Rand and me that you see on this post. He’s a genuinely talented and sweet guy, and if you’re in the northeast and need a photographer, I would recommend him. 

P.P.S. – All cigarettes featured in this post are of the candy variety. 

Recently, a disagreement with someone had my blood pressure spiking in a way I had not felt since last year’s winner of Idol was announced (SCOTTY McCREERY? REALLY? Okay, fine. Whatever). I found myself stuck on the whole situation for literally hours – wondering how someone could see things so differently than I did.

I calmed down though, after reminding myself that our different ways of looking at the world are part of what makes it wonderful place. (Also, I ate a half-dozen M&M sugar cookies. That may have helped).

And so, in honor of trying to see things from someone else’s point-of-view, I’d like to present another installment of Multiple Perspectives in Photos. This time the lovely Joanna was snapping pictures in Barcelona at the same time I was. Here are some of our shots, from her vantage point, and from mine.

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It was raining for much of our time in Barcelona, including when we visited La Pedrera – one of Antonio Gaudi’s famed buildings in the heart of the city. While on the roof, I popped into an alcove and snapped this picture of Rand and the poor coworkers (Joanna and Kenny) who were stuck with us.

Yes, my husband holds my handbag while I act like an idiot. He is a gem.

-

Joanna, in turn, took a photo of me:

This basically sums up what it's like to travel with me: screaming and cameras. (Not pictured: cupcakes)

—————

While we explored the top of La Pedrera, determined to get our money’s worth (admission is PRICEY), I snapped a shot of myself and Rand. He, as usual, is adorable, while my face, as usual, is kind of wonky …

-

Unbeknownst to me, Joanna was capturing the same scene on her camera: and I kind of love her take on the whole thing. Not only does it look like I have long limbs, but my face looks nearly symmetrical (lies, all lies!):

—————

Of course, I had to return the favor. While Joanna was snapping this photo of some of the internal architecture at Casa Batllo (another of Gaudi’s brilliant creations) …

-

… I took this one of her, which I rather like.

Note: she always looks this fabulous, even when she doesn't know her photo is being taken. It's cool to hate her a little.

—————

It was raining yet again on that day. Perhaps it was getting to us: in the photo I took of Rand and myself on the rooftop of Casa Batllo, he looks sad.

-

He appears no less bummed in Joanna’s version of the picture. I suppose that some things, no matter what angle from which you look at them, will always seem sad.

-

Fear not: I did manage to catch Rand smiling on that rainy rooftop, even though no one else saw it.

-

Which I guess just goes to show you: if you like what you see, sometimes you don’t need anyone’s viewpoint but your own.

—————

I don't know why I bothered to block out my last name or mileage number. You guys know everything about me, anyway.

-

For those of you who can’t read my messy handwriting, it reads:

It doesn’t matter what you do, as long as the company is great. I could likely spend several long years in a bomb shelter provided I had Rand to perform his husbandly duties, Eric Ripert to cook for me, Neil deGrasse Tyson to entertain me about the Cosmos, and James Franco for entertainment, and also to fill in on the husbandly duties part. 

You know – just in case one of you ever sees me scribbling something down in an airport and wonders if it’s the next great American novel. Don’t worry – it’s not. It’s just me fantasizing about French food, astronomy, and heartthrob stoners. Oh, and my husband.

I stood, sniffling, as women around me buzzed in and out of stalls, chatting with friends and helping children wash their hands. I tried to compose myself: it wasn’t working. I was holding back the tears, but only barely.

It was stupid, really, when I thought about it. We’d been in the Lego store in Aventura Mall in southern Florida. The friggin Lego store. Not exactly the place you’d imagine would be the site of spite and vitriol. We wandered around with my cousin’s kids, who were excitedly pointing out things that they liked. I pointed to something, and in the process, came within a foot of touching a fellow shopper – a well-dressed middle-aged woman. I did not, I would like to note, actually touch her. But I am sure I interacted with some molecules that later grazed her personal space, and for this, she was not happy.

She gave me a look one usually reserves for little pieces of poo we find at the bottom of shoes after a pleasant walk in the park.

I sighed heavily. It had been a stressful few weeks. I decided the best way to deal with this woman’s clear irritation at the sight of me would be to kill her with kindness.

“I am so sorry,” I said brightly and as sincerely as I could muster. I gently patted her arm, “It’s so crazy in here, and I was just pointing something out at the kids. I didn’t mean to point at you, of course! I’m really and truly -”

The woman cut me off.

“Look,” she said gruffly. “It’s over now. The thing that I want to know is, why are you still touching me?”

I froze. Wait, what?

She looked at my hand, which was gently patting her forearm, the way one does when trying to tenderly extend a bit of humanity and kindness to a stranger in an otherwise cold and miserable world.

“You’ve touched my arm TWICE and YOU ARE STILL TOUCHING IT. WHY are you touching me?”

I don’t know what I replied to her next. I’m fairly sure I simply walked away. I was shaking. Perhaps because it was so unexpected. Perhaps because I was simply trying to be nice. Rand saw the whole thing, came over to talk to me.

“I … I …” I had no words.

“I know,” he said, looking at me sympathetically. “She’s … trouble.”

I nodded. I tried to pull it together in the hustle and bustle of the store, but couldn’t. One of the men who worked there saw the exchange and gently told me, “Yeah … that woman is in a bad place.”

And she’d put me in one, too.

She's the one in white. May it be engraved on her tombstone: "You cannot kill evil."

-

Later, when it was far too late to do anything about it, I came up with a dozen or so brilliant responses to her question, “Why are you touching me?”

• “I always pet my food before eating it.”
• “Why? Is bitchiness communicable?”
• “Sorry. I thought you needed a little human interaction. I didn’t realize you were another species.”
• “Oh, honey, don’t worry. The clap isn’t that contagious.” (I like this, because it implies that either of us might have the clap. Which we might. GET YOURSELVES CHECKED, KIDS!)
• “You remind me of a hamster I once had. It’s dead now.”
• “Does this mean French-braiding your hair is now out of the question?”
• “Because god knows your husband hasn’t in a while.”
• “Because Snuggle Club meets in FIVE MINUTES. And you’re the newest inductee.”
• “Your mustache reminds me of my father.”
  

  My father is the only person on the planet who can looked pissed off while eating ice cream. (Love you, dad!)

  -

• “I like how squishy you are. You’re like a human version of those little stress balls.”
• “Because I’ve always found angry, middle-aged Jewish women to be sexy.”
• And lastly, my personal favorite, “Fuck you, you miserable whore!”

Or perhaps you are of one the lucky few who has woken up, bright and early, bursting with energy and excitement about all the new year has to offer. In which case I don’t think we can be friends, because you probably also enjoy tetanus shots, jogging, and eating an apple for dessert.

It’s not that I don’t think 2012 will be a blast – even if this whole Mayan apocalypse happens, which I’m fairly certain it will, things are going pretty swimmingly. It’s just that I’m having a hard time getting over the holidays, and I have three people to blame. Three very short, sticky people.

-

Already I know, in ten years, there will be broken hearts over him.

-

They would scream, "TIME FOR SNUGGLE CLUB." And then they'd accost my husband.

-

And then they hijacked my camera.

-

A pouting contest, in which both competitors kept laughing.

-

Her hair, which she refused to let me brush, smelled like strawberries.

-

And right now, I’m having trouble blogging, because I’m too busy thinking about the Christmas gifts they gave me and Rand: a small collection of Legos, a game token from Chucky Cheese, and a stuffy nose. The brittle lump of coal that is my heart is breaking just a weensy bit. I wish I wasn’t in Seattle. I wish they weren’t so far away in Florida. I wish ticket prices were cheaper and that they didn’t grow up so damn much between our visits. And maybe I wish they weren’t always covered in Nutella, but really, I can deal with that last one.

Please excuse me while I go harden up a bit (by, incidentally, watching Nick Cage movies). Welcome to the new year. May yours be full of Legos and sticky love.

-

I visited Occupy London on an unseasonably warm and sunny day in late October. In a paradox that is no doubt indicative of who I am, I stopped off at St. Paul’s Cathedral, where the Occupy protesters were gathered, before heading off to Spitalfields (the famed shopping district).

It seemed wise not to advertise that I was going shopping right after.

The air was light and jovial – people were milling about and talking. I meandered through, snapping photos, as did a number of other people, but felt too shy to actually engage in conversation with anyone. Ask me to talk about the weather, and I’ll happy oblige. Ask me to talk politics, and I’ll suddenly get timid, and start talking about the weather. Though I did have this exchange with a drunk Russian man:

Him: (smiling at me from ear to ear) …

Me: It’s a nice day …

Him: THIS IS EDEN.

Me: (sincerely) That’s a nice thought.

Him: It’s real. It’s the future.

Me: Sun … shine.

And I spoke to a confused German couple, who wanted to know if St. Paul’s was closed, and for how long (Yes, I told them. Though the protesters are still there, it seems to be open again.)

Still, it's pretty from the outside.

-

The only other person I chatted with was one of the police officers on duty. He explained to me that they were just there to keep the peace, and make sure no one did anything illegal. He and his colleagues calmly stood around, occasionally posing for photos with tourists.

-

They were letting the kids try on their hats. It was quite sweet.

-

They seemed incredibly gracious, and all the interactions I saw between them and the protesters were quite calm and respectful.

Just having a cup of tea and discussing the political climate.

-

This was all nearly two months ago. It sounds as though the mood has changed somewhat – the protesters have since been served with eviction papers, and unless they appeal, they will be required to leave by the end of the month. But when I was there, it was, really like a walk in the park. Since shyness and a tendency to talk about the chance of rain compromised whatever traces of journalistic integrity I possess, I have only photos, and little else to share. But I’d like to think they tell enough of a story on their own.

-

If we can write it on a neon green piece of paper and pin it to a clothesline, we can achieve it!

-

These gentlemen kept yelling, "We are Anonymous!" I wanted to shout back, "No, you really aren't."

-

-

-

There were tents everywhere. Some had specific functions (a first aid tent, a mess hall, a place of worship) but most were simply housing for the activists who now inhabited the square.

-

-

-

Heh.

-

I regretted not talking to more folks, but really, there are others who are far better interviewers than I. Notice how, unlike me, they approach people with microphones, instead of half-eaten ice cream cones.

-

Besides, I’m not sure what more could be said about this scene. It’s simply magical:

These two were talking the whole time I was there. They seemed to get on well.

-

And yes, the gentleman at left is wearing the lower-half of a cow costume.

Maybe Occupy London will prove to be fruitless. Maybe the protesters will get evicted, and will all have simply been a huge waste of everyone’s time and money. But I’d like to think that if those two gentlemen found common ground, then it wasn’t all for naught. And maybe that drunk Russian wasn’t so off-base after all.

Except I’m pretty sure Eden smells better.

1. Head to California.
   
   --
2. Go to the beach.-
   

   Actual beach may vary.

   -

3. Take Rand with you.
   

   If you can't find Rand, feel free to substitute with the love of your life.

   -

4. Do this.
   

   Is that the heat of the sun? NO, IT'S THE FIRE OF LOVE MY BABY HAS FOR ME.

   -

5. Repeat as necessary.

P.S. – Can’t make it to California or the beach? No problem! This method also works great while sitting on a couch, lounging in a gazebo, or awaiting arraignment.

I, unaware of where the action actually was, walked along what was left of the Occupy encampment at Seattle Central Community College (the protesters were evicted last week, but there are a few errant tents and scragglers left over). I’d been too timid to go when there were actually people there – I’d visited the Occupy Protests in London and New York, and felt like an interloper. Now that most of the Seattle outpost was gone, and there was little to see, and few people milling about, I felt braver.

But still, I was an outsider, and the one man who I spoke to made that clear to me.

He responded to my questions in clipped answers. At the time, I didn’t think I was being terribly invasive. I asked where everyone had gone and what was going to happen now. He was clearly bothered – either by how little I knew about the movement or by the suspicion that I was, in fact, part of a bigger media outlet. The truth, had he known it, would likely have gone over far worse: that despite my unemployment and money woes, despite my Converse and old wool coat, I’m married to a CEO. And my life is pretty damn good.

Or perhaps I’m being vain in thinking that his demeanor was at all impacted by my presence. It may very well have been that this was a man who, after weeks spent huddled a tent against the cold and rain and wind, was wondering what he was going to do next. Many folks who were at the Occupy protest are homeless; eviction meant they weren’t sure where they’d spend the next night. And there I was, snapping photos and asking banal questions. In that respect, I suppose it’s gracious of him to have talked to me at all.

Here are some of the pictures I took yesterday, as the sun was setting at an alarmingly-early hour.

Abandoned protest signs.

-

Lone musician.

-

Keep calm and occupy.

-

The banana stands alone.

-

Empty chair.

-

The last few holdouts.

-

Opportunistic crows.

-

Attempts at housekeeping.

-

When I left, my hands were cold from holding my camera. I swung by the grocery store, picked up a few things for dinner, and headed home. It’s a luxury that wasn’t lost on me.