Over the years, I’ve amassed an impressive collection of self-portraits from our travels (and roped my poor, innocent husband into a few shots as well). I take them with one arm extended as far in front of me as my short-limbed genes will allow, and I click a half-dozen times. With any luck, in at least one of those photos, I will appear to have fewer chins than John Goodman (I mean no disrespect to the man who brought characters as timeless as Dan Conner and King Ralph to life. He is a national treasure.)

Though really, more often than not, Rand or I will glance at our shocking un-photogenic mugs and say to the other, “You are the only person on the planet who will ever find me attractive.” (Which is perfectly okay, kids. You only need one near-sighted fool to think you’re pretty.)

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I AM THE PUPPET MASTER!

I am always amazed when people ask me for travel advice. I will often turn around to see precisely who they are talking to. Even if it’s in an email addressed to me, I’ll do a quick check over my shoulder just to make sure there isn’t someone better equipped to answer the question waiting there (as though Rick Steves is hiding in my office. Which would be equally horrifying and awesome).

I dispense my advice with some trepidation, reminding myself that these poor, misguided readers are under the impression that I know what I’m doing. And that they literally asked for it. The fools.

In this edition of Ask the Everywhereist, I once again present some of the questions I’ve received in my inbox lately, along with my feeble attempt at answers. Serves them right for thinking I was a reliable source of anything besides spite.

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In my younger years (of which I have increasingly more and more … TIME, SERIOUSLY, CUT IT OUT) I often dreamed of spending New Year’s Eve in Times Square. I’d be huddled alongside the masses, and it would be cold and clear and wonderful. The ball would drop, the crowd would cheer, and I’d have someone to kiss.

But as the years passed, and I actually spent some time in Manhattan, I realized that my dream New Year’s Eve, much like my girlhood vow to marry Charlie Sheen*, could not stand the test of time.

This year, we found ourselves in Jersey at the end of December, and we were contemplating going into the city for a few days. We had different agendas: some of us wanted to shop (okay, fine. It was me), some of us wanted to eat cupcakes (also me), but we all agreed on one point – we had to get out of the city by New Year’s Eve. Because it was going to be a madhouse.

And boy, were we right.

We could barely walk through Bryant Park. There were people everywhere.

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Guess where I am. Go ahead. Guess.

It’s rare that I have direction when I travel, in any sense of the word. I usually roam around the city, using my blessedly-large nose to seek out and follow the smell of baked goods, often to a happy end.

But during my trip to New York last October, I had, for one of the few times in my life, direction (and one that was not influenced by baked goods).

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I can, at times, be a little opinionated (I know, I know. Shocking, right?). I’ve found myself at odds with all sorts of people – local politicians, NFL referees, the judges of American Idol - due to our differing viewpoints. I can’t help it. I’m Italian. We’re a passionate bunch.

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).

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It’s January 6th – the epiphany. According to folklore, La Befana visited all the little children in Italy last night, bringing toys and candy to the good ones, and lumps of coal to the bad ones. (Yeah, I know. We get a kindly fat man dressed in red, and Italian kids literally get an old hag. On the plus side, they get to live in Italy, so don’t feel too sorry for them). While I search my home for some lumps of black carbon (surely she wouldn’t forget Italian Americans, right?), you enjoy these links.

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What’s that? YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO SPEAK UP! (Also, I’m beginning to think that my secret crush on Neil deGrasse Tyson is not-so-secret anymore.)

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This gif of French comedian Remi Gaillard crashing a body-building tournament had me in stitches. For more of his not-so-subtle and occasionally reckless (and often litigious) antics, check this out.

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On a flight back from New Jersey last week, I found an old boarding pass that I’d been using as a bookmark. It was, incidentally, for the same route I was currently on – Newark to Seattle. I needed something to write on, and I didn’t want the bother of opening up my laptop. Looking at the boarding pass, I’d apparently done the same thing before: I’d written the beginning of a blog post on it, then promptly forgotten it. I don’t remember what I had intended the post to be about – it never got published, never got beyond the few words I had scribbled down.

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

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