The Laid-Off Peripatetic (LOP)

Grand Turk, Turks and Caicos, British West Indies

One visit to Grand Turk was all it took before I decided to abandon my life as a Chicago city girl and call this humble island home. Upon my arrival at the Grand Turk airport in January 2007, this Caribbean island seemed like nothing more than a cactus-ridden sandbar. But that sentiment changed when I saw the pristine water, white sand beaches the consistency of flour and my first sunset with some random guy at the beach-side bar who called himself Rainbow Boy. Ah, nirvana. (Caveat: Sand the consistency of flour tends to creep into crevices one would not think possible. On the upside, it’s also nature’s exfoliator.)

My days consisted of a casual routine of diving in the mornings, exploring neighboring islands in the Turks and Caicos archipelago, imbibing with new friends (the locals were quite friendly) and killing blood-sucking mosquitoes the size of my head. I was forewarned, but nothing can really prepare first-time visitors for the blood lettings and the tenacity of the dive-bombing bastards. OFF became my perfume of choice for the first four or five days—until the new meat smell wore off. Eventually I became less appetizing than the new, fresh meat that arrived daily.

Even though the island is only seven-miles long by one-mile wide, the demographic is quite diverse. Expats are mostly from the U.K. and Canada; but include a lovely German woman who owns and runs the Salt Raker Inn as well as Dominican and Haitian immigrants. Sleepy was the best way I can describe the island. And even though Cockburn Town is the nightlife mecca on the island, the description still fits. In 2007, only four bars existed on the road by the beach, all of which had a copious stash of mosquito repellent and beer. I’m guessing much has changed given that a year ago, Grand Turk was slammed by Tropical Storm Hannah and then a week later by Hurricane Ike, which was a Category 5.

A beach in Cockburn Town, just a conch throw from Manta House

On my first visit, the island was mostly undeveloped saved for the monstrosity marring the Southern part of the island. A corporation thought it would be brilliant to level a beautiful coral reef to build a cruiseship dock. The same corporation also introduced some horrid chain restaurant in the vicinity, though I can’t remember the name—Margarita Madness, Cowboy Dan’s Beastly Barnone, I dunno. What I do remember is a giant, neon green margarita glass on the roof beckoning the throngs of over-eating cruisers into its greasy lair. On my second visit, I was told that Wyndham Corporation was planning to build a hotel near Cockburn Town on coveted beach-front property. As far as I know, the hurricanes didn’t scare them off.

My second visit not quite a year later later was to determine if I could live on a desert island without a proper haircut (the Suck-Kut doesn’t count), a coffee shop, Cheetos and Sephora. My final decision was a big fat “no.” But I miss Grand Turk and think of it often. Both charming and simple, it reminds visitors about how life should be lived—without stress or the pressure of productivity and on-time arrivals (hence the term “Island Time” coined by the locals). Adapting to Grand Turk’s way of life is the easy part—it’s leaving that’s difficult.

Just so you have an idea of where you're going.

Getting there: Most major airlines fly into Provodenciales. From there, you can take a island commuter flight to many of the Turks and Caicos islands.

Hotel and Diving Information

When undertaking a marathon travel extravaganza—the kind that requires you to pack clothes for two different seasons, cancel car insurance and relinquish worldly goods to a storage company whose employees may be rifling through the box marked “Panties”—it helps to plan ahead. But a fine line exists between being organized and anal retentive. I prefer spontaneity over having every minute of my vacation scheduled on an Excel spreadsheet. But that’s just me.

When I left for Europe, I booked hotels for the first four cities in which I was to stay before leaving the States. It worked out well enough, but I would have preferred to extend my stay at a few places. But because I had already booked and partially paid for the hotel in the next city, it wasn’t financially feasible. So, I opted to book on the fly.

I used Venere for the majority of my hotel reservations because it is the most reliable Web site and it is easy to use. It lists amenities, patron reviews and a map so that you can see in what part of the city a hotel is located. I wasn’t crazy about the full pre-paid option though only because my schedule seemed to always change at the last minute. Also, if you are in need of a certain amenity, oh, say wi-fi, call the hotel to ensure it exists. There were several hotels in Italy that, upon arrival, didn’t have what had been promised. Yeah, try finding an Internet cafe in Rome at 10 p.m.—not fun. (On an aside, if you are in search of inexpensive lodgings in Florence, Hotel Monica is tremendous). To get an idea about customer service, check the hotel’s reviews on other Web sites such as Trip Advisor, Orbitz or EasyToBook.com.

Cross-referencing site reviews worked most of the time for me with the exception of the tick-infested bed at Hotel Alessandra in Palermo. For the record, Lyme disease wasn’t on its list of amenities. Also, be advised that the star-rating system used in the States doesn’t apply to European hotels—a four-star hotel there might be a two- or three-star hotel here, unless you opt to stay at a chain such as Marriott. Anyway, those are a few lessons I learned. If even one of my suggestions helps you avoid pestilence or a rude ass at the front desk, then my work is done here.

Travel and be well.

Drinks with the Hungarian Eurail crew

I’m unilingual, unless Pig Latin counts. This is not a fact of which I’m proud, but it is truth. I suppose it’s because I attended Brewster High School where the business teacher was also the volleyball and football coach. Dee Depe, my English teacher extraordinaire, did her damnedest to incorporate a German language program into our curriculum. But it was met with apathetic acceptance by the school board, and we students just couldn’t grasp how it would benefit us.

I attempted Spanish in college, but the teacher was hateful and developed an immediate aversion to me. Probably because I answered “cerveza” when she asked what I had for breakfast. Anyway, she gave me a C- to ensure I passed, but also to ensure that I would never again take her class. Not that she needed to be concerned with that—she had a heart attack after finals and went to that Espanol lab in the sky. I developed a healthy respect for karma after that incident.

Anyway, that was a long, roundabout introduction to my topic: How to spend seven days in either Spain or Italy for free. All that is required is fluency in English and the purchase of a plane ticket. Oh yes, a passport should probably be on that list.

Pueblo Ingles is a company in Spain that recruits, what it calls “anglos”, to act as teachers for intensive English-speaking camps. In exchange for room and board, the 25 anglos talk. Yep, that’s it. Those paying for the camp are those who don’t speak English as a first language. And there is no escape—the company sees to that.

I was sequestered in Valdelavilla, a quaint mini-village in Soria, Spain’s wine country, which was occupied only by those attending the camp. The closest town was five miles and we were brought by bus, and therefore, trapped like rats. And if that’s how rats live, count me in. The food was delicious and plentiful and accompanied by bottomless bottles of wine at lunch and dinner. But the bar was where the real lessons took place. Somewhere in Spain a guy is walking around telling people that he is “hung like a horse.” And yes, I explained with gestures what it meant so he knew it wasn’t appropriate for a conference call.

It was good fun, I met amazing people and I can proudly say that the Americans weren’t the craziest anglos there. A few of the Canadians in attendance probably should have been medicated. I still have the moosehead key chain given to me by one of the more insane members.

Valdelavilla in the middle of nowhere

My first trip abroad totaled nine days for which I brought a suitcase roughly the size of me. I calculated and figured that 15 wardrobe changes per day sounded about right and, of course, each outfit required a specific pair of shoes. Well, throughout my trip I used about one-quarter of the crap stuffed in my Samsonite U-Haul, exerting valuable energy hauling it around that could have been used to tip pints. The only upside was that it had wheels; unlike my backpack, which I learned to detest after carrying the albatross around Europe for two-and-a-half months.

I hadn’t pondered my suitcase/backpack conundrum since my return in August. That is, until I received a press release for a motorized suitcase with a giant fluorescent handle called Live Luggage. I suppose it is to the travel sloth what the Little Rascal is to the person who hates walking. But still, I can see myself embracing this bit of technology (after selling plasma for 2 years—see price below).

The Classic Series is a hard case made of the same material as a car bumper. Probably not even the luggage handlers at the airport could destroy it, though they’d give it a damned fine attempt. The Hybrid Bag is my preference because it has both an overnight bag and a laptop bag that zip on the front. But this is the fun part—they can be removed easily and zipped together to make one carry-on. Deeee-lightful. I would no longer have to frantically stuff one bag into another already overstuffed bag in the security line when I realize I have one carry-on too many. (This usually happens when my flight is scheduled for 8 a.m. or earlier).

Anyway, both product lines feature the same motorized function which activates when sensors detect a curb or a gradient. The price seems exorbitant to me though—probably because I’m a freelance writer whose druthers is to maintain a tolerance to vodka rather than invest in a wheeley case. One could buy the better part of a KIA for the price—395 pounds. To those of us relying on the stellar dollar, the conversion is $645.28. Like I said, the better part of a KIA…or an entire Yugo.

When G.W. ran for president a second time, I swore I would leave the country if he won. Well, we all know how that election turned out and the train wreck that ensued for the next four years and beyond. Anyway, I didn’t follow through with my threat, save for checking a few job boards in foreign English-speaking countries such as Australia and the U.K.—I was too much of a wuss. Instead, I just sucked it up, drank more and bitched until I was blue in the face about the suckiness of the Bush administration.

But while I was searching for a way out, I found a few interesting Web sites dedicated specifically to expatriates, or rather those who soon hope to achieve that status. One in particular is specific to leaving the United States, but others apply to anyone wanting to relocate to another country.

www.expatriates.com: This site includes everything from job searches, housing and child care to language exchange programs. I haven’t made a thorough comparison with an Atlas, but it seems that most countries are included on the list.

EFAM: Escape From America Magazine is one of my favorites because not only is it specific to Americans, the articles are well written and informative. All of the contributors are people who’ve had first-hand experience relocating to another country, primarily because they sought the change and not because of work, etc. The Web site is easy to navigate and you can search for articles on specific countries and cities, which detail cost of living, job searches, visa information, etc. Also, you can sign up to receive the e-magazine for free.

www.easyexpat.com: The tag-line for this Web site is the International Relocation Portal. I think anything with “Portal” in the tag-line just sounds cool. Regardless, here resides a wealth of information with the bonus of the Cost-o-Matic interactive tool that will figure how much money you need to make in whatever given country based on your current salary. The only problem is that the number of cities available for comparison is limited.

www.expatify.com: I’m new to this site, so I don’t know it well. But, it does list the Top 10 best countries for Americans to become expats.

I hope these sites inspire you, at the very least, if not help you on your merry way.

Lake Como—home of Jorge Clooney...sometimes

Today was a noteworthy day in the city of LA because according to STORM WATCH 2009, the rains pounding the city were the heaviest in October’s history. Warnings were issued for drivers and the fire department was called to sweep away water that had leaked into an old folks home. This ghastly display of Ma Nature’s raw power had the potential to dismantle the city leaving only the residents with access to a giant ark alive. (Okay, the last sentence might be a bit sensational—my thinly veiled attempt at upping the ante for FOX.)

But in truth, the rain was a glorified drizzle. When it actually rained, the scene was more of a lazy, just-cleansing-your-skies-of-acid kind of action. Never was it heavy or threatening; but instead, perfect for a hangover day—or in M’s case, a sick day.

So today I laugh a little at the expense of the Californians who are acting as though ham hocks are falling from the sky. I’m sure living in the desert doesn’t prepare residents for inclement weather, but that fact doesn’t make the collective hyperventilating happening across the city any less funny.

Though, one legitimate worry does exist for some. The first rain after a massive fire can, and usually does, cause mudslides. But, that aspect of the story wasn’t included until the end of the news coverage. Of course, it wasn’t.

The deluge of ham hocks is expected to continue all day tomorrow. I can only assume that school will be canceled, offices will shut down and those brave enough to cross rushing gutters will be wearing waders. They’ll be stiletto, bejeweled waders, though—after all, this is LA.

A dollop of ?

Not so long ago, myself and the Happy Couple stumbled upon The Library—a divine bar in the Roosevelt Hotel. Or is that Hotel Roosevelt? Eh, no matter—what’s important are the cocktails. Nay, not just cocktails. To say such a thing sullies the very essence of each concoction’s individual yum factor. These mixtures are Elysium, heaven, liquid sex, whatever you want to call them—just smelling them makes you a little happier. I would travel across a desert on a Little Rascal with no sunscreen while being forced to listen to a Vanilla Ice album just for the opportunity to order a cocktail from Sweet Daddy Matt, the bar’s resident mixologist with verve to spare.

Last night was my second visit, but my first experience partaking of a sage-vodka combo that almost made me weep. Emotions were running rampant, but I kept my shit together; otherwise running mascara would have transmogrified me into The Crow.

The cocktail menu features only a sampling of Matt’s capabilities, which is why I give him the creative license to fill my glass with whatever he sees fit. And each time has been a fabulous success. For instance, he painstakingly crafted citron vodka with sage, agava and other mystery ingredients that were more than happy to party with my palate. He later created a shitaki Manhattan, which might sound like a strange mixture, but it was quite good. But Matt’s liquid love doesn’t come cheap—each signature cocktail is $16 plus tip. I know, I know, it’s crazy. But if only you could taste them, she says with a contented sigh.

And the best part, aside from watching him work (I know it sounds creepy, but it’s appreciation, not stalking) is the fact that all of his ingredients are fresh, purchased several times a week at the Farmer’s Market. Fruits, honey, herbs, vegetables, etc.—all if it is lined up on the bar in neat bowls of nutritional love, just waiting to counteract the damage the vodka hands out to an expectant liver. Ah, Nature’s bounty. Oh, and yes, I did say vegetables. I didn’t have a veggie drink, but the chick sitting beside me at the bar was drinking a red bell pepper martini adorned with a star fruit.

I didn’t take any cocktail photos, so that means I will visit again to provide you with the proper visual aid of Sweet Daddy Matt’s handiwork. It’s hard work, but I only want the best for my LOP readers.

Note: I’ve been spoiled by Matt so that other bartenders will be hard-pressed to measure up. But, that isn’t going to stop me from seeking out others (if any exist) of his ilk who will water me the way I like it.

Somewhere on Maui, this man is running loose

The MegaMillions jackpot is up to $170, and I have the winning ticket for the next drawing. I can feel it—probably because I did an improvised witchy witchy dance for the Lottery Gods. I think they smiled, or maybe it was laughter. I have no other way of explaining the temporary numbing sensation in my phalanges, the voices and what appeared to be the Snuggles bear pointing skyward. Then again, maybe I should stop licking toads.

Anyway, I’ve put a lot of thought into what I’ll do with the money ($108.5 million after the IRS takes its chunk…thieving bastards). After hiring the obvious financial gurus and gatekeepers (I hear immortals and mole people make the best kind because neither care much about money and are both scary in their own right), I’ll start spending, allocating and doling. I’ll contribute to charity, but I won’t go into details because the gesture fails to be altruistic when it’s promoted.

Next, I would give my parents money so that they can play more in their retirement years. Martin doesn’t leave the farm, so I would have to bring the joy and happiness of what money can buy to him. Though we’ve never spoken about what would make him the happiest, I can speculate after knowing him for a lifetime. I would hire the entire female cast of Baywatch to run through the yard in their bikinis and later wash his tractors while he sat back, drank beer and smoked a few Cuban cigars. Mom would probably just shake her head, but I believe my stoic Dad would actually be giddy. Sure, it’s kind of creepy that I would choose that particular gift, but he’s pushing 75, so he’s entitled.

As for Mom—well, bestowing joy upon her would be easier and less weird. All she wants is a finished, furnished basement and to visit Ireland with her daughters. Ironically, the most difficult aspect of fulfilling that wish has nothing to do with money, which is all of the Burke daughters traveling in harmony for an extended period. Bloody hell, I have hives thinking about it.

As for me, well, I’d charter a jet and fly my friends to some obscure, tsunami-free island where we would stay in a village of huts built on the water. Midget waiters would be involved and they would be dressed in clamshell bras and fur loincloths—ideally they would be able to limbo, but that’s not a requirement.

I’d go on a shopping spree over the course of days; though I’d take great care not to purchase anything designed by Jessica Simpson or Paris Hilton. I’d probably purchase a villa, chateau and beach house because multiple residences is the cool rich person thing to do. I’ll sponsor a baby seal and liberate the poor beasts forced into indentured servitude by Siegfried & Roy, maybe sending the two masters to Africa in cages to become a food source. It’s not like they aren’t used to being inside the mouths of feral cats.

So, that’s my take on the lottery. Even if I have to split the jackpot with another winner, I’ll still have enough to fund at least one more residence with far more square footage and acreage than what is practical.

Here’s to a grandiose. ostentatious lifestyle and the midgets in it.

Blow-up air guitarist

Even though I just came back from a two-and-a-half month walkabout through Europe, I’m craving yet another adventure. Sure, it took well over a month to detox from that trip—I’ve been hard-pressed to leave my very small area of Hollywood, save for one train ride. But I’m a homebody (so to speak) no more. My nomadic side is emerging again and I’m pining for a trip to Borneo, Australia, Bhutan, Cook Islands—anywhere I’ve never been before. Shake your heads all you want—it doesn’t hurt to dream. Never did I think the universe would hand me the opportunity to traverse Europe from North to South and a lot in between in one trip.

When I get the opportunity to travel extensively again there are a few things I would do differently. I would stay longer than four days in any given city. In fact, I would pick just one, rent an apartment and stay for a month or two or three. I would bring packets of oatmeal (there is a surprising shortage of it in Europe). I would take time to see the city’s surrounding areas. I would drink more of the local wine (unless it sucked horribly). I would take more photos of the locals. I would try all the local cuisine, except for anything brain-based. I would invite my Mom to stay—for awhile, anyway. I would sit in more cafes and read more books. I would buy a roundtrip airline ticket—then again, maybe not. I would bring more books written in English—again with the shortage. I would write. I would study the language, or at the very least, the culture. I would seek out more local shops. I would smile more on the outside, even if the hand gesture is rude beyond belief. I would Skype my friends more. I would be.

Chicken skin

Farmin' Martin

I chatted with Ma and Pa Burke tonight, as I do on most Sunday nights. The conversation with Mom was typical—she gave me both the current and extended weather forecast for Southwestern Kansas, told me what the neighbors were doing, how badly her garden needed rototilled and about the absence of the garlic she so desperately needed to plant. On the upside, no one she knew had died, so I didn’t get the mortality count. To her credit my Mom never asks such annoying questions as “When are you getting married,” “Why aren’t you more like such and such sister,” “Do you have a job.” She is the antithesis of the annoying moms on TV and the screaming ilk in shopping malls everywhere—the kind over which therapists salivate.

Dad is pretty much the same, though when he does pose such a question, it isn’t pressure based. He genuinely wants to know. And so our conversations tend to be a bit more animated, sometimes for the better, sometimes not. Well, tonight he was on very good behavior and was in good spirits as well probably because he’s still on his walkabout high. (For about eight or so years, he has attended the annual beer-fest in Denver, which was last weekend.)

“Have you found a job yet?” he asked.

“Not yet—still looking,” I said.

If I would have said I had a job, I think he would have been disappointed because he had put a tremendous amount of thought into career options that I hadn’t before considered and wanted to share them.

Firefighter: It’s obvious, of course, because California is one, perpetual conflagration—San Bernadino being the latest part of the state to be incinerated. He also thought that my martial arts training would give me an advantage over the other candidates vying for positions. How he arrived at that conclusion, I have no idea.

Soap Opera Actor: You see, he plans his afternoons around watching “Days of Our Lives” and another soap opera—”Guiding Light,” I think. I explained that such a gig would probably require acting training or at least natural talent, but he assured me that none of the actors involved with the program had either, so why would I? Touche.

He was so proud of these epiphanies that he suggested I pass his insight on to the Happy Couple. (And yes, Dad calls them the Happy Couple…the only thing funnier is when he refers to Bob and Dave—the two farm cats Mom named after my gay boys from Chicago. Hysterical.) So, consider my job search officially expanded, especially because he believes that I can do both—soap operas during the week and firefighter on my days off. It might be just crazy enough to work.