Anyway, Sacred Heart was the middle school I attended from the 6th to 8th grade after having moved from LA to Ventura. My prior Catholic educational adventures had treated me well. Having both grown up with my classmates and boasting the largest Pokemon Card collection in school made my social integration quite enjoyable. And while the whole Jesus thing wasn’t quite as enthralling, having thoughtful, caring teachers made the whole mythology much easier to swallow.

But my days of coddling came to an end as adolescence approached and a new era of Catholic schooling began. My first few weeks of school were fine. I had done the obligatory “Oh, you’re a new kid too? Let’s be best friends!”-thing and aside from a complete inability to catch a football, things were swimming along. I was no longer hot shit on campus (by 2001, Charizard cards had lost their social clout on the playground) but I could deal with being the bottom rung on the middle school totem pole. But it didn’t take long for my disallusionments to kick in.

Perhaps the first indication that my new educational institution lacked a moral compus, was during a brief lecture on American history that occurred earlier in the year. In an attempt to explain the origins of our country, my teacher remarked: “What makes America so unique is that we’re the only country in the world that is compromised of people from so many different countries. We have no native people.” Confused, disturbed, and with an acute memory of Disney’s Pocahontas in mind, I shot my hand up in the air. “Wait, but what about the Native Americans?” I waited for a response. Silence. My history teacher pursed her lips and opened them slowly. “Well,” she said in complete confidence, “they don’t count.” She continued the lesson without a blink of her mole crusted eyelids.

This was an age before I had fully embraced profanity. And even then, I knew: I’m fucked.

If the complete realization that the human beings responsible for my intellectual development had a completely warped sense of reality wasn’t enough to rattle my naive outlook on mankind, then my classmates certainly destroyed what little hope I had left in Sacred Heart.

The first indication that my peers’ lifestyles were not congruent with His way (note the capital ‘H’ for dramatic/religious emphasis), was a discussion I recall overhearing about half way through the year. Two particularly popular girls spent a majority of math class passing notes and whispering to one another. I couldn’t help but take notice. When they realized I had been watching, one of the girls quickly turned her head in my direction. Emphasizing each syllable like only an entitled and hormonal middle school girl could, she remarked, “The two of US, were just about OUR friends with benefits.” She snickered. “Do YOU have one?” This time they both laughed.

I thought they were acting foolish. Why OF COURSE I had a friend with benefits! I had several in fact! I was very passionate about volunteering for special needs children. Everybody needs a friend right?

It didn’t take long for me to realize “friends with benefits” wasn’t another term for special needs children. Nor was it a concept I was familiar with. The two girls were speechless, their superior attitudes gone, almost as if my ignorance had inspired a bout of sympathy. They looked me square in the eye, began explaining,  and subsequently changed my outlook on the human race. Two words: knowledge bomb. “What!? You mean, people do that when they’re not dating!? You mean, before they’re married?! Just with anyone?! You have more than one!? But how?! Where?! OH GOD.” Embarrassed and anxious, I continued with my long division, with an overwhelming urge to run home, hug my parents and take a chastity vow.

I had accepted that sexual activity was a fact of life for quite sometime. After all, the birds and bees talk happens much younger when your mom is therapist. However, I had not accepted the fact that my peers had made a game of it. I could barely handle the anxiety that comes with a round of ‘Mortal Kombat’, let alone trying to ‘score some’. Overhearing my classmates’ forays into the awkward world of middle school hook ups continued to make me uncomfortable but it also became increasingly bearable. That is until the last week of 6th grade, when my world fell apart.

I can still recall it to this day. During an assembly, two of my classmates (a boy and a girl) went to the front of the auditorium to discuss an upcoming event on our campus. I immediately heard snickers behind me. My inductive reasoning was at least sharp enough to connect the dots: these two were romantically involved. Or at minimum,  friends with benefits (excellent example of using new vocabulary properly). It seemed like normal middle school banter until I clearly heard the boy behind me. [EXPLICIT LANGUAGE WARNING!] He boastfully  remarked, “Yeah and she totally gave him a blow job.”

Being the curious and foolish child that I was, I turned around. “Really? That’s so funny! Why would she style his hair? That seems a little silly to me.” I was so proud of my snarky little remark. Yeah, Alex, good one.

My moment of glory lasted for only a second. I heard an entire group of boys laugh behind me. I turned my entire body around. “Alex, you’re fucking dumb,” a different boy scoffed.  ”It has nothing to do with hair. It’s when a girl…” You can fill in the rest. And then: BOOM. This was the Heroshima of truth bombs. My innocence, reason, and general understanding of human physiology went out the window. “WHAT!? IT GOES WHERE!? That can’t be sanitary. Wait!? Who would do that?! Can’t you catch something!? Who thought of this!? WHY!? WHY!?”

I went home, gave my grandparents a kiss, and played with my dog. I flirted with the idea of monk hood for quite sometime. It was clear that day ended my faith in Sacred Heart School.

In retrospect, I might be entirely too dramatic about my middle school years. From the promiscuous students, to fact-bending teachers, to school vice principals who may have been in a lesbian love affair with an ex-nun (a story for another day), my time at Sacred Heart was certainly memorable. And after all, my mind was bound to be exposed to all of this eventually right? While that may be case, being thrown into such a turbulent whirl wind of sex, lies, and Jesus too quickly may have been a bit much for my impressionable psyche.  But hey: I turned out all right.

Sure, I may have a paralyzing fear of intimacy and an unhealthy hatred of communion wafers, but who doesn’t come out of middle school a little messed up?

Pretending to understand football. Also, please note the GIANT Texas flag in the background.

But let’s be real here. Famous for its food scene, there was no way this trip was not going to be food-focused. Our little crew ate out for almost every meal, so my wallet and I now have extensive familiarity with the Austin food scene. I’ve picked out my absolute favorites that any Austin visitor would be plead to eat. So without further ado, here’s my best of Austin list for the next time any of you find your way down south.

Kerbey Lane Dinner
Get the migas with verde sauce for faux-Mexican deliciousness and pre-game your meal with the Cowbody queso. Open 24/7, it’s always time for migas.

Shady Grove
Arguably one of the best meals I had in Austin, this road side restaurant makes a mean chili verde chicken fried steak (INCREDIBLE) and the decor has a funky Austin flavor.

Sweet, sweet Jesus.

Torchy’s
The best taco I had in Austin. Hands down. Be sure to order the Trailer Park (fried chicken with their special Torchy’s sauce) and ask for it trashy. And to top it off, some of the best queso I had in Austin. Certainly not traditional Mexican food, but so Austin in the best way possible.

Hey Cupcake!
Cupcake truck! Light fluffy cupcakes that aren’t too heavy and avoid the sugar overload most cupcakeries seem to indulge in. They look big, but you’ll find your treat gone quicker than anticipated. The most epic flavor they have? The Michael Jackson! Delicious desserts AND political incorrectness! Brilliant.

Cupcakes: go big or go home.

Maria’s Taco Xpress
The BEST exterior decor at a resteraunt. Ever. Hands down. Also, great, authentic Mexican food. And an incredibly close rival to Torchy’s. Fun and funky, Maria’s also has live music on certain nights of the week. Paired with the incredible food (fish tacos!) and ambiance, Maria’s was one of my most memorable culinary experience in Austin.

Thunder Cloud
Subway’s hipster, fresher, tastier, Austin based cousin. Great options for vegetarians (best damn ficken parmesan sub I’ve had) and a safe choice for anybody looking to have Austin quality food without any twists.

MARIA THE GLORIOUS.

P. Terry’s
Austin’s answer to In-N-Out. Great griller burgers with an emphasis on fresh ingredients. Although nothing can beat In-N-Out, P. Terry’s burgers give them a good run for their money. And while you’re there, don’t forget a caramel shake!

In addition to our feasts, we hit up some Austin hot-spots. A swim in Barton Springs, the UT Austin fight rally before their last game against Texas A&M (I even memorized the fight song!), listening to live music on 6th street, and the annual 5-mile Austin Turkey Trot (a run really) on Thanksgiving morning. Oh, and going to the original Whole Foods! What could be better than that!?

The perfect blend between hipster hobbies and Southern flavor, I was surprised with how quickly I fell for Austin. I was sad to leave the city but needless to say, my stomach and bank account were more than ready to jet out of Texas’s cultural (oh, and governmental) capital.

There was my fear of permanence which prevented me from using temporary tattoos (a real anxiety rouser at birthday parties), my fear of balloons popping (if a balloon pops and nobody sees it, does it feel?), and a deathly, deathly fear of people singing happy birthday to me. For anybody that has a token Mexican friend, you should know any good Mexican birthday must be held as a public park and must have enough attendees to occupy Zuccotti. Imagine if you were a borderline-agorphobic seven year old with 50 of your loudest relatives screaming happy birthday at you! It’s a one-way ticket to throwing your new edition of “Mortal Kombat” back in the gift pile and saying fuck it.

As I got older, my fears remained irrational but allowed me to leave the house in peace. For example, although my fear of pre-mature balding terrified me as an eleven year old, I simply took time to write down all of my hair loss prevention options in my “stuff to look at when I’m old” journal before leaving the house. By high school, my anxiety had mostly become standard of the high schooler far too active in student council (What do you mean Party City is out of blow-up dolphins? Now who the hell is going to come to Homecoming Under the Sea!?) although I was still hard-pressed to be in the presence of refried beans without a significant jump in blood pressure.

Sometime at the beginning of my senior year, I decided my anxiety was making me too anxious and that I should just begin to conquer my fears. When you’re in high school, the end of senior year is equivalent of being pulled off life support and hell, if Morgan Freeman in the “Bucket List” can make his last months of life rewarding why can’t I? In retrospect, I wish I had made a more exciting declaration in the form of an angst ridden blog post or deep heart-heart with a group of my closest friends on the way back from a night that forces youthful reflection like prom. Instead, I think I came to the idea rather suddenly while eating a bowl of Panda Express and figured if it sounded like a good idea and I should just roll with it. A rather blasé and anti-climatic turning point after a life of a fear and emotional eating.

And that’s where it all began. Trying foreign foods (read: not white and starchy), moving across the country for my education (shits cold out East), and fulfilling my dreams of becoming the youngest recipient of a Pulitzer Prize. Well, I didn’t really do that one, but I did have an op-ed I wrote get published in the school paper once. Anyway, then came my study abroad adventure. Who would have thought that little brown kid who was scared to leave his front door would execute a 17-country Euro-adventure complete with skydiving over the Swiss Alps and almost being incinerated by a bomb in Morocco?

My relatively uneventful shift towards a “you only live once attitude” has remained fairly consistent since I made that fateful leap during one of my typical orange-chicken binges. Naturally when I have an opportunity, I seize it and when I have a chance to actively destroy a fear (paying 500 bucks to be forcibly thrown out of a plane is a good way to get over heights) I take advantage of it. As I will elaborate upon in a future blog post, I travelled to Austin, Texas during Thanksgiving to visit my friend Melinda. Austin, (the mecca of hipsters, indie music, and Whole Foods) is known for its artsy, brooding residents, so it’s no surprise that the tattoo scene is fairly prominent.

Which led me to my next goal: overcome my paralyzing fear of tattoos.

I had somewhat come to grips with the permanence of it all, which is surprising considering as a seven year old I couldn’t have Spider Man temporarily tattooed to the back of my hand without considering the serious moral ramifications of my decision. Rather, it’s the mind-numblingly painful sound of a gyrating needle piercing virgin skin that drives me up the wall. Tolerating pain has never been one of my fortes either and in my younger, more violent years, I had a reputation for violently thrashing/kicking/biting any doctor that came at me with vaccination needle. In retrospect, these ordeals probably should have been hashed out in therapy but when trying to stay afloat in the high school food chain, who really has time to discuss years of suppressed anguish?

I digress. Come Turkey day weekend, I set out to conquer my fear. Melinda knew just the right place to get inked as she had done it several months earlier. Similarly tempered and also type-A, Melinda assured me that if she could get inked, so could I. I had gone over my tattoo with her several times. A small, simple quote from my favorite movie: It’s a Wonderful Life. “No man is a failure who has friends” would be permanently etched subtly below my shoulder on my back. Good message, good location, and as sag proof as you can really get. Really what could go wrong?

Well for one, everything. I neglected to tell Melinda several integral facts about the extent of my tattoo knowledge. The first being that I could hardly sit through an episode of LA Ink without vomiting nor had I actually ever seen somebody get a tattoo. A short burst of nerves seems to be a normal reaction to fear, but the inability to control one’s gag reflex in the middle of a perfectly normal discussion amongst friends regarding tattoos may be an indication something more serious is amidst. I’m not quite sure why I thought seeing my “naturally-bronze-because-I’m-Hispanic” skin simultaneously inked and bleed in person would be easier than watching it on TV. But then again, I’m a go big or go home kind of person.

After days of putting it off, we had finally arrived at the opportune moment for my tattoo. Melinda, Chris (her boyfriend), and I all sat in the car. The discussion went somewhere along these lines:

Melinda: So, are you ready?
Me: Yes.
Me: Wait, no. I can’t do, I’m going to puke.
Me: Wait, yes I will. I have to overcome my fear!
Me: But do you like my idea? What if I change my mind? Can they make it small? What happens when I get old?
Me: Does it hurt? Wait, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.
Me: I don’t do pain. I can’t.
Me: Well, this would be a good time to conquer my fear of pain. And I love the idea of my tattoo so much! I’m going to do it! I’m going to get a tattoo!
Me: Wait, fuck this drive me home. I’m over it!

At which point Melinda drove promptly to the tattoo parlor. As soon as the car went into ignition, my blood started pumping. I could feel each and every fish taco I had consumed that day in my stomach. What if I could handle the pain? What if I didn’t like the tattoo? Would it it be a misdemeanor if in a child like state of reflex, I began violently thrashing and beating the man holding a needle to my back? I began shaking like an ill chihuana, constantly nervous and constantly on the brink of death due to a small heart and fragile nervous center. 10 miles. 5 miles. 1 miles. 3 blocks. Boom. We had arrived.

In a foolish attempt to quite literally run from my problem, I darted down the street away from the parlor and away from the car after we had parked. Unfortunately, I had no other means of transportation home and after standing in the street like a stubborn child for five minutes, I submitted to the will of my friends to at least take a look inside. We entered the venue and it was actually quite nice. Clean floors, relaxing indie music, and the comforting smell of rubbing alcohol that indicated sanitation was taken quite seriously at this place of business. It also could have meant the artists were sneaking sips of Svedka in-between inking rounds but I have more faith in the human race than that.

My bliss lasted for about 3.7 seconds before the sound of buzzing needles paralyzed all of my bodily functions. I began to shake. I began to sweat. I could feel my Maria’s tacos coming up for seconds. Seconds are only ever good if they’re going down the same way! Melinda mumbles some words I don’t remember to a man at the counter. He approaches me. My anxiety is through the roof. Oh God, can’t breath. Oh God, can’t speak. Oh God, I’m not even sure if I believe in God, so who the hell is going to help me now?! He begins speaking and it’s only several seconds later I realize he’s talking at me.

“So what do you want?”
“Oh, me? Uh, oh, um, let’s see. Yeah… a quote? Yeah, a quote.”
“Which one?”
“Um, let’s see… So man. I mean no man. Wait, let’s see. No failure… oh Jesus…”

I HAD FORGOT THE QUOTE. I was so nervous that I had forgot the quote that I was about to have permanetly etched on my skin until the day I died! The tattoo artists gave me an impatient and exasperated look similar to the one my mother makes when my dog shits on the rug. Was I that pathetic? Akin to a canine too stupid for bowel control? It wasn’t until Chris properly relayed my quote was the artist able to begin drafting a mock design.

I stumbled to the corner. I promptly sat down with my hand over my eyes. I proceeded to curl into as far of a fetal position one can go in public without completely looking like a lunatic. Each moment felt like an era as I heard the buzzing continue in the back. Several minutes passed until the poor soul who put together my design came back to speak to me.

“So, here it is. I think it’s the right size, a nice font and design. What do you think?”

I shit you not readers, the mock-up was half of the size of my back. I immediately shut my mouth for fear of puking all over the salon and clenched my teeth as I did my best to stay conscious. The phantom sensation of a thousand needles ramming themselves into my backside sent a river of sweat down my back like it was the fucking Amazon river. I stumbled in place. I knew I had one chance. One moment to orally proclaim my fate or face the wrath of Maria’s Taqueria twice over. In the quickest possible sentence I have ever uttered, my response was as follows:

“WOW WHAT A TATOO LEMME GET YOUR CARD SO I CAN SLEEP ON IT BYE.”

I politely took the man’s guard and immediately dashed for the car. Never has a human being so passionately locked the doors of a motorized vehicle. I demanded Melinda start the car and drive away from this dark, dark place of fear and needles. Adrenaline crashing, nerves a blaze, I fell asleep in the back seat of the car as I came to terms with what I almost did. As we drove into the Texas sunset, I slipped in and out of consciousness. I remember one particularly clear and poignant thought as we speeded through the highway back to Melinda’s childhood.

“Perhaps”, I thought to myself… “Perhaps I should have started off with a temporary tattoo instead.”

Thanks to quality travel provider CheapoAir (need I say more?) Michael and I flew back on Sun Country airlines, the transatlantic equivalent of Southwest. 12 hours. 1980s flight decor. No in-flight movies. Luckily, we were in a shoddy enough plane that we had to make an unscheduled refuel in Gander, Canada. If your first thought was “What the hell is a Gander?” you certainly are not alone. The town Gander was essentially created as an aviation base during WWII, and as a result, our pitstop in the Gander airport allowed us to 100% of the town’s tourist attractions, including the Gander aviation museum which took the form of a 1981 mural adjacent to the airport’s cafeteria. Nothing screams historical relevance like the smell of mass produced meat loaf.

Proof.

But my “HOLY SHIT NORTH AMERICA” moment didn’t hit until we made our way to our second (this time scheduled) stop in Minneapolis. With six hours until our flight to LAX, what did Michael and I do? Take the subway to the Mall of America of course! I must say, even in the journey home, I’m impressed we managed to take advantage of time in the city. Anyway, the subway was really more of glorified trolly car but it took us to the mall in about ten minutes flat. Nobody even checked our ticket to get on! The people of the Midwest are so trusting. And the ride was so pleasant! Based upon this experience alone, I’ve concluded the Midwest devoid of unpleasantness, crime, and unhappiness.

Anyway, back to the mall. Now, if you didn’t already know, everything in Europe is old. Aging, small, ancient and tiny. Redundancy added for dramatic effect. And well, the Mall of the America is everything that Europe isn’t. The mall was HUGE, the steps on the escalators were OVERSIZED, Dora the Explorer’s face plastered to a ten story indoor ferris wheel was GIANT, the idealogical presence of American consumerism was OMNIPRESENT, and the tourists that inhabited the hundreds of stores in the mall… well, you get the picture.

I think the oversized Dora in the background might be the reason why white people are scared of my kind.

I don’t remember the last time I uttered the words “overwhelmed” and “overstimulated” so frequently and in such rapid succession but considering I had never experience a seizure or epileptic fit before, I thought my need to orally process the plus-sized stimuli was fair. Michael, who had only been gone less than two months, didn’t seem to understand my incessant need to self-diaognose my feelings. Damnit, I was overwhelmed and I was going to make it my elitist mission to blame the Mall of America for destroying my post-Euro bliss.

Eventually, my instinctual need to consume large servings of Mexican food overcame my idealogical aversion to the American lifestyle, and we found our way to my first serving of Chipotle in six months. We took our aluminum wrapped vessels of faux-Mexican-goodness to a table overlooking the Nickelodeon theme park in the middle of the mall. As the sweet, sweet taste of chicken and pico de gaello touched my tastebuds, my thoughts on coming back to my homeland began to shift. Sure, the Mall of America (and America in general) might be a bastion of excess and commercialism. Yes, it may have no concept of portion control. And of course it lacks the history and refinement of Europe’s crown histories, all of which hold a gateway to glory days past.

But riddle me this reader: where else in Europe could I find a delectable burrito the size of my face for less than seven bucks? My point exactly.

I’m thinking that I should probably finish up my Europe travels before I continue discussing my current life events. Luckily, I only have one more locale left: London, England! A wonderful transition home, it was strangely overwhelming to have the capabilities to understand every conversation I overheard on the metro. We were fortunate enough to stay with a friend we had made while in Amsterdam which meant living in a real home! With a private bathroom! And food! And English tea! Made by a real Englishman!

A little bit too "match.com" but look how British we look!

Michael and I naturally did the standard tourist itinerary: changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, the British Museum (the best museum in the world due to the fact that the English pillaged everybody at some point in history), the London eye, South Bank, Abbey Road, Platform 9 and 3/4 (it’s more ghetto than you imagine), Westminster Abbey, and of course eating a healthy serving of fish and chips. But we also had an opportunity to escape the city and visit Stonehenge, Windsor Castle, and the town of Bathe. While I’m ordinarily against organized tour groups, Evans and Evans travel provides efficient and enjoyable travel to these more out of the way locations. Booking through them actually ends up being cheaper than if you went independently. See: nothing wrong with selling out every once and a while.

Insert ominous picture of ancient monument.

If you’re looking to do something a little out of the ordinary, be sure to check out Camden Market off the Camden town tube. A punk paradise, the streets are filled with tattoo parlors, funky markets, and cheap, delicious ethnic food. Be sure to walk a solid 10 to 15 minutes into the area once you arrive; that’s you’ll find some of the best food stands and shopping. If you know you’re on the prowl for some Indian cuisine (London has some of the best thanks to that whole colonization thing) you might want to check out the area of London known as Brick Lane, also home to hipster boutiques and great nightlife.

Our gracious host Michael with me in front of Tower Bridge. Also, it rained a lot while we were there.

While we had a great time enjoying the city, the highlight of our UK adventure was easily going to Wimbledon! If you’re lucky enough to be in the area during that special time of year, you can actually get rush tickets any day of the competition. Simply arrive between 1 and 3 PM and, well, get ready to wait. Our friend from high school joined Michael and I, and the three of us waited out on the green for about 2 and a half hours before we were let into the grounds. The wait (which was really felt more like a chill lawn party) was well worth it. For the the equivalent of 8 American dollars, we received center court seats in main stadium. Novak Djokovic (the number two tennis player in the world mind you) was just meters away! All for the price of some fish tacos from my hometown.

Right before going in to the stadium to watch Wimbledon! NO BIGGY.

Like every college educated American with little grasp of the financial constraints of the real world, I could easily see myself living in London at some point in the future. But after a month and a half of living out of a backpack, I was most certainly ready to have my bed back. After almost a year before I left for Italy, I have finally finished blogging about my time abroad. At some point, I’ll probably post something more reflective in nature. But for now, reliving it all just fills me with joy and an uneasy sense of vicarious exhaustion.

Oh, one last thing. Bed bugs: they’re real. We spent one night at hostel before arriving at our friend’s house. My last hostel experience in Europe for quite sometime. And what happens? My catastrophizing grandmother’s prediction manifests. I discover some days later, after four dozen violently itchy marks appear all over my body: I am a victim of bedbugs. And I was so close to the home stretch. Ain’t that a bitch?

Outside of the most beautiful post office EVER.

We took a “colorful” walking tour of the city with a guide who insisted that if we didn’t tip her, she’d resort to prostitution. But despite her constant f-bombs and awkward sex jokes about Spanish historical figures, we actually had a chance to learn a bit about Spanish cultures and customs. So I picked a couple of my favorite moments from Spain along with some of the fun facts we picked up during our journey!

Flamenco. It’s all about the crazy dresses, loud chanting, and the Gypsy Kings. Right?

No pictures allowed of the show, but let's look at this delightful picture of me in front of a Moorish arch instead!

Well, not quite. Flamenco is a form of dance with a heavy Moorish (Southern Spain) roots. It comes from the music and performances created by gypsies in the region and as the Spaniards began doing that whole rape/pillage/colonize thing, it’s influence spread. Now it’s become much more formalized than it used to be, but you can find some great shows that try to stick to its roots like the Casa Patas performance we viewed our second night in the city. Don’t go looking for an authentic show in Barcelona; flamenco’s true home is in the south of Spain.

Bullfights. They’re archaic, bloody, and backwards. Plus, they wear funny outfits.

A moment of silence for Mr. Bull.

To be fair, seeing a live animal die is an intense cultural experience. But there’s actually some history and meaning behind the fights. While it’s origins can be linked back to the Roman Colosseum, the modern bullfight is highly ritualized. From the pomp and circumstance, to the music, to the elaborate outfits, the match is incredibly performative. By the end of the spectacle, I could see the art in tradition. Granted, analyzing style and technique can be a little difficult to focus on while you’re see a beast of animal die in front of your eyes. Buttttt, if you can get past that, it’s great fun for day!

Paella. The holy grail of seafood. It’s good everywhere in Spain.

YES.

Paella is not a Spanish dish. In fact, the South of Spain isn’t home to paella. Paella is dish from Valenica and while most foreigners think of as THE Spanish dish, Spaniards (especially those from Catalunya) will strongly disagree. Word of advice: any restaurant that has pictures of the paellas they make are most liketly selling you overpriced junk they quickly heat up. A good paella shouldn’t be able to be whipped up in five minutes. If you want some good paella in Madrid and don’t want to be ripped off like the rest of the tourists, head to La Baraca for a gastronomical delight.

Madrid is a great avenue to experience Spain’s highlight reel. Eat the tapas, go paella hunting, and indulge in a flamenco show. Do what the stereotypical Spaniard may do. But take some time to learn a bit of history here or there. Your experience will be much for fulfilling. Or, at least, you’ll have the allusion of being incredibly cultured.

In other news, today’s my birthday! The big 2-1 at last. Considering that it’s a Tuesday night, it was really a quiet day for the most part. But I had a great day with good food and good friends. Also, lots of things were paid for me today so that was nice.

Thank you to all my readers and here’s to another 21 years of blogging, debauchery, and smart ass remarks! Hope you’ve enjoyed the journey and as an additional thank you, enjoy a picture of me as wee-tot.

Being back in Boston means one important thing: loads and loads of damn good places to eat. In honor of my return, my friend Melinda and I went to The Friendly Toast located about 6 minutes off the Kendal/MIT subway stop.

The Friendly Toast is an all-day breakfast extravaganza, serving dozens of twists on your favorite breakfast meals. Think pumpkin pancakes, coconut cakes, and a gingerbread waffle with pomegranate molasses sauce just to name a few.

Yes please!

But if you’re looking for some more protein in your breakfast-for-dinner feast, look no further to their incredible egg dishes. Want to get your taste buds watering? Think about a smoked salmon benedict or one of their classic breakfast sandwiches.

They also have some of the craziest omelets known to man. Or to me anyway. To name a few? Try Kate’s tofu scramble with tofu, mushrooms, corn, and feta. Or maybe New Hampshire’s Finest with goat cheese, asparagus, scallions, and bacon. YUM.

I’m not a huge fan of omelets, I usually find them pretty bland. But the Greek Scramble with sundried tomatoes, feta, artichokes, spinach and black pepper has probably been one of my favorite and flavorful meals that I’ve had in Boston thus far.

Clockwork Orange meets breakfast?

As an added bonus, the breakfast dishes come with fresh made toast the size of your face and yummy home fries with a refreshingly spicy kick to them. With a funky decor that would make any hipster feel “sooo mainstream,” what’s not to love about The Friendly Toast?

I mean, it’s breakfast for dinner for God’s sake. Open Sun-Tues from 8AM – 10PM and Weds- Sat from 8AM – 1AM. You can find get to the directions to The Friendly Toast at: http://www.thefriendlytoast.net/

Token classy picture.

DO your research before you come. Thinking that we’d be able to book a last minute hostel without a problem, Michael and I tried to find a hostel a few hours before our train to Paris. And of course, we couldn’t find anything near city center for less than 70 Euros a night. Ouch. Eventually, we had to settle for a hotel in the suburb of St. Dennis about 35 minutes outside of the city. Cozy, quiet, out of the hustle and bustle of downtown. Filled with plenty of local charm. Right? Ehh, not so much. St. Dennis actually has a higher crime rate than all of France and our lovely “honeymoon suite” was nestled right in the center of this little part of town. As an added bonus, our room had no bathroom. Simply a toilet right next to the bed with a small and basically useless privacy curtain.

St. Dennis does not look like this.

DON’T skimp on the food. Where do I begin? You could go to La Durée near the Arc de Triumph for the best macarons of your life. There’s also Angelina’s world famous hot chocolate near the Tuileries. But let’s face it: France ain’t cheap. Sure, its some of the best food you’ll ever have. But a poor student can only drop so many Euros on cookies more expensive than a mortgage payment. Luckily, dining like a Parisian and saving money aren’t mutually exclusive. Go to St. Severin Street in the Latin Quarter and for 10 Euros you can get a three course French meal at almost any of the restaurants there. Or, for the best tasting falafel of your life (recommended by Lenny Kravitz!), go to l’As du Falafel. Cheapness has never tasted so damn good.

Snails? Yes please!

DO get a killer view of the city. Now obviously, everyone thinks of going to the top of the Eiffel Tower. While some might call it overrated, I do think climbing (climb the tower; it’s cheaper than the elevator) to the top of the tower is the worth the view especially at sunset. But you probably want the tower in the background of your new default picture right? Don’t lie! For all your Facebook needs, go to Sacre Coueur and climb to the top of the dome. Not only does it give you an incredible 360 degree view of the city, but it’s also considerably cheaper than climbing its other alternatives. MORE EIFFLE FUN!  You can illegally purchase wine from sketchy characters on the lawn in front of the tower during sunset. Nothing more romantic than breaking law!

Climbing to the top and perspiring immensely!

DON’T be a complete tourist. I’m all about being seeing the sights. There’s a reason why they’re famous. But make sure to do it the right way. Don’t enter the Louvre through the glass pyramid on top; enter through the subway stop for a significantly shorter wait. Don’t pay for Versailles if you have a student ID from a European university. And don’t visit sites like the Notre Dame and the Moulin Rouge during the midday rush. It’s an easy way to make your sightseeing less enjoyable. If you want something quirky and little off the beaten path, check out the Catacombs of Paris for miles of underground fun! Nothing like seeing the skulls of thousands of dead Parisians to brighten up your day.

Mona Lisa! We so excited!

Take my advice with a grain of salt. I had an incredible time in Paris; it’s hard not to. But don’t let the overwhelming expectations of a perfect Paris experience ruin your time. Your travels are what you make of it. But seriously. Listen to me now. Don’t stay in any room without a separate bathroom. That is an order. Awkward moments are bound to ensue…

Now, dear reader, you might be thinking something along the lines of: “What? Good hair? What does that have to do with anything?” or “Well, I can unsubscribe from this garbage now.” But for me, flying back to school with good hair is important. Not because I have anyone to impress. In terms of fashion and outwards appearances, I like to set the bar low so I’m constantly delighted when I look decent. No, flying with good hair is important because for me, it doesn’t last long. I’d like it to look respectable for the school year as long as possible. Timing is key.

I must always strategically map when I receive my haircuts, as it goes through six-key stages of evolution with each cut, without fail. Perhaps a closer examination will justify my angst…

1. Stage one: freshly cut. The first awkward week of a new haircut. Questions I pose to myself typically include: “Is my forehead really that big?” “Do I have premature balding?”  And, my personal favorite, “Has my head always been in the shape of a lopsided egg?” Self-esteem typically is at all all-month low.

I was cut from the original draft of the script.

2. Stage two: growth. My hair begins to take shape. But it is still uncomfortably short and choppy. I am typically described to be a brown Ellen Dengeneres. Dip in self-esteem is only momentarily. Being one of the best influential lesbians on TV and being married to Portia De Rossi wouldn’t be so bad. I notice a renewned pep in my step.

"I watch Ellen in... my mirror."

3. Stage three: being really really ridiculously good looking. After two weeks of awkward times and only when the full moon is bright, I look like this for about twenty minutes…

Rare picture of me on a full moon.

4. Stage four: …thennnn I come back to reality and am perfectly content being my normal self with normal hair for about five to six days.

Good look on my face.

5. Stage five: return of the Aztecs. My hair quickly begins to grow out and  thick, uncontrollable, “Aztec hair”  returns. It only grows up and refuses to grow long. I use this moment in my hair cycle to “get in touch with my ethnic roots.” This cultural exploration lasts only as long as it takes to break a hairbrush. Then the angst continues.

My people! Err... sort of.

6. Stage six: time for a hair cut. There’s something about long hair that makes you look like a child. Functioning like a normal person becomes difficult. There is an overwhelming urge to thrash my hair around like a hip-hop mega star.Please see the attached picture below from junior year to see side-effects of such a lifestyle.

Just chilling before my political science class.

Well there you have it folks. A photographic journey of my scalp and its surroundings. I hope it has been an educational treat and that you’ve enjoyed your visit. But alas, now it’s time to return to my packing and preparation for flight back to college. I can only hope that it is a full moon when I arrive.