11.19.2007

Communication Is Not Always Key


No Comprende
Ingredients:
1 oz Tequila
1 oz Vanilla Stoli
1 oz Banana Liqueur
1 oz Ginger Ale
Banana and Maraschino Cherry, for garnish

Directions:
Fill a lowball glass with ice. Combine the tequila, Stoli Vanilla, banana liqueur, and ginger ale in a cocktail shaker, and shake. Strain into the glass. Garnish with a maraschino cherry and a banana wedge.


My greatest mentor once told me there’s nothing better in life than travel sex, preferably in a non-English speaking country. Taking a sleeping pill on my way to Costa Rica, I decided it might be time to experience this first hand. After all, what good was having a mentor if you never took her advice.

Landing in San Jose, I took in the smell of rich coffee and hot pavement, and felt more alive than I had in years. With my past left behind and my future on hold, I could simply exist in the moment as my mother had always done. Completely disoriented, I stepped into the littered city street, elated that I had no idea where I was going. With no agenda, I wandered through the crowded markets, taking it all in, particularly the tan blue-eyed men selling empanadas. Wanting to make the most of every moment, I ordered two beef empanadas, and flashed my most available smile. Romance was definitely in the air!

Three weeks later, I was drying up on a deserted beach in Panama after ten straight days of flooding. Still pale and un-romanced, I decided a sunburn might brighten the mood. Smearing my pale skin with coconut oil, I gleefully offered my body to the sun god as my girlfriend Salima read The Alchemist under an umbrella. While her naturally tan skin led Panamanians to believe she was a local, she was Indian and didn’t speak a word of Spanish. To their disappointment, she’d simply smile and point to the sunburned white girl for any basic questions. Luckily, my second-degree burn turned into a tanned peel whilst we trekked back to Costa Rica for our return flight.

Arriving in the small town of Santa Ana, I decided to soak in as much “pura vida” as possible on our last night. I had traveled enough to know that the moment I boarded the plane, my past, present and future would slide back onto the grid. Once I crossed the border, I’d be back on the clock. And while there had been nothing particularly “romantic” about the trip, there had also been nothing predictable, and for that I celebrated with a free shot of tequila from the local bartender.

“Es tu cumpleanos?” I asked the perfectly tanned bartender in my remedial Spanish confirming that it was his twenty-first birthday. I turned to my friend to translate the obvious. “It’s his twenty-first birthday,” I repeated licking the salt off my hand. “I love birthdays!” I squealed as I downed the shot.

Three rounds later, I was swimming in enough pura vida that I believed the tan blue-eyed twenty-one year old bartender had a crush on me. At least that’s what Salima thought. As he lined another round of drinks on the bar, I realized the advantage to small town romances. This young Costa Rican who had the refined good looks of a Calvin Klein model had absolutely zero awareness of it. Feeling lucky, I smiled in his direction, and then turned to my friend to shake the tequila off. “We are so going dancing tonight.”

That night, we squeezed into a local deli turned nightclub where Roberto, my Spanish-speaking bartender, quickly pulled me onto the dance floor. Without warning, I started to sweat through my long-sleeve t-shirt that was fittingly, white. Dancing next to a row of deli meat, Roberto moved my hips to the music, and then pulled my long-sleeve shirt over my head. I looked around, uncomfortable in my black camisole, until he pressed his hand into my lower back with such authority that my hips gave way. Grinding to the music, the room started to fade until all I could hear was Shakira’s rhythmic moaning in a moment I was sure would pass for travel sex.

The next day, Roberto took me to a local ice cream parlor where we shared a perfectly uncomplicated strawberry ice cream cone. Communicating through looks and smiles. Through nods and touches. Through everything that made me feel like staying in this small town, at least for another week. When I finally stepped into the cab, I didn’t feel sad or lonely. It was impossible to. Roberto slid into the seat next to me, insistent on taking me to the airport. Driving through the city, I realized that the boy who had just turned twenty-one knew the value of going all the way.

As I made my way to the gate, I turned back to savor the last few moments with my crush. Roberto called out to me in a tender voice that I’ll never forget, and said the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. Only I couldn’t understand a single word he said.

Suggested Number of Drinks:

11.04.2007

In case you forgot who Corey Hart is...

Or missed the eighties:

11.01.2007

Everyone Loves Corey Hart


Blind Bastard
Ingredients:
1 Espresso Shot (Chilled)
2 oz Vodka
4 oz Pineapple Juice
Grand Marnier
Slice of Orange and Mint Leave, for garnish

Directions:
Put three ice cubes in a lowball glass. Combine the espresso, vodka, and pineapple juice in a cocktail shaker with ice, and shake. Strain mixture into the glass. Finish with a float of Grand Marnier. Garnish with a slice of orange and mint leave.


There’s nothing like a crowded bar full of Hollywood executives to make Minnesota look like heaven on Earth. At least that’s how I pictured it as I queued up outside of Nacional just to get a drink. I was halfway to Saint Paul when Melissa showed up with Houston, the up-and-coming screenwriter she was dying for me to meet. I shook his hand, trying to avoid my reflection in his sunglasses, and thought about Corey Hart.

I could practically hear the one-hit-wonder in my head as we shuffled into the nightclub as if it were get-in-free day at Disneyland. Melissa sat us next to the fireplace with a view of the bar, and started to talk shop. My mind wandered through the room of aspiring Reality TV stars, and into the fire where I dreamed of shoveling snow in Minnesota.

“I haven’t slept in two days,” Houston said talking through his dark sunglasses. “I think I mixed in too much Ritalin with my Rum and Cokes,” he explained pulling the waitress in for another drink.

“Do you have A.D.D.?” I asked suddenly feeling bad about my indifference to the masked writer. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might actually be blind with A.D.D., and not an arrogant rip-off of Mr. Hart.

“No, I have a psychiatrist for a dad,” he said in a flat tone that put an end to my sympathetic questioning. “It’s the only way I can focus on my writing,” he said straightening his sunglasses. “When I’m drunk.”

Needing to mingle, Melissa led us through the crowded bar, introducing us to a handful of development assistants who pretended to know our names. Desperate for an escape, I pushed my way through the dance floor. I was five-paces in when I felt a sharp tug on my jacket.

Turning around, I realized a jacket wasn’t necessary in 90-degree bar-heat, but let Houston stop me in the warmest spot on the dance floor. He delivered a few short squats before I realized he wanted to dance. Hesitantly, I started to sway in front of him. Unsure if he was actually looking at me, I leaned in and yelled, “What are we doing?”

“You shouldn’t get involved with me,” he said with a crocked smile. “I’m a nightmare when it comes to women.”

“I’m pretty sure we’re not dating,” I said leaning away from the man I’d never be able to identify in a line-up. “But thanks for that,” I said spotting Melissa chatting her way up to the balcony.

“We’re not,” he said (probably) staring at me through his sunglasses. “But we will be,” he explained with an abrupt kiss.

Several shocked paces later, I stood at the base of the stairs with the unsteady feeling of cutting class. Grabbing my hand, Houston led me to the corner of the balcony with the intimacy of a male escort, and then kissed my ear. I pulled away, feeling an odd rush of heat around the inner lobe, and let him know I wasn’t comfortable with PDA. “You think anyone is looking?” he said whispering the obvious.

An hour later, we decided to go to The Bar for a quiet, civilized conversation about sex on the first date. Melissa and Houston debated their stance as I slipped into the bathroom. Staring into the mirror that cut me off at the nose, I wondered what he looked like without glasses. More importantly, I wondered why I cared. He was a self-professed womanizer for Christ’s sake.

Heading back to our table with zero clarity, I watched Houston slide around the booth and whisper in Melissa’s ear. I paused; Melissa laughed; and Houston called me over to explain that in the five minutes I had been gone, he decided that he liked both of us. Clearly, this was a new strain of A.D.D.

The next day, Houston called my friend to ask her for my phone number. It was true: he personified everything I disliked about Los Angeles, and yet I was still entertaining it and him. For one insane moment, I was actually excited. Packing for vacation, I wondered what his psychiatrist father would have to say about that. Luckily, I left the country before I could find out.

Suggested Number of Drinks: