Word.

August's summer, and the ten-day forecast slips, missing a morning cooler than any other.

We arrive in the office as a trio, as unchoreographed as the weather.


"It's cold out there!" she exclaims, dribbling yogurt on her deep-V t.
'It is not cold,' I think, defending the potential of the English language.

"It's like someone turned on the A.C. out there!" another yelped from the front, making up for accuracy with noise.
But that observation is just as far from the truth.

I close my eyes to escape this reality, which is inappropriately disconnected from what's actually out there. I let words and phrases seep into my mind. Forget the office. I'm in a land of linguistics.

Let's think. It's supposed to be 90 degrees, a New York 90 degrees, which means a thick swatch of air when you're outside, and stale air inside. And oh boy, when inside for you is a summer subway commute, the heat is oppressive. In those underground tunnels, it hits your chest like a linebacker. That stale air is like a cartoon bucket of sweat that just tips over your head, leaving you drenched. City slick indeed. Sometimes, when subway heat lines up with a miserable day, you feel like you'll never get out--as if you'll be trapped with the swelter in the underground worm paths. But this morning, none of that existed.

"No. Stepping outside this morning and immediately considering going back for a sweater...it's like your first day of the year spent at the beach. You drive for awhile, accustomed to the air in the car that's carrying your summer weather from back home. When you finally get there, slowly pull into a parking space, expecting weather to match the sunshine you're about to jump out into...and you pop into air twenty degrees cooler than expected. You rummage to see if there's an extra sweater in the back seat. No dice. Run down to the water just to warm up on the jog. That's what this morning felt like. It felt like contrast, and it felt fresh. So uncharacteristically New York."

But I didn't say any of that. It stayed in my head. Maybe it was all in my head to begin with.

Arthur's Seat, Edinburgh, Scotland

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On my way to climb Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh Scotland. Even in spring, the snow starts at the lower elevations of Hollyrood Park that lead up to the peak, one of two extinct volcanoes in the musical metropolis. The second extinct peak is host to Edinburgh's Castle. Edinburgh is my second favorite city on Earth, behind Prague. If I wanted to live a responsible, purposeful and cultured life, I'd pick out a corner in Edi. When I'm in my "All hail, all hail Hunter S. Thompson" phases, the place to be is Prague and no other.

Nerd Love

A tribute to the ultimate traveler, Don Quixote!


Brilliant and funny geek comics
http://xkcd.com/556/

My Stick Figure, Myself

Travel writing is my way of not growing up. It's a passion, it's fun, it's playtime to me. Plus, travel writers always get to jump on the bed--hotels don't care, and they rarely catch the head indents on the ceiling.
I don't sit at a desk (unless I feel like it), but most of the time, I write in my head. So my desk is an evening stroll, an otherwise boring workout, my morning meeting for my other job, which is work. Lastly, travel writing is all exploration and adventure. Adventures happen when you're excited about what you're nosing into--when you're interested, you delve further. I don't write many food reviews because I don't like spicy, or mushy, or still moving when I first saw it. But checking out what's on the roof, who's in the Barca bars midday 30 min outside of the city center, away from the tourist throngs on Las Ramblas, doing the touristy things and then asking the bored guards where I can watch a soccer game on tv, that's how I end up surrounded by empty glasses once sopping of wine/Coca, and fans willing to hang me by their FC Barca scarves.