paddle paddle paddle

A few weeks ago, my friend Jill asked me to sign up for a two-day surf lesson on the Oregon Coast. I'd never had a keen interest in learning how to surf, but I have this condition where it's almost impossible to say no to potentially adventurous opportunities. (Maybe that's why I moved here??) Anyway, I said yes. Days before our road trip, I copped an attitude. I folded my arms and took the 'I don't wanna surf' stance. (Which is different from the 'Look at me, I'm on a surfboard' stance).

It turned out to be awesome. A Seattle-based surf shop runs these lessons for cheap and rents out full body gear (yep, the water up here is damn cold even in August). Surfing felt like a combo of boogie boarding and water skiing. The weather was on our side, which helped. The beach was full of surfers of every stripe, many with dogs in tow. The waves were intimidating at first-- I don't even know the last time I went to the ocean-- but once I swam out past them it felt really good to be in the salt water. Plus, I ain't gonna lie, waves are fun.

The 'lesson' was pretty much a joke. Todd, the surf shop owner with a beer belly and a dragon necklace, gave us a push into our first wave and then did his own thing. He did check in randomly to give us a thumbs up. Jill and I caught on pretty quickly. We both got up briefly a few times, crashed a bit, and relaxed on our boards. I couldn't help but laugh when I got up, or even rode a good wave lying down. At the end of the day we were both happily exhausted.

We're going again in a few weeks, this time on the Olympic Peninsula. In the meantime I'll practice doing my pop-ups.

...and to think just a few short years ago I was a Queens girl riding the N train...

Connecticut!

I just returned from an awesome trip back to my home state, Connecticut. It was my much-needed summer vacation, and I already want to go back. Dave and I split time between my parents' home and their lake house. Without a camera, I gotta take it back to the cavewoman days. Here are some of the highlights. (I ran out of room on the page, maybe there will be a volume II).

soda jerks & angelic bikers

Today I tried to put money on a bar tab in Brooklyn for Dave, who will be there for his birthday. (Jeff started this act of kindness and I've started to bite his style). First I called Soda Bar, which is near Ashley and Jeff's apartment in Prospect Heights. I explained what I wanted to do, and the bartender said they need me to be present to run my card. So I phrased it differently: Just run my card right now, I'll provide my three-digit code, and hold the $20 on it. That way the transaction is already settled. Yada yada. He rudely responded "You are not listening to what I'm saying. You must be present". He was a total cheesedick. I said, "You are incredibly rude for someone who works in the service industry. Thank you". Click. (Of course my heart was racing but he was such an asshole I had to call him out on it.)

I got off the phone, bristling. I felt defeated, and uninspired to try another bar. Hours later, once I'd cooled down, I called Union Hall, and the waitress was rude but slightly more helpful. What is it with these New Yorkers?

After work, two of my friends and I set out on a long bike ride to West Seattle. Our 24 mile-ride was cut short when Julie's tire blew out. A young woman with dyed red hair and a tongue ring pulled over and asked if we needed help. We did. Julie's pump was useless on a gashed tire. Tasha the biker chick was equipped with bike maintenance gear and she'd recently taken a 'How to Fix a Flat' class at Recycled Cycles. She was able and friendly.

She impressed us all as she started using her newfound knowledge. About 5 passing bikers slowed to ask if we were okay. Some offered their spare tubes. We waved them on. Unfortunately Tasha's patch job didn't work, because there were more holes, and more holes, in Julie's tube. The next biker to come along stopped and helped as well.

The warmth and kindness of the bikers restored my faith in humanity. Julie offered to pay a bar tab for each of the roadside assistants, at a bar of their choosing. I wished her better luck with Seattle establishments.

As for each the Soda Jerk, eh, fuck em.