Day 161: Prime Real Estate

We woke Sunday morning to a beautiful day at Lake Tahoe. The sun was shining and there were only a few clouds in the bright blue sky. A perfect day for a lot of things, including driving back to San Francisco. I was bummed that we couldn't stay and ski again, convinced that with just one more day, I'd master not only the mountains, but the ski lift as well.

Several of us took a walk around Cynthia's parents' neighborhood, enjoying the sunshine and our last minutes in Tahoe. I spent some quiet moments feeling thankful for the weekend I'd just had, the new friends that I'd made, and most of all, for not killing myself on the slopes. I decided then that I wanted to make ski trips a yearly thing. I really want to be a skier.

Sometime mid-morning, we loaded into our cars and headed back to the Bay Area. I was surprised at how tired I was on our return, despite us going to bed early every night we were there. Skiing whipped me!

When we got back to Elizabeth and Kristof's, they both asked me what I wanted to do for the rest of the day. What I really wanted to do was whatever the two of them normally do on Sunday afternoons. I didn't want to disrupt their schedule just because I was in town.

Plus, Sundays, for most people, are sacred. My friend Momo and her husband, for example, have been known to outright refuse to make plans on Sundays, not wanting to jeopardize an opportunity to relax, or to spend the day doing whatever they want. They're not trying to be rude, they just want their Sundays to themselves.

It's not just Momo, though. Even the most social individuals that I know use Sundays to hide out, presumably to deal with the anxiety that their weekend transgressions might've caused. Others that I know concoct elaborate "Sunday Funday" plans, determined to soak up all 48 hours of the weekend. Regardless of how people choose to spend the day, Sundays, I know, are not to be messed with.

I wasn't sure what I wanted to do, but I knew I didn't want to make Elizabeth and Kristof run me all over town doing touristy things the day before they had to be back at work, therefore ruining their Sunday.

But Elizabeth refused to let us sit around and watch DVR'ed episodes of "Toddlers and Tiaras" or "RuPaul's Drag Race," much to my dismay. She suggested we instead capitalize on the beautiful day and take a walk on Baker Beach.

Baker Beach is a bit of a ways from Russian Hill, so we walked to catch the bus. On our way to the bus stop, we passed an apartment building in Kristof and Elizabeth's neighborhood that has some units for sale, one of which had caught Kristof’s eye a long time ago, after he'd started looking for a place to potentially buy.

"Let's go check it out," I said as we climbed the hill.

They refused, at first, not wanting to spend one of my days in San Francisco apartment hunting. But truthfully, I couldn’t have been more excited. I love real estate (is that weird?), and though not actively looking to buy a home, I’ve been known to go "house-hunting" in Atlanta from time to time with my real estate agent friends. I like to see how houses are laid out and I like considering how I'd renovate or decorate them if they were my own. As evident by some of the homes I've viewed, I also like to see what kind of freaks I have living in my neighborhood. There are a lot.

Anyway, the opportunity to use this beautiful day to look at some big city real estate was as much for me and my curiosity as it was for Elizabeth and Kristof trying to find a place to live.


Day 161's thing I've never done before was to go apartment hunting in San Francisco and take an X-rated walk on Baker Beach.


A nice, relatively young guy met us at the door when we entered the apartment building and then he took us up on the elevator to the unit.

San Francisco real estate, like a lot of other big cities, is expensive. I'm not sure how it stacks up to places like New York, Boston, or Los Angeles, but I've visited enough friends in these places to understand that we were going to be dealing with big prices and small spaces.

The apartment we viewed was on the 7th or 8th floor, I think, and though I have no concept of how many square feet it was, it was a two bedroom, one bathroom place with a living area, dining room, kitchen and terrace. I think it cost near $800,000. That's a lot of money anywhere, but it's San Francisco, so I wasn't terribly surprised that a place so small cost so much. I was astounded, however, that they would ask that much for this place.

First of all, the apartment was dirty. Don't most people that are trying to sell their house spend a great deal of time keeping the house neat and tidy in case potential buyers decide to stop in unexpectedly for a viewing? Whoever lived in this space looks like they packed their things in the middle of the night and left town without telling anyone. I would have assumed that the things left behind, the creepy, antique-looking paintings, broken dishes and dusty mirrors, would have been removed by the company hired to sell the place.

Not to mention, the apartment was in need of some serious updates. The kitchen alone needed a makeover to bring it out of the 1970s time warp. The bathroom was the size of a half bathroom with a shower, suited only for individuals less than six feet tall.

The worst part of the apartment was that the view the real estate company had advertised was not existent. Not from this apartment anyway.

While we milled around the place, the nice gentleman who had greeted us downstairs left and was replaced a woman. An all-business, judgmental, not nice real estate agent who took one look at us and either assumed there was no way any of us could afford a place like this, or simply was a bitch and didn't want to help us.

To be fair, I couldn't afford this place, but she didn't know that, and how dare she assume.

Kristof became suspicious, after checking out the view, that the apartment we were in was not the one he was interested in viewing. After going back and forth with this rude lady, we came to the conclusion that the apartment he wanted to see was either not for sale anymore, or this lady just didn't want to show it to us.

She also didn't want us to show ourselves out, so she escorted us onto the elevator, with her client in tow and personally showed us the door.

Elizabeth doesn't tolerate rudeness of this magnitude, so even if she and Kirstof had loved that apartment, I could see her refusing to buy it on account of that woman sucking. Words of wisdom to real estate agents in San Francisco: Do not cross Elizabeth.

We caught the bus to take us as far as we could go, and then we walked the rest of the way to Baker Beach. I recognized the view immediately. This is the spot that countless pictures of San Francisco's Golden Gate Bridge with the white capped waves crashing against the rocks beneath have been taken. The view was spectacular, and I was surprised I hadn't made an effort to enjoy it on my other trips to San Francisco.

We walked towards the bridge, fighting the wind that was blowing wildly and the weird foam that was blowing in off the waves. As we approached the bridge, Kristof turned to me, slyly smiling, and said, "Now this is the naturalist part of Baker Beach."

I smiled and nodded, unsure exactly of what he meant by "naturalist" in this context. Luckily, I didn't have to wonder very long. When I looked up towards the bridge I saw a tall man, likely in his 60's, standing as naked as the day he as born.

Elizabeth turned to me, "This is the naked part of the beach."

Clearly.

Sure enough, the beach's website even says, "The northernmost part of Baker Beach is frequented by clothing-optional sunbathers."

Though I don't particularly enjoy being naked myself, I understand the freedom people feel without clothes on, and I loved that these men were embracing the nudist lifestyle. What confused me though, was that I didn't find the weather to be suitable for nakedness. The wind was brisk and though the sun was shining brightly, I certainly wouldn't have wanted to be in a bikini out there, much less in my birthday suit.

Is nudity weather-proof? Like, if you like to be naked in public, does it not matter that it's cold outside? Clearly this man, and his friend, who was also naked but sitting down, were not bothered by the cool wind.

After we left our naked friends we walked through some other parts of the Presidio, a National Park of which Baker Beach is a part. For 200 years the area served as a military post for three different armies. Now it boasts some of the city's most beautiful views and wooded areas. We walked through the greenspace, passing the Presidio golf course, talking about the 1990 San Francisco earthquake.

There was some discussion when we left the Presidio as to where we should go for dinner. Should we pick up dinner and take it back to the house to watch the Oscars, or should we just eat at the restaurant and then return to the house to watch them? I love it when these are the biggest decisions that I have to make.

The discussion lasted for a while, long enough for us to walk through some of the nicest, most exclusive neighborhoods in San Francisco near the Presidio. We tested our limits to see how long we could linger by someone's yard, checking our their view or staring into their windows.

We talked about what we were going to do and how we were going to get there to do it so long that we ended up just walking all the way to Pizzeria Delfina. We arrived starving and had already decided during our afternoon-long walk, that we deserved to eat whatever, and as much as we wanted.

So, we did, starting with more more baratta (my favorite cheese ever in life), meatballs, and fried cauliflower. The idea was to order a lot of food so that we could take whatever we didn't eat back to Elizabeth and Kristof's, but that didn't happened. We polished off all of the appetizers and two entrees (a pork dish and a pizza) right there.

Since I hadn't eaten since breakfast,I could've eaten anything at that point, but I'm so glad we were eating here. The restaurant was bustling with activity and the food was wonderful.

Besides the baratta, my other favorite thing about the restaurant was the wait staff's t-shirts. The owner of Delfina, concerned about the negative (and sometimes untrue) reviews his restaurant was getting on Yelp.com decided to confront his critics head-on and have the one-star review comments printed on his staff's t-shirts.

Some of the t-shirts said:

"This place sucks."

"The pizza was sooo greasy, I'm assuming this was in part due to the pig fat."

"The service was bitchy."

Damn, this is a good idea. I wish people were also forced to wear their worst reviews on their clothing. My t-shirt might say:

"Shares a little bit too much. Could stand to be a little more aloof."

"Can be flaky at times. Spreads herself too thinly."

"Tends to be sensitive. She shouldn't dish it out if she can't take it."

What would yours say?

After dinner we took a cab back to Elizabeth and Kristof's to settle in to watch the Oscars that Elizabeth had taped. We started with the red carpet walks, judging everyone's outfits before getting to the real show.

A couple of hours into our viewing party, Elizabeth attempted, as she had all evening, to fast forward through some of the commercials. Only in an accidental, but hilarious turn of events, the DVR fast forward button got away from her, and she skipped ahead to the end, revealing to all of us that Hurt Locker had seemingly won the award for Best Picture. Frantic get back to where we were, she reversed. This time, the rewind stopped for us to, again, accidentally, see Sandra Bullock accepting her award for Best Actress.

"Agh, make it stop!" Elizabeth yelled, throwing the remote at Kristof. Elizabeth likes the DVR remote about as much as I like ski lifts, apparently, previously and by accident, erasing the opening ceremonies of the Winter Olympics.

I was hysterically laughing, considering we'd been suffering through the music tributes, the awards for animated short films and light direction, just to make sure we didn't cheat ourselves of the full Oscar experience. When, thanks to a tricky remote, we were able to, within 30 seconds, get all the answers that we really wanted anyway.

Elizabeth felt bad for destroying the build-up and ruining the ending, but I wasn't mad at all. In fact, I was grateful. DVR is a beautiful thing.

We jumped around to learn who won the other "big" awards and quickly put our Tahoe weekend, the Oscars, and ourselves, to bed.

Day 160: A Northstar Blur

Day 160's thing I’ve never done before was to ski Northstar resort in Lake Tahoe.

I thought after going through the nerves of skiing again for the first time on Day 159, I’d be raring to go, feeling confident in my abilities. But since we were going to a different mountain, with different runs, I felt like I was starting from scratch. The anxiety and nerves were the same.

Helping to add to the nerves, I fastened my boots too tightly, causing my feet to fall asleep before we even got started. This was an easy problem to fix, but I had to play helpless child asking for Chris and Kristof to help clip me into my skis.

The first run of the day was less than stellar. We started on one of the easiest green hills, which also happened to be one of the most crowded. There were several ski schools in progress and at one point I had to make myself fall on purpose to avoid crashing into a ski train of 5-year olds.

Day 160 was not off to a great start.

We decided to go somewhere else for our second trip down the mountain. I had, all weekend, blindly followed the more experienced Tahoe skiers wherever they wanted to go. And so far, it was working for me. So when they said we’re going up higher on the mountain, I trusted this must be a different, less populated but still easy, manageable run.

As we started making our way down, I knew right away that this was not a green run. It was steep and felt much like the yard sale run from the day before.

Elizabeth and I both needed a lot of encouragement to get us down the mountain, but we made it. Eventually. When we got to the bottom, Cynthia, Chris and Kristof all smiled and announced that they had accidentally taken us down a black diamond.

Accidentally took us down a black diamond run?

Part of me was upset. That’s like “accidentally” taking your newly licensed driver for a lap in the Daytona 500. Not. Cool.
But most of me was completely pumped at the thought that I just skied a black diamond run. So what if the only way I made it down was because I was tricked? This little threesome was smart, because had they told me about their discovery midway, I would've likely dropped to my knees and barrel rolled all the way down.

Later we discovered that what they thought might’ve been a black was really a difficult blue. I was less impressed with myself and decided I’d remain suspicious of these three claiming they are taking us down easy slopes. Because to them that apparently means challenging us to go down mountains they know we don’t want to.

We spent the rest of the morning skiing (and Kristof snowboarding) together as a group of five, taking a break for lunch at the Summit Deck and Grill, the highest point at Northstar resort. The restaurant was crawling with skiers, so the people-watching was in full effect.

The bathroom was also crawling with people, especially kids, and the line didn't move very quickly. I couldn’t help but think how short the lines would be for the bathroom at Boots ski resort for adults without any little kids’ butts to wipe.

Chris and Cynthia headed straight to the bar, which was outside and made completely out of ice, and started ordering Bloody Marys for all five of us. I know drinking alcohol and inexperienced skiing has disaster written all over it, but they said that’s what skiers do when they take a lunch break, so how could I not participate and get the full experience? That would be like cheating on the things I’ve never done before list. Plus the Bloody Mary was prepared on a bar made out of ice, with garnishes like a fresh green bean and a piece of shrimp and I just had to have it.

We opted to share two entrees, a decision that I was not in favor of at first, because I was starving. But considering I didn’t pay for food, it was brought to me while I did nothing but relax and enjoy my delicious Bloody Mary, I refused to complain. How could I?

The meals included a Renaissance fair-style turkey leg and bratwurst, along with red beans and rice and a salad. I had always wanted to try one of these turkey legs, curious about where the super-sized turkeys yielding such large legs live, and thankful I didn’t have to actually go to a Renaissance fair to taste one (there are things that even I won’t do for this blog). Once again, the team didn't let me down, because between the tasty food and the garnishes on the Bloody Mary, I was full.

I was also feeling super confident in my abilities as a skier and I was starting to feel the child-like fearlessness I had been longing for. Thank you, Bloody Mary!

After lunch we decided that finally, Elizabeth and I would take on the easier slopes by ourselves and Chris, Cynthia, and Kristof could go down the runs more suited for their level. They went left, and we went right, down a long blue run called East Ridge.

Like usual, we descended down the slope carefully, and slowly. We did well. No falls. No yard sales. When we reached the bottom, we headed towards the lift to go again. My technique on the ski lift since the first day’s mishap had not, sadly, improved. I don’t know why I can’t seem to get the hang of it. I’m either sliding into other skiers or not moving fast enough to keep the line going.

Elizabeth and I shuffled towards the lift, prepared to head to the top of the mountain for the first time, just the two of us. When the operator motioned for us to move forward to where the chair lift "picks" us up, I couldn't quite get there in time, despite Elizabeth's urging me to, "Get up here!"

The edge of the ski lift hit me right in the middle of my body, so while my right butt cheek was on it, the left cheek, actually the entire left side of me, was not. A little scary at first, but I honestly thought that even as the lift was moving I’d be able to wiggle over to the right with ease. Unfortunately, gravity is real. And she’s a bitch. Once my skis lifted off of the ground, my ability to just scoot over became close to impossible and soon I was half-dangling from the lift as it continued ascending to the top. Elizabeth grabbed on to me and with all of her strength tried to pull me back on to the lift. I, too, was trying to pull myself back onto the lift, determined, again, to keep the lift from stopping. Whether or not I would hurt myself if I fell was secondary to the embarrassment I sensed would come if I was responsible for stopping the lift.

The next 30 seconds were a blur. A terrifying blur. Elizabeth's refusal to let me fall worked, though, and within that 30 seconds (the longest seconds of my life), I was sitting, normally, on the chair.

I think it bears repeating: I. Hate. Ski Lifts.

Completely mortified and so tense my hands were shaking, I started to laugh. I glanced at Elizabeth who shot me a look like, “Seriously, get it together and stop putting me through this.” The terror and the embarrassment were awful, but I paused to be thankful that what had just happened, happened with Elizabeth. She was as nervous as I was, which was comforting, but she had enough sense to grab on and not let go, and she didn’t yell and scream dramatically calling more attention to the situation than necessary.

After mildly composing ourselves, Elizabeth turned to the other two guys on the lift and said, “Bet you’re glad you got on the lift with us!” They smiled, but didn’t seem very amused.

We tried to charm them with our sparkling personalities and a lot of self-deprecating humor, but they were either not interested, still pissed about the chair lift incident, or simply just quiet.

Elizabeth decided she’d try another tactic to gain their friendship: tell them about Boots, and ask them what they think.

So she threw it out there, “So…you guys seem like legit, real-deal skiers (flattery always works), what would you think about an adults-only ski resort?”

We definitely didn’t get a huge response from them, but they warmed up to us a little, entertained our business plan and even gave us some feedback, pointing out, like Kristof had, the fact that skiing is a family activity.

Had we said, “How about a ski resort with only good skiers who can successfully get on and off the ski lift without too much drama?” they probably would’ve been more receptive.

We finally reached the top and I’ve never seen two guys happier to get away from me in my life. Actually, that’s probably not true, but they vanished pretty quickly.

Elizabeth and I skied East Ridge several more times with only a handful of mishaps, none of them super memorable, but one that proved chivalry is alive and well in Lake Tahoe.

At the end of the day, we met the crew at the top of the mountain and skied down to the bottom for our apres ski trip to the bar. Along the way, Cynthia led Elizabeth and I to the right of East Ridge down a mini-mogul run. I hesitated, but only briefly. Moguls, even little ones, are fun, and using the pizza technique is possible, regardless of what the professionals say.

Cynthia's generous parents threw a Tahoe-style dinner party for us, some of their friends, and a couple of Italian exchange students from their church on Saturday night.

Cynthia's mom made jambalaya and her dad mixed up Cosmopolitans. The party was festive, the mood was friendly, so at some point, someone decided to let everyone in on our million-dollar idea, Boots Ski Resort.

Cynthia’s parents smiled and laughed. They strike me as supportive, nice people who would support their daughter, and her weird friends, in whatever insane idea they came up with over dinner.

The Italian exchange students nodded and smiled, but I don’t think they were really into it. There is also a good chance they had no idea what we were saying.

While I assumed our idea for an adults-only ski resort ala Sandals was a big joke, the idea kept creeping into conversation. The more it came up, the more I kept thinking about it and wondered if the others were thinking what I was thinking, "Boots really is a great idea, and we should make it happen."

And then Cynthia's mom's friend brought us back to reality, "Where are you going to put this little resort? Are you going to buy a mountain?"

D'oh.

I guess there are still some details we still need to work out.

Northstar on Dwellable

Day 159: Boots in Squaw Valley, Part Deux

Besides proving to myself and others that I could ski, one of my favorite parts of Day 159 was going to a nice dinner, catching an early buzz, and going to bed before midnight.

I've done all of the aforementioned things before, but I'm telling you about the second part of Day 159 because it’s awesome. And because I think I could use you for market research. And the date and time stamp, I think, could serve as proof that the five of us came up with this idea before anyone else. I consulted half of the vested parties as to whether or not I should even share this gold mine with my blog audience, but since my audience is limited to my mom (Hi Mom!), my dad (when he remembers to read, which is once every couple of weeks. Hi Dad!), and a handful of others, I figured I'd be safe to tell you. But I swear if one of you steals this idea and tries to pass it off on your own, I will sick my lawyer Melanie on you and make sure you regret it (Melanie, you're now my lawyer, ok?)

During our meal at Spindleshanks, which was delicious, we did what I can only assume all skiers do at night: they talk about how awesome they were on the slopes that day. Only in our case, it was more like recalling all of our mishaps: my leap from the ski lift, the multiple yard sales, and the general inexperience and fear coming from Elizabeth and me.

Since she and I spent time on slopes with younger skiers learning to ski for the first time, Elizabeth and I had to wonder if dealing with kids at a ski resort is a drag for more experienced, adult skiers.

Question: Are there skiers out there who would prefer an adults-only ski resort?

Answer: Hell yes they would!

And that is how our idea for a Sandals-style couples ski resort (aka the best idea ever) was born.

Maybe it was a sign of our physical exhaustion, possible dehydration, or complete stupidity, but once the conversation began, there was little any of us could do to stop it. We dove into this idea head first, embracing our ingenuity with open arms.

"And we should call it ‘Boots,’" I said. You know, like Sandals? But, Boots? Genius.

The table erupted in laughter and we continued brainstorming other perks and attractions couples might enjoy at Boots. Heart-shaped hot tubs, candle-lit night skiing, comedy clubs (Laugh your Boots off), discos (Boot Scootin Boogie), anything a couple could possibly want to see or do on vacation.

Like the Hard Rock Cafe, there will be Boots all over the world. Twelve-year olds will beg their parents to bring them back a t-shirt from as many of our resorts as possible. The more obscure (Boots, Mongolia), the better.

Kristof, a business-minded individual who grew up skiing alongside his parents and brothers and sisters, pointed out that skiing is a family activity. A ski resort for couples might not have the widespread appeal we are anticipating. Though his suggestion was somewhat sobering, we appreciated his ability to see flaws that could potentially derail our plan.

True, most people are taught how to ski by their parents. And anyone who skis well probably isn’t spending time on the green runs with Elizabeth, me and the kiddos anyway.

But maybe couples don’t think they want a couple’s ski resort because they don’t know that there is such a thing. We will give them what they don’t need and probably don’t want and we will make them love it.

I haven't really run this idea by my business partners, but in my head, Kristof is the CEO of Boots. Chris is the Financial Director, Cynthia is the Vice-President of Marketing, Elizabeth is the Social Director, and I'm the Spokeswoman/Chair Lift Operator (just because I want to make chair lifts more like carnival rides, less lame like they are now.)

There are still a few minor details we still need to sort out, like where we're going to put the first Boots resort, or, and this is probably most important, how we’re going to pay for it.

But still, a kid-free romantic couple’s ski resort? Named Boots? Don't tell me this isn't the greatest idea you've ever heard.

Day 159: Boots in Squaw Valley, Part One

Day 159's thing I've never done before was to go to Lake Tahoe and ski Squaw Valley.

Getting up and moving was a challenge, despite sleeping very well on Elizabeth's very comfortable pull-out couch. I woke up to the fabulous view from she and Kristof's apartment and spent the morning in bed blogging, occasionally glancing up at the Golden Gate Bridge and resisting the urge to email my co-workers and tell them, "You're at work and I'm not, suckers!"

Elizabeth's friend Cynthia, along with her French Bulldog, Chloe, picked us up early and we headed east to North Lake Tahoe, where her parents have a cabin. Had Cynthia not extended her very generous offer to let us stay for free at her parents’ place, Elizabeth and I had planned on going skiing in Tahoe anyway. But I had to applaud Elizabeth on choosing friends with vacation homes and allowing me to tag along. Well done, Elizabeth.

Along the way, we stopped in Auburn, California at Ikeda's, a grocery store/restaurant that Elizabeth told me is a staple for those traveling between San Francisco and Tahoe. There are aisles of healthy groceries, as well as an eat-in Burger Bar. Ikeda's pies are baked fresh daily and are well-known for being delicious, so Cynthia bought one for the weekend. I passed on getting a burger, only because it was still 10am and instead bought one of the best cups of coffee I've ever had.

Elizabeth said my northern California street cred would rise tremendously if I mentioned Ikeda's, so there it is. I hope you're impressed.

The drive to Tahoe was, as expected, beautifully scenic. My pictures won't do the mountains and lake justice, just like my pictures of Yosemite didn't do it justice either. Leaving the mild temperatures of San Francisco to arrive in the snowy mountains of Lake Tahoe a mere three hours later was fascinating, and riding through the vastly different landscapes of California made me, as it always does, consider moving out west.

When we arrived in Tahoe, the first place we went was Tahoe Daves to rent our ski gear. Elizabeth and Cynthia spoke to the guys working there as if they had all known each other for years, which confused me at first. I knew they had rented equipment from there before, but jokes were flying between them like they fly between Elizabeth and me, and we've known each other for years. I soon learned that engaging in this kind of banter is just what these guys do. I was upfront with them from the start about my skiing inexperience and they were helpful in getting us what we needed. They could not, despite my request, ensure that the skis they rented me would keep me from falling, but they were laid back and friendly, just as I expected dudes working in a ski shop in Lake Tahoe to be. Plus, they waived some of our rental fees, which was much appreciated. With a free place to stay and discounted ski rentals, this weekend was off to a great (and cheap) start.

We walked across the street to check out the view of the lake, and to pick up a sandwich for lunch at the Java Hut, a local coffee joint. While Tahoe Daves was dominated by male employees, there were three girls running the Java Hut. Immediately I noticed that they weren't as friendly as the guys, but whatever. I get it.

Cynthia ordered first so she could head back to the ski shop and load the equipment into the car. She started to order a sandwich, and then, after a brief conversation with the woman at the counter, changed her order to a toasted bagel. Knowing that she has been coming to Tahoe, and likely the Java Hut, for many years, I probably should've followed her lead and done the same. But for whatever reason (maybe because I'm an idiot still hungry for a sandwich), I did not.

Elizabeth and I ordered two sandwiches, a Roasted Ruby (a grilled vegetable sandwich with goat cheese) for me, and a SDTBLT (I have no idea what this is, other than it had bacon on it) for her.

After I paid for the sandwiches, I stepped back from the counter, assuming that at least one of the three ladies would've started working on preparing them. Instead, they all sort of stood around looking at me, and then looking at each other, laughing. The self-conscious person that I am, I assumed they were laughing at my tight ski pants, which were funny, so I smiled and laughed a little bit too.

Elizabeth had already gone back outside to take care of Chloe. Cynthia was across the street with their friend Chris, who was helping load the ski equipment into his SUV. I grabbed a brochure on the counter and started reading it, so that I wouldn't stare at them to make the food I had just ordered. I didn't want to seem impatient, plus it's Tahoe and I'm on vacation. No stress!

After about a minute, I glanced up to check the progress of the food. One of the girls had grabbed a broom and was making her way towards me, aggressively. She seemed determined to sweep the very spot of floor that I was standing on. The restaurant isn't a big place, but I thought maybe she might've sweeping elsewhere while waiting for me to leave. In an effort to be thorough, however, she left no spot un-swept. So I ended up doing an awkward dance around her and her broom.

The girl that had taken my money was still wandering around behind the counter. I considered it a good sign that the third girl had started taking food ingredients out of the refrigerator one at a time and placing them on the counter. She glanced back at me and said in a tone of voice I recognized, "you had the Roasted Ruby, right?" She was stoned. I freaking love it.

"Yep," I said, smiling, "And a SDTBLT too." All of these girls were baked. At work. In Tahoe. I wanted to congratulate them for living up to the stereotype.

She nodded and pushed through the swinging door behind her, almost in slow motion.

The second girl, still wandering around behind the counter, pointed lethargically at her friend and said to me, through squinty eyes, "She's getting the bacon."

"Oh, ok, sure," I said.

Sweeper girl was the only one moving very quickly. If she was, indeed, stoned like I had suspected, marijuana seemingly had an opposite effect on her than it has on most people.

Girl with the bacon returned and I thought surely now she's going to start assembling our sandwiches.

"That was the SDTBLT . . .," her voice trailed off.

"And the Roasted Ruby," I added.

Didn't she just go to the back to get the ingredients? Again, she nodded and went back to work. I went back to dodging the girl with the broom.

The first girl, who since taking my money for the sandwiches seemed to be the most worthless of the group, was mindlessly rambling about someone she ran into at a concert the night before. Her pointless story was slowing down the sandwich making considerably.

Five minutes later (honestly it was that long), Elizabeth looked at me through the window where she was standing outside with Chloe. Some random little girl had suckered her in to playing hopscotch and she was desperate, as I was, to get out of there. She held her arms up in the "What the hell is taking so long?" position. All I could do was shrug and give her the "I don't f-ing know. All of these girls are stoned and slow," look back.

I thought if I stood closer to the counter to observe what was happening with the sandwich assembly that the operation might move a little more quickly. Put a little non-verbal pressure on the situation. Sandwich-maker girl had put the bacon in the mini toaster-oven thing, and I could smell it, so I knew we were making progress. Then she turned to me, as if very proud of herself that she had successfully started cooking the bacon and asked, for a third time, "You're also getting the...?"

"Roasted Ruby."

Is this girl serious? How stoned is she? I no longer found the living stereotype amusing.

Here's the thing: if you want to live in Tahoe and get stoned and make sandwiches everyday, that's awesome. You should. Just don't get so stoned that you're unable to make the sandwiches.
All of the dudes in Tahoe Daves were likely baked too, but they were able to successfully, in an appropriate amount of time, without too many questions, fit Elizabeth and me for boots and skis.

And they gave us a discount!

By the time I ran from the Java Hut with the finished sandwiches, Cynthia had already loaded up Chris' car with the ski gear and finished her bagel. We headed to her parents' cabin, dropped our bags and then loaded into Chris' car to head to Squaw.

Squaw Valley hosted the 1960 Olympics and it's one of the most popular resorts on the north side of Lake Tahoe. The Olympic torch still burns at the base of the resort and the drive to get there is gorgeous. I should know, because I spent a lot of time staring out the window.

Despite having booked my trip weeks prior and telling people as often as possible that I was going skiing in Lake Tahoe, I don't think the fact that I was going skiing in Lake Tahoe hit me until I was in the car headed to Squaw.

In the days before I left for San Francisco, I had started to get a little nervous about skiing. I hadn't skied since college, so I thought maybe I'd bitten off a little more than I could chew, just thinking I was just going to show up to one of the most popular destinations for skiers and fit right in. I remember doing well the last time I had skied in Utah, but is skiing like riding a bike? Can you take a ten year hiatus and still know how to do it?

My skier friends said, "yes."

"I just don't want to fall," I texted my friend Mike. "Oh you're going to fall," he responded. Thanks a lot, Mike.

He went on, "But then you'll get back up. It's gonna be awesome. I'm jealous."

My colleague Brad said the same thing, "Stop worrying! You’re going to have a great time."

Knowing they had confidence in me made me feel better.

But I was still in Atlanta when these conversations were happening, so even when I would get nervous about skiing, I could easily immerse myself in my regular life to quell the anxiety. Driving up to the mountain, alongside two experienced skiers and Elizabeth, wearing my gear, without any of my real-life commitments to focus on, I couldn't do anything but be nervous. Instead of laughing like I normally do when I'm nervous, I simply fell silent. My participation in jokes and friendly banter with my new friends all stopped and I stared out the window.

I felt the need for full disclosure, so finally, I spoke.

"I'm freaking out, I just wanted you all to know."

"Me too," Elizabeth said.

I looked at Elizabeth, who spent a portion of the holidays in Whistler (that's right, where the Olympic Games were held) skiing with Kristof's family.

"Didn't you just ski in Vancouver for New Year's?," I said, accusingly. For some reason, I wanted to be the least experienced skier in the group. If we were going to be bad, and all signs were pointing that we were, then I wanted to be the absolute worst.

"I skied one day, Stephanie," Elizabeth said, "And I'm not good."

Even though I wanted to be the worst, Elizabeth telling me she wasn't good actually did make me feel better. Even if I sucked, and I was sure I would, at least I would have someone to suck with. But Chris and Cynthia were so nice, so encouraging, they refused to entertain any of our reservations.

"It's gonna be fun! You'll be fine!" they said, smiling.

Kind words, but I still wasn't convinced. I was sure I'd spend most of the afternoon either on my ass or face-planting in the snow.

We parked the car, put our boots on and unloaded our gear. I remembered why I prefer warm weather activities to cold ones. There's not a lot of questioning about what to bring and what to wear at the beach. A bathing suit and a beach towel pretty much covers it. Huddled around Chris' car, there was a lot of discussion about whether or not we needed to bring a hat or an extra layer. By the time the decision was made, I felt like Randy from A Christmas Story trying to walk in ski boots with my skis and poles resting on my shoulder.

As we walked to buy lift tickets, I noticed the other skiers milling around the resort. I came to the conclusion, after a few minutes of people-watching, that skiers are really cool. Or maybe they're not cool, but they look like people that I would want to be friends with. Maybe Psychic Rose was right, and I was going to meet water boy by the waters of Lake Tahoe. And then I remembered I was wearing tight ski pants circa 1980 and a rental helmet, and that it likely wouldn’t happen today. We purchased our lift tickets and headed up the gondola to get onto another lift to take us to the top of the mountain.

Despite our insistence that they ski the more difficult mountains and let us navigate the bunny slopes by ourselves, Cynthia and Chris insisted that they take a few runs with us.

We got to the top of the first run, received some last minute instructions from Chris and Cynthia and then there was nothing left to do but go. So I did, following Cynthia and her graceful moves down the mountain. I relied heavily on the pizza/French fries technique taught at children's ski schools: keeping the skis parallel to one another on the way down (French fries) and putting the tips of the skis together to slow down (pizza).

And just like that, I was doing it. I was skiing.

I was shocked, stoked that what everyone had told me was true and skiing is like riding a bike, and though it had been ten years, I did remember what to do. Halfway down the mountain, with the cold air pounding my face, I thought to myself, "I should do this more often!" Actually, I was thinking, "Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee! This is fun!!!!!!" After making it to the bottom, I felt so happy, and so relieved that I could do it. Maybe I lack the finesse and grace of more experienced skiers, but I can ski.

I was eager to go again, so the four of us got back on the lift to head back up to the top. Perhaps I was a little over-confident in my abilities or distracted by how much fun I was having, but when Chris and I got to the top of the mountain on the lift, I forgot to stand up to get off. Chris had already skied away from the chair and I was still sitting in it, unsure of what to do next. So I jumped off the chair, falling about six feet. Chris burst out laughing, shocked that I would attempt such an aggressive move on my second time on a ski lift in 10 years. But all I was thinking was, "I have to get off this lift to be with my friends!" He explained later that had I stayed on, the chair would've turned the corner and eventually stopped so I could get off. I was so glad that I jumped, because I don't think I could've handled the embarrassment of stopping the lift because I forgot to get off.

I decided, after this incident and a couple more, that I love skiing, but I HATE ski lifts.

For our second run we went left instead of right, taking another fairly simple mountain for Elizabeth and me to get started on. Cynthia and Chris seemed impressed with our first run, and said we hadn't given ourselves enough credit. I was moving along behind Cynthia and Chris when they stopped and motioned for us to break from the run and go to the left, a cleared area that literally just dropped off it was so steep. From where I was standing I couldn't see the bottom.

"They have to be kidding," I reasoned.

There began a 15 minute conversation between the four of us about whether or not taking two beginner skiers down this blue run was a smart move. Elizabeth and I, aware of our limits and hyper aware of our fear, insisted that they take the run. We'd stay right and meet them at the bottom. I don't know why they were so determined to get us down this side of the mountain, but before I knew it, with my heart in my throat and my stomach somewhere else, I was, slowly working my way down the hardest ski run I've ever done.

I skied slowly, back and forth, across the mountain. Chris skied ahead, but would stop periodically to make sure we were still coming and hadn't opted to fall to the ground and slide down on our butts (which I considered several times). He was standing to one side as I skied past him when I noticed he was looking behind me at Elizabeth and Cynthia, and laughing.

I'm not exactly sure what happened, but when I turned around I saw both of them on the ground, laughing hysterically, their ski gear strewn about them. This, I learned, is a yard sale. Apparently in an effort to help her get up after a fall and continue coaxing her down the mountain, Cynthia and Elizabeth both ended up on the ground. And as they moved to get up and collect their gear, they found themselves in several compromising and hilarious positions. There would be several more yard sales that weekend (all involving Elizabeth and me), but none quite as dramatic and awesome as this one.

I stopped to laugh with them for a little bit and then kept going ahead on my own. Again, finding myself shocked that I was skiing down a run I was sure I couldn't.

Skiing, like a lot of things, is more of a mental challenge for me than it is a physical one. I know what to do and how to move my legs, but when I am on the lift, or at the bottom of the mountain looking up, I psych myself out, thinking, "There's no way I'm skiing down that."

All weekend, I watched little kids on skis zipping down black diamond runs at speeds so fast. I was amazed. I'd find myself jealous of their fearlessness. They're brave, yes, but they're also not old enough to understand the risks of attempting such difficult runs. They don't understand that they could fail, so they just go for it and let whatever happens, happen. I wished that I could be like that on skis, and in life. I wondered how different situations might be (and what a better skier I could become) if I thought I couldn't fail, and that I wouldn't ever fall.

Is it possible to have the intellectual capacity of a 29-year old and the fearlessness of an 8-year old? Imagine the possibilities!

I did fall on the blue run, one time, and had a little yard sale of my own, losing one of my skis. But I found it, I got back on it, and eventually, Elizabeth and I made it to the bottom. According to our extremely patient teachers, the blue run we tackled at Squaw is like a black diamond everywhere else. I'm not sure if that's really true, and I don't really care. The fact that I made it down a blue on the second run of the day (or at all) is just fine by me.

Maybe there's a reason Nike capitalized on the slogan, "Just do it." When I finally stopped thinking and went for it, my physical abilities won out over the part of my brain telling me I shouldn't. And when I got to the bottom and looked back at what I had accomplished, I knew that I would've fallen five more times and had 10 more yard sales if it meant I could feel that good.

I think operating under the motto, "Stop thinking!" would be a mistake, but maybe I could try to stop over-thinking everything. Trust in my abilities, take a chance, and let the chips fall where they may.

Is there a good chance I might fall? Absolutely. But anything that I've ever done that ever mattered usually involved taking a big risk.

Cynthia and Chris (best teachers and friends ever) skied with us for the rest of the day and we had a great time. We ended the days with apres ski at the bar at the bottom of the mountain. No surprise, the fellowship and microbrews following a day of skiing day were as much fun to me as the actual skiing. We headed back to the car, picked up Kristof (who arrived in Tahoe later that afternoon), and went back to Cynthia's house to get ready for dinner.

A great day on the slopes, and more unexpected fun came later that night at dinner (stay tuned for "Boots in Squaw Valley, Part Deux). This is the first time I couldn’t fit one day’s firsts into one blog.

Squaw Valley on Dwellable

Day 158: Back to the Bay

Finally, my trip to Lake Tahoe arrived on Day 158.

Thanks to my inability to get my act together in advance, I made it to the Delta ticket counter just in the nick of time to make my flight to San Francisco. Unfortunately, however, I did not make it in time to for my luggage to come with me. Because I only own one suitcase that is not small enough to carry on, I was forced to take the next flight out of Atlanta four hours later.

"Cry," Elizabeth texted me from San Francisco when I told her I was going to have to take a later flight because I couldn't check my luggage.

"I can't," I responded.

Her idea to play the emotional card was wise, but would not work for me for several reasons.

1. I cannot cry on demand. Cry for absolutely no reason at all or when it's completely inappropriate and downright crazy, well, that I can do. But when told to cry, I find it impossible.

2. The ticket counter person was a woman. A seemingly no nonsense, void of feelings type of woman. So even if I could've cried on demand, something tells me my tears would've been for nothing.

3. The FAA rules require baggage to be checked a minimum of 45 minutes before a flight departs (Is this really true? That's what unsympathetic ticket counter lady told me. If she was telling me the truth, then this probably should've been reason number one.)

I chose to accept my fate, get on the 2pm flight and make the best of my time in the airport.

Making the best of things meant spending money on overpriced items like scarves, coffee and 24-hours worth of Internet access. Fifteen minutes into my four hour delay and I'd already spent $40.

I had to find something cheap to do, or I was going to be broke before the trip even started.

Day 158's things I've never done before was to find new ways to entertain myself at the airport, blog from the friendly skies, and watch a possible threesome go down at an Italian restaurant in San Francisco.

I decided to get my boots shined by the airport shoe-shine guys. I have seen businessmen get their loafers shined for years and always thought it looked like a fun thing to do. So I climbed into the shoe-shiners chair and asked him to polish my boots, which he did happily.

He was a jovial shoe-shiner, whistling and humming while he worked. As I watched him, I thought of my dad shining his own shoes, which he has been doing since I was a little kid. Unlike my dad and his worn out shoebox full of old undershirts covered in shoe polish, though, these shoe shiners had real wooden boxes full of actual shoe shining equipment. He shined with finesse and put on a little show.

When he was done, I was amazed at how great my boots looked and pleasantly surprised that the shoe shine only cost $6, but also bummed that entire experience only lasted a total of 15 minutes, leaving me with still plenty of time to kill before my flight.

On the other hand, I considered this good news for the future. Even if I have minimal time before my next flight, I do have time to get my shoes shined, and I will do so more often. And I'm not trying to tell anyone what to do, but do this. Do it now.

I wandered around the airport for a little bit longer before settling down and getting to work on the blog. I’d set a goal to be caught up on writing before I left, but that didn’t quite work out. So I wanted to use my time away from all my real-life distractions and write. Airports have their own kind of distractions, however, and though I was able to get some entries done, I was doing my fair share of people watching.

The remaining time went by fairly quickly thanks to the $10 Internet access I had purchased. I surfed the web, wrote the blog, sent emails just like I was at home. Once I boarded the sold-out flight, I purchased Wi-Fi on the plane as well, allowing me to post a blog entry from at least 10,000 feet in the air (something else I've never done before).

I sent an instant message to Elizabeth from the plane that said, “Greetings from the friendly skies!”

Elizabeth hates to fly, so the thought of me surfing the web and contacting her from the plane nearly sent her over the edge. I found it to be odd too that the only place I used to be able to really disconnect is now wired as well.

"This is freaking me out," she typed.

We exchanged a few messages, but she was sending me short answers, sincerely uncomfortable at the thought of me sending her updates from the plane. When my computer battery started to drain, I quickly alerted Elizabeth that my time online was coming to a close. I didn't want to abruptly sign off without an explanation, knowing that she, like me, would’ve instantly assumed the worst and been on flight tracker making sure my plane didn’t go down in a fiery crash. So I told her I'd see her in a couple of hours and turned my computer off.

The plane landed safely and I took the BART to meet Elizabeth and her friend Cynthia, who I had met the last time I was in San Francisco. I was a little anxiety-ridden seeing her again, considering the state of mind I was in that day. She and and Elizabeth helped me load my large suitcase onto the bus and I used our short ride to prove to her, and to myself, that I'm really a nice, normal, happy person.

Elizabeth and Kristof live in a great apartment in Russian Hill. They both agree that the best part about their place is the view, which is truly awesome and has to be one of the best in the city. Before heading out to dinner, we went up to the roof so they could point out some of San Francisco's landmarks.

We walked to dinner at a charming Italian restaurant in Russian Hill, Antica Trattoria. Kristof ordered three glasses of Prosecco, a dry sparkling wine that I'd never had before, and we toasted my arrival to the Bay area.

Elizabeth asked me if I'd like some buratta and prosciutto for an appetizer.

Like the Prosecco, I confessed I'd never had buratta. I hadn't ever had to ask what buratta was. I was sure by this point Kristof thought that I was a huge redneck who's only eaten Italian food at the Olive Garden.

Elizabeth dove into a description of buratta that included words like "intestines,” "fatty," and a few others that sounded completely unappetizing. I nodded my head enthusiastically, willing to try anything once, but still unsure why I'd never heard of this mystery pork byproduct.

When the waitress brought us the plate, Elizabeth smiled and said, "I was just kidding. Buratta isn't a part of a pig. It's cheese."

Buratta is cheese. Wonderful, mozarella-like-with-a-creamy-center delicious cheese.

I couldn't help but think, as I glanced around this beautiful restaurant with my former roommate Elizabeth and marvel at how much our culinary tastes have improved since the days of Totino's pizza and Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey ice cream. Now we're drinking Prosecco, and eating buratta. This is change I welcome.

While enjoying our meals, which were delicious, an older gentleman, probably in this late 50s walked into the restaurant with two much younger, very attractive blondes. I had my back to them, but Elizabeth said she'd assumed the group was a father and his college-aged daughter and her friend. An assumption that I likely would've made too, even though the girls were certainly of age to legally date this man.

Now that I'm an adult, if I'm ever with my dad and it's just the two of us, I try and make it abundantly clear to everyone in our vicinity that this older man that I'm with is my DAD. “My FATHER and I would like a table for two…I'll take two tickets for me and THE MAN WHO RAISED ME. . .This is POPS, just in town for a visit.” In my mind I know that there is no way anyone would ever assume we were anything but a father and daughter pair, but just in case, I want everyone to be sure.

Unlike me, neither of these girls seemed to be concerned with defining a parental relationship with this aging gentleman because as Elizabeth's wide-eyes and shocked look revealed, there wasn't a father-daughter dynamic within this threesome, but one far more interesting and definitely scandalous.

"Oh my God, they're making out," Elizabeth whispered to Kristof and me. I was immediately upset that I chose the wrong side of the table to sit on.

I couldn’t help it, my first instinct was to look. I darted my head back and to the right where the man and two young women were standing. I missed the making out but noticed that one of the women was standing awfully close to the older guy. I turned back to my dining companions and we continued our meal.

Old guy and his two blondes were seated in a corner table behind me.

Elizabeth's view of the trio was ideal, and again, I was disappointed that I chose poorly the side of the table that I was on. She could look straight ahead and over my shoulder to see what was happening behind me. Though there was absolutely no way I could casually turn around to look without it being obvious what I was doing, Elizabeth's horrified expressions were a good indication that whatever it was, was awesome.

She gave us a detailed play by play that included midmeal kissing, sharing utensils, and likely some under the table touching (she couldn't say for sure because she couldn't actually see any hands). Gross, skank, and sick were also words she used.

Kristof, Elizabeth and I convinced ourselves that the women were female escorts hired by this guy. A speculation I found both sad and entertaining.

Pretty soon the entire restaurant was watching, whispering, and chuckling at this threesome, and it was, for all intents and purposes, just that. A threesome. Going on. Right there in the restaurant.

Eventually, I couldn't be polite anymore and I just turned around in my chair to see what was happening behind me. Elizabeth had every right to be horrified. The old guy was sitting in between the two younger women on one side of the table. They were lost in each other, almost beligerent, and completely unaware that they were being watched by nearly everyone in the restaurant. Again, I missed any overt signs of hooking up, but they were sitting so close to each other, I was uncomfortable.

That this man wanted to go out and fool around with two hot young blondes is not surprising. That these young women would willingly come along and participate in this little show at a once respected San Francisco Italian restaurant is mind boggling to me.

As quickly as they came into the restaurant, they left.

Presumably, "because his little blue pill kicked in," the waitress said. When we asked her what she knew about the group she could only confirm that everyone in the restaurant, including the cooks in the back were glued to the action.

She also said the man in the trio dines at the restaurant often, usually by himself. He is such a creep, she no longer waits on him. Yep, I'd say that sounds about right.

We finished up dinner and went to meet another friend of Elizabeth's, James, who had just returned from Mexico where he had been celebrating his birthday. We tried, unsuccessfully, to talk him into coming to Tahoe with us.

James told us about growing up and coming of age in West Virginia that included stories about water beds and his best friend Angel before it was time to go home and rest up for the big trip to Lake Tahoe.

I was tired after being up for nearly 24 hours, but so glad to be back in the Bay area.