During the two weeks we spent there, we traveled to Barcelona, Granada, Nerja, Seville, Jerez de la Frontera, and Madrid. Each part of the country had a distinctly different flavor and feel; no matter where we were, we couldn’t help but feel like there were enormous life-lessons to be learned by the Spanish way of life.

Kiss in public. How can holding back on passion be good for anyone? If you love someone, allow yourself to overflow with it. More often than not, you’re not holding back for yourself; you’re holding back for fear of being judged by someone who is probably too bitter to score a date anyway. Those who are open to love like to see love displayed fearlessly, and those who don’t could learn a thing or two.

Nap with reckless abandon. Oh, the siesta. I fully believe that if we took more naps, fewer of us would need hardcore therapy, and anti-anxiety meds would be rendered obsolete. Cuddling up with someone you love increases the benefits.

Put away the wristwatch. True, the Spanish may take their blatant disregard for punctuality a bit far but, in truth, we Americans try to cram too much into a 24-hour period. We may fool ourselves into thinking we’re living life to the fullest, but when you never stop rushing as you go from point A to point Z (and everything in between), you’re not living life, you’re skimming through it.

Take snacking to an art form. Snacks aren’t meant to be peeled out of foil wrappers; they’re meant to be savored with wine and conversation. And whomever gave the advice not to eat between meals is a total killjoy who has no friends.

Sing and dance out loud. One of our best nights in Spain was when we stumbled upon a tiny cantina, where the owner got together nightly with her daughters and old friends and sang out traditional Spanish folk songs for patrons. Keeping it to yourself is selfish. Songs and smiles should always be shared.

Share the wealth. I’ve never met such generous and giving people as the Spanish. They are so proud of what they have that they can’t help but share it. Stingy folks can keep to themselves, but those who spread the joy are destined to receive it tenfold. It’s like this awesome tsunami of wonderfulness. And in Spain it usually contained a slab of jamon, a slice of manchego, and a glass of homemade wine. I’m sure your own spin on it will reap equally joyful results.

More photos from our trip here, in Ryan’s Flickr stream.

As if I didn’t feel at home enough at Lou to consider taking up residence in any corner of the place that would have me, I was endeared with an irrevokable sense of admiration and kinship, after I recently learned the history of my new favorite haunt through our mutual friend. As the story goes (bear with me; I’m abridging things), about five years ago a techy, web-programmer type named Lou decided to indulge in his true passion of food and wine and start anew. Devoting every day, as opposed to a few snippets of time, to the things he truly loved: Creating introductions and life-long friendships between people and the wines they otherwise never would have met.

An inspiring story of choosing to savor life (quite literally, in Lou’s story), rather than simply live it. There was a wonderful and profound irony, to hear this story while I sat in the very seat of someone who had done that so well, while I contemplated my own life path, and goals.

Living in Los Angeles, it’s so easy to get caught up in the “industry.” It’s a different sort of rat race here; one that’s covered in stardust that sometimes glistens so bright you can all but lose track of your own goals and aspirations, in favor of someone else’s—some industry exec who might not even know your name. You find yourself working longer hours and absorbing the stress and anxiety of those around you. It was perfect timing to hear about someone who kept his eye on the prize, and did so by spreading gastronomic joy to anyone who would have him do so.

I recently found this poster by Holstee—a life manifesto, which simply challenges the reader to stop over-analyzing life and just simply do what they love. While Lou did it with his career, and it would be nice if we could all find the perfect career, I don’t even really think you need to do that. We so often get caught up in daydreaming about all the things we’d rather be doing with our lives than showing up to work every day. While I’ll never judge anyone for dreaming big, I also think it’s okay to take baby steps. It’s okay to find the good in what you have and to take joy in the simple things. And it’s okay to make goals that revel in the simple joys of life.

Read more. Take time to pack yourself a delicious lunch that you can daydream about all day. Teach yourself to knit a cable knit stitch. Take a “non-smoke break” and breathe in some fresh air for five minutes in the middle of the day. Tell your friends you’ll meet them at 8 p.m. instead of 7:30, so you can have an extra 30 minutes to pet your dog. Teach a toddler how to make their hair stand up with static electricity. Let your company’s receptionist be weird and enjoy her for it, rather than pointing it out every time she tries to talk to you. Call your parents and let them blindly tell you how wonderful you are, not just because it will make you feel good, but because that’s what they live for.

I’m sure Lou would be surprised that a dinner at his wine bar inspired me to write my own personal manifesto for happiness. Maybe it was the Sicilian wine. That Lou, he knows what makes his patrons tick.

If you had to make a manifesto for yourself, what would you vow to do?

Save for a quick downtown burger stop on our way back from Joshua Tree a couple of years ago, neither Ryan nor I had ever been to the desert oasis that wooed Clark Gable and Carole Lombard on their honeymoon.

I’ve always had this idea of old-Hollywood glamour mixed with mid-century kitsch that intrigued me about Palm Springs, and put it on my list of places to check out. Which is why I nearly did cartwheels in the car when Ryan announced he was surprising me with a weekend retreat there, to celebrate the anniversary of the first night we made out. Maybe not a milestone for most, but it took us over a decade to get together–and a good few weeks of insecure self-sabotage following that–so we figure Aug. 17 is deserving of a little fanfare.

I pictured us staying in a swinging motel with a kidney-shaped pool, decorated with Eames-inspired furniture and orange and avocado-green formica. I anticipated faded signage in repetitive geometric patterns, and maybe even a young Rat-Pack holdover serving us cocktails by the pool. While I reveled in my daydream of swinging Palm Springs, I bemoaned the fact that I hadn’t packed my Go-Go boots and mini-skirts for our weekend getaway.

Instead of a swinging motel resplendent in swank, we arrived at a gorgeous Grecian pensione (No, I’m serious. No, really.)–with a very cool arts-colony history–in the middle of the California desert late Friday night. We were greeted by a gleaming crescent moon, a night sky so full of stars it looked like it was in bloom, bonfires by the pool, and North-by-Northwest projected on an outdoor movie screen.

Soon after arriving, we dropped our bags, poured some wine, reclined on an outdoor yoga platform and relaxation commenced.

I regretfully forgot my camera, but here are some stock photos from our pensione to give you some idea of the rejuvenating weekend we had, soaking in the pool and sipping cocktails. No Go-Go boots or beehive bouffant required.

Last week ended with more majestic longhorn cows, a baby buffalo named Tuffy–who liked to use me as a Kleenex–and a 2,000 pound fully grown buffalo named Miko that wanted desperately to play chicken with me.

I balked at the game of chicken (by accessing my inner super powers and jumping a 5-foot fence), but I let Tuffy use me as a Kleenex. I mean, when again am I going to be able to utter the phrase, “I’m covered in baby buffalo snot!” Not soon, I’d assume. Jealous much?

It was an experience that simultaneously left me appalled and honored. While I was, truthfully, horrified by the sight of cattle bucking under the pain of a hot brand being burned into their backsides, I also had an overwhelming feeling of reverence for being able to witness a dying practice that is so steeped in American and family tradition.

T-25 has been a working family ranch for over six generations, and the Morlands have been have been marking their cattle with the same family brand for just as long. I felt honored to stand on their generations-old family ranch and witness a practice that Morland after Morland has done for over 150 years.

Here are some photos of what I saw.

*Name of ranch and family changed, to protect my job. The rest of the story is true!

I’ve been in Texas for the past week for work, where I’m casting a television show about rancher women. It’s been a cool project overall, and I’ve met some amazing personalities who have been incredibly generous about taking time out of their lives to show us how real women work a ranch. I’ve gotten to pet cows, see long horn steer at a range so close it was kind of uncomfortable, I’ve pet more Australian Shepard dogs than I would have ever imagined possible in one lifetime (and subsequently fallen completely in love with the breed), and have spent so much time driving from ranch to ranch that my butt has permanently taken on the shape of a Cutlass Ciera passenger seat.

Here are some photos from our adventures.

Ryan and I at the top of Sandstone Peak. We weren't really that sweaty. We had just poured a liter of water on our heads.

Here it is! 365 days of LA. Today the boy and I hiked Sandstone Peak, dove into the ocean in Malibu, and had Korean BBQ to celebrate. Three of my favorite things.

One year ago today, I arrived in Los Angeles with all of my possessions packed in the back of my Ford Focus, and $2,000 in my bank account, and headed directly to the party of a new friend I had only met through Facebook. I have to admit, I was pretty terrified at throwing such caution to the wind, but it’s been a year of adventures, chances, and a whole lot of good fortune. So the next time I have to roll the dice, I’ll do it with a swagger.

It’s been a darn good 365 days, LA. Thank you. Let’s please keep the good coming.

I swiped this espresso pot from my first apartment in Rome. I love this thing so much; it’s even earned a pet name from me. Ladies and gentlemen of the World Wide Web, please meet the lovely and talented Fiorella.

Having always had an aversion to espresso, I was more than hesitant when my Scottish roommate offered me a shot one night after dinner. What he served was unbelievable to my ignorant, American palate. What I’d always thought of as being akin to mud, both in taste and texture, brewed by the Scottsman was extraordinarily smooth, nutty, and sweet. I can’t remember that roommate’s name anymore, but he and his girlfriend took me through the steps of making a perfect espresso–using this very pot–as taught to them by their Italian housekeeper.

I’m a little ashamed to say Fiorella is nothing but a cheap proletariat whose provenance is the cheerful, exclamatory, mass-marketed world of Ikea. I could have easily bought an espresso pot just like her anywhere in Europe or stateside, but I was so successfully–and surprisingly–swayed into unparalleled fondness for Italian coffee that night, I was afraid if I didn’t own this very coffee pot I’d be subject to a life of discontent, where I’d forever compare every espresso I had to the one perked by Fiorella.

So, I dragged Fiorella in my roller bag across sloping cobblestone streets from one Roman apartment to another and, when the time came to return to the states, made the decision to ditch a perfectly good pair of red shoes in favor of making space for her in my backpack. It’s a decision I’ve occasionally been sheepish to talk about, but I’ve never regretted it for an instant.

This week my friends Al and Bridget took me to Echo Mountain in Pasadena, one of the coolest hikes I’ve experienced since moving here.

We started our hike late in the day, so we had a pretty clear trek up, encountering few fellow hikers along the way. And, since it had rained for a few days prior, within about 15 minutes we already had clear views of the city unfolding into the Pacific.

Al, our local horticulturalist, gave Bridget and me a little lesson on local flora; on our hike we collected black and white sage, wild rosemary, and wild buckwheat. It smelled like we were hiking through an herb garden the whole way up.

The best part of the hike is a lower peak that has an abandoned hotel foundation, complete with a stairway to nowhere. It’s like this awesome, above water, mountain-top Atlantis… or something awesome and mythical.