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.

It’s an understatement to say that I’m a fan of Halloween. I’ve dressed up all by myself during a snowstorm, while I nursed a sick roommate, just for the sheer joy of inhabiting a different character for a few hours. A deep dark secret of mine is I’m a little bit of a geeky fan-girl at heart. Luckily, I’m with a guy who is far geekier than me. This year we decided to use our joint geek powers for good rather than evil. Here we are as Vince Clortho and Zuul from Ghostbusters, eagerly awaiting the coming of Gozer: Gozer the Traveler, Gozer the Destructor, Gozer the Gozarian.

He will come in one of the pre-chosen forms. During the rectification of the Vuldronaii, the Traveler came as a large and moving Torb. Then, during the third reconciliation of the last of the Meketrex Supplicants, they chose a new form for him — that of a giant sloar! Many Shubs and Zuuls knew what it was to be roasted in the depths of the sloar that day I can tell you.

Okay, that concludes our Geekout for the week. Happy Halloween, all.

Party photos by Becky Pagan. Her flash was broken, so cut her some slack. The intent was there!

As a teenager, The Lemonheads were my gateway drug to becoming a music junkie. Without Evan Dando, I might have had ended up with a decent selection of albums on my iPod, but I certainly wouldn’t be the kind of music enthusiast that could have a 30-minute discussion with a buyer at Amoeba Music, and leave the store earning a hearty handshake, an employee discount off my purchase.

More than just being an overall favorite in my iTunes library, the Lemonheads–more than any other group—turned me on to an army of new musical options: Who was this Big Star? Oh! Alex Chilton! THAT’S who the replacements were singing about! This guy is awesome! Oh my gosh, Victoria Williams? I need to listen to everything she’s ever wrote. What’s the band her husband’s in? The Jayhawks? Holy cow, this band is fantastic. Who is this Gram Parsons? This stuff is amazing. Who is this woman singing along with Gram? Emmylou Harris? Who is are all of these people Emmylou Harris is covering? Lucinda Williams. Gillian Welch. Whoa? I must own everything ever written by Lucinda Williams and Gillian Welch. Why does this CD sound so good? Oh, it was produced by Daniel Lanois! What else has Daniel Lanois produced? Wait a minute—who is this Fugazi he’s touring with?

Knowing my rabid fandom, Ryan surprised me on Thursday night by taking me to see the Lemonheads perform “It’s a Shame About Ray” in its entirety at the El Rey. It was an awesome show, and we were in spitting distance of Dando. If his guitar string broke, it would have hit me in the eye. I sang every word, to every song he played–and I sang them loud, in unison with just about every other person in the venue. Just a few hundred of us die-hards, there for nothing but the love of the music and a little bit of nostalgia.

We were tempted to stick around so I could gush to Dando about all the ways we were meant to be best friends. Then I could invite him over for a few beers and we could laugh about growing up in Boston, and about summers hanging out on beaches of the North Shore. I could tell him how one of my middle school boyfriends had the same dentist as him, and then Evan could tell me how he loved that particular dentist’s nitrous oxide.

I’ve played the scenario in my head a hundred times but, alas, it was an opportunity missed at the hands of security guards and lack of backstage passes. Meh. At least I have some photos.

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?

Oops! It's okay, God. I need to file for extensions all the time, too.

In truth, I haven’t been paying the type of attention to the end of the world I should be, and my gross disregard for details has thrown me into an exam-day panic. Since I was always the type to cram for tests, I’m using these last few hours to prepare for the worst, in case God kicks me off the floating bus.

I mostly have questions, but there are some answers I’ve found about the end of the world that have set my mind at ease. Hopefully they’ll do the same for you.

First, I am relieved to know that if a post-Rapture zombie apocalypse does occur, the Center for Disease Control is on the case.

Second, when the Rapture occurs, my Jew friends will be able to come with me. It turns out there is a loophole for the non-believers, according to Harold Camping; it’s sort of like a test-cram for the eternally damned. I cannot express how delighted I am to learn this. I get along really well with Jewish people and I can certainly say that Heaven will be way more fun with them around. Plus, it will make my mom happy, since most of her best friends are Jewish. Sadly, the rest are her best friends are gay, and Camping confirms the gays are not only shit out of luck, but one of the reasons the world is going to end in the first place. Nice going, guys.

Third, some really nice atheists say they will take care of our dog. Although, I don’t know if I trust an atheist to keep a promise.

Fourth, there IS a soundtrack to the apocalypse! I was a little concerned that that St. Pete and his cronies were going to rap out one person at a time. Now my friends and I can dance to kinetic techno beats, while we wait for our number to be called.

Five, Fab Five Freddy will totally be on the rap bus, which completely eases my mind about this end of the world thing. Not so sure about Debbie Harry. Though even St. Peter has to admit she tried her best.

For all that Los Angeles gets right, there are some parts that–no matter how much brain rerouting I attempt–will never make sense to my Bostonian mind. Parts like, whenever I drive east, I always feel like I should see a glimpse of ocean right after I make it over a hill. Things like, how I think West Coasters are spiritually and esthetically robbed for never being able to see a sun rise over the ocean, as they’re wrapped up in a blanket, drinking their morning coffee. And I have to admit, I kind of miss traffic rotaries, bubblers, and Dunkin’ Donuts.

For those who couldn’t care less about driving in circles or seeing a new morning bathed in sunlight, for all its perfection in palm trees, street tacos, and sushi, LA just can’t seem to get their Buffalo Wings, brew pubs, and pizza right.

For all my comparisons, I do love Los Angeles and I never really have any intent of leaving. But I’m thankful that I have a warm, familiar bed to visit each time I get an east coast craving, and a boyfriend who loves my home town about as much as I do.

It’s amazing the things you yearn for; the boy and I just returned from a full seven days, where we crammed in as much New Englandness as time, senses, and our digestive tracts could manage. Not least of which was my family’s annual wine-making tradition. I’ve written about it elsewhere at length, so I won’t go too deep into the details of it now, but it is the family tradition I am most grateful for.

As much as I occasionally feel homesick for morning sunrises and perfect pizza, it’s not either of those that inspire me to travel 3,000 miles as often as money and scheduling will allow. Home is where friends feel like family, cousins feel like sisters, aunts and uncles feel like best friends, and each plate of food tastes like… well… home. It’s that stuff that makes the hours across plains, rivers, and mountains worth it all the while.

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.

Photo by Mary Lee Crocker

What I have been doing lately is exploring the west side of our country, with trips to Ojai, Las Vegas, and Vancouver, and cultivating a new career (I hope) in television. Both exploration of the world around me and the world within me has been going quite well. Happiness is a regular occurrence, and overwhelming joy is just the icing on top.

One of the things that has recently brought on a bout of bliss, has been my rediscovery of my love for photography: Not only the activity of snapping pictures myself, but of experiencing the story-telling of others through visual, letter-less words. Of course, I love the work of professional photographers, but it’s the semi-anonymous photoblogs that have been the most daydream-inducing.

After a long respite, I’ve started to love Flickr again–not so much for my own posting, but for tip-toeing quietly in the sidelines of someone else’s world. I won’t gain any friends with this confession, but I actually love anonymously trolling other people’s photo streams. It’s wonderful when I do know them but, when I don’t, the photos morph from a visual catch-up on the lives of others, to an unfolding fairy tale (urban, suburban, whatever…).

Today, I wonder what “Shades of Mediocrity” is thinking when she shoots her romantically diffused photos. I look forward to visiting again and again so she can tell me more.

Grammie, as a babe

St. Joseph is the patron saint of Sicily, so his influence over the Sicilian-American household is held in higher esteem than that of other saints. Growing up, my cousins and I would be picked up at school and brought to my grandmother’s house every March 19, where we’d all congregate like little ants to a picnic table, angling for Grammie’s fresh baked bread with anchovies and olive oil, various salads, and for a traditional pasta made with white beans and fennel that I only know as St. Joe’s Bista (Bista means pasta in Americanized Sicilian. Don’t ask; I don’t know the answer.), but probably has some other name that Mario Batali would slap my wrists for not knowing. There would always be such a whirlwind of activity: hellos, hugs, kisses, catch-ups, laughter, yelling (not out of anger, but out of heritage), praying, singing, eating; you were always left a little shocked when it all subsided in a blissful food coma that left my enormous family quietly waddling to the living room to recover.

My brother's St. Joseph rolls

These days my Uncle John and Aunt Sandi have taken over the annual St. Joseph’s Day celebration. Typically, they have a large group of us over the night before to make the pasta by hand. This year I didn’t get to go back home for St. Josephs’ Day, but ate a bowl of pasta in reverence and thought about my family, my Grammie in particular, all weekend.

Family was Grammie’s greatest love, but it was closely followed by food and music. As a young girl she enjoyed small-scale fame with her sisters, where they would yodel (yes, yodel) and sing country songs at community events.

As semi-musical progeny, she took interest in my passion for music and during the last years of her life, our musical tastes unexpectedly began to meld. She was an enormous fan of Emmylou Harris and I introduced her to some of my favorites: Gram Parsons, Lucinda Williams, and Gillian Welch, making my 80-year-old grandmother mix tapes during the last year of her life. Gillian Welch was her favorite. Words can’t express the beauty of—after decades of musical divergence—sitting on the side of your grandmother’s bed, holding her hand as you both listen raptly to a favorite musical artist you both adore equally.

Shortly after she died, I was introduced to one of Gillian Welch’s favorite musicians, and one Grammie would have loved. This is a song that reminds me of my grandmother and one that I would have loved to have played for her, written by Greg Brown about his grandmother and sung by his three daughters.

I can almost hear her humming along in heaven as she’s baking bread for all the saints up there. I hope St. Joe saves a roll or two for me.

My new favorite personality test asks four simple questions to find out your perfect typeface and what it reveals about you.

I am categorized as the furiously fair and somewhat utilitarian Van Doesburg, thereby revealing my remorseless inner simplicity, hidden deep beneath all that Sicilian flash. Or whatever: at the very least it’s a fun way to spend a Tuesday morning.

If you end up taking this, let me know which typeface you are by commenting here. xo