What The Cubs' Win Meant to Me

Calling someone a "Bandwagon Fan" carries a certain negative connotation.  It's the same reason people brag about liking a band before they got big.  And no, it's not only because of insufferable superiority.  (Although there's a lot of that to regard.)  But I believe it carries a more personal, possessive quality.  This is mine.  I claim some sort of ownership in this wonderful thing that I love.  And when someone hops on without your same stalwart allegiance, it feels like an assault.

I'm a Bandwagon Fan.  Of whom? you may ask.  Of any team.  Any sport.  Any player.  And I have no qualms about saying it.  Because I downright don't care much for sports.  Except for football, of course.  I would never say I don't care much for football.  Because I loathe football with a fiery passion reserved for pedophiles, rapists, and people who brag about liking a band before they got big.

"Shouldn't you be hiding in shame as you declare such dastardly statements?" one might ask.  Well, no.  Because although I have no loyalty to a sports team, I do have one particular loyalty: Chicago.

For those keeping score, I moved to Los Angeles from Chicago one month to the date of the Cubs' victory.  It was something I'd been preparing for all year.  I knew that this was likely the year they would win, and I kept stating throughout the year, "Yeah watch.  I'm going to move to LA right around the time the Cubs win the World Series."  And thus, a clairvoyance was awoken inside me.

I've been wanting the Cubs to win the World Series for the 11 years I lived in Chicago.  Yes, it's blatantly slim pickings compared to all of the men and women who were born Cubs fans, died Cubs fans, and lived every month of October in shame.

But again, I will not be shamed.

I first moved to Chicago in 2005.  And about two months after I arrived, The White Sox won the World Series.  There was a vibrancy to the city that I didn't quite understand.  Because I felt like an outsider.  The way punk has performed a 180 to become just as alienating as the culture it was countering.  I was a White Sox fan as a child, but had moved to Maryland where I felt so removed from the team I grew up watching while inhaling hot dogs and soda fountain suicides that I no longer felt welcomed at the house of Sox worship that was this new city.

But something happened in 2010.  I had graduated from college the previous year.  I was living in apartments that had nothing to do with proximity to a campus.  I had switched my driver's license and vehicle plates to Illinois.  I was registered to vote in Cook County.  I lost my virginity in Ukrainian Village.  I puked in alleys in Wrigelyville.  I stopped looking up directions to get around CTA.  I went jogging on Lake Shore Drive.  I was more used to O'Hare International Airport than any other shit show on the planet. I cried on the Red Line late at night listening to Elliott Smith and staring out the window as the lights of Uptown flashed across my tears.

I was a Chicagoan.

And in 2010, something big happened in Chicago sports.  The Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup.  And no way I was going to miss that.

I went to a bar with my roommate and a couple other friends.  There was that same vibrancy I felt five years earlier, except I was now a part of it.

The electricity in the bar after they won was contagious.  This city that I had felt so lonely in so many times suddenly birthed me hundreds of new friends.  We sang that fucking Chelsea Dagger song until it lost all semblance of meaning.  We locked arms together.  We danced on a pool table (and then were promptly told to get off.  Some decorum must remain.)  It was as if the city smiled down on each and every one of us.  Our reward for enduring those winters.  A reason to be a Chicagoan.

Both of the following Blackhawks' victories felt more and more energized than the last.  We weren't just a fluke.  We were perhaps in the midst of a legacy.  So now, whenever a Chicago team makes it to the playoffs, I watch.  I watch not because I care about the sport.  But because I care about Chicago.  And I care about reclaiming that sense of unity we gain when our fellow comrades succeed.

So in the midst of the Blackhawks' fervor, I started getting a real big hard on for a Cubs victory.  Because there's no bigger underdog than the Chicago Cubs.  They are the endless butt of endless jokes.  And both Back to the Future and Parks and Recreation deemed it necessary to throw the old Cubs a bone by letting them be victorious in fictitious futures (the latter being rather prophetic.)  100+ years of a drought.  It would be more explosive than a teenaged boy discovering the glory of masturbation for the first time, then promptly losing his arms in a fiery crash, and finally losing his virginity to the girl of his dreams... 108 years later.

So as the Cubs started to perform really well this year, it added one more thing for me to hesitate over during this move.  As a Bandwagoner, it would be ridiculous for me to postpone my move in the hopes that maybe the cursed team would actually pull through.  And so, I soldiered out west.

As with any transition, this one has not been easy.  I know very few people out here.  And as much as I enjoy being by myself (I swear, that's not sarcastic), it's very odd to not be able to break up that thin line between being alone and being lonely with a quick hangout with a dear friend.

Pile on the fact that the former love of my life, Chicago, was having the greatest fucking party of the 21st Century, and I wasn't invited.

If I was able to watch a game, I did it alone at a bar.  Not well-versed enough to engage with other fans, I kept to myself.  Outside of the outside.  It felt like an alternate timeline of 2005 all over again.

But there was no way I was missing Game 7.  And apparently, neither was anyone else.  The restaurant I work at was dead, so I got to leave around the top of the 9th.  Earlier, I found out there was a Chicago bar about an 8 minute bike ride from my restaurant.  So I hauled ass, legs, arms, and tits all the way to the bar on my bike.  Only to arrive and find a film crew blasting lights into the bar.

I panicked.  I asked a crew member what was going on, and my worst fears were confirmed.  Yes, they were filming.  No, there are no other bars around you could get to before the game ends.  No, they were not letting people come in to watch the game in the background of filming.  

I nearly cried.

But then the man looked at my face, and looked down at my Cubs shirt.  "But there's a bunch of people watching the game on an iPhone behind that tent," he offered.

I ran over behind craft services and saw about 7 people huddled in front of a phone blasting the game in Telemundo.  "Is there any way I can watch the game with you?" I blurted out.

And to my surprise, this crew didn't just let me stand in the background peering over heads, they offered me a seat in one of two chairs there.  They offered me food from craft services.  They offered me water.  And most of all, they offered me companionship that was absent from any other Cubs viewing experience I had in Los Angeles.

Of course, as we all know, I had plenty of time to see the end of the game.  Enough time to find another bar.  To watch on a television that didn't pause for buffering.  To enjoy a beer.  To not have to remain silent during a play while cameras were rolling.  But that is exactly where I wanted to be for the game.  The only better option would have been Wrigley itself.

And so I celebrated the Cubs' win in the most LA way possible.  On set while filming.  And the people who were watching with me weren't just happy for the Cubs' win.  They were happy for me for getting to experience it.  And that was better than anything I could have found alone at a bar.

So yes, I didn't know most of the players until these past few weeks.  And yes, I go to baseball games to eat terrible concession food and drink beer.  And no, I don't pay much attention to the actual game.

But yes, I did cry when they won.  I cried because I knew my favorite city in the world was about to experience a euphoria unimaginable to any other city (except maybe Cleveland in 40 years.)  Because I could feel the electricity from 2,019 miles away.  And because I wasn't a part of it.  And maybe I won't be a part of it again.  Unless of course a Los Angeles sports team --

Oh God, who am I kidding?  I'll Werner Herzog my shoe before I hitch my wagon to that band.

We Can Be Heroes

Because I'm a human person, the past couple of days have had a strange effect on me.  Sunday night, I performed at Chicago's Sketchfest.  Third time in three years.  I had a fantastic support group watching me from the audience as well as a fantastic support group playing with me on stage (and off).  I was doing what I loved.

I went out after with some friends.  Coming off my post show high; I laughed, smiled, and had an all around lovely (and boozy) evening.

During our last stop, I started talking about David Bowie.  How his counter-culture weirdness meant so much to me.  And about 15 minutes later as we were ushered out of the 2:00 a.m. bar at 2:05 a.m., a woman passed by us lamenting, "I'm going home to cry.  David Bowie just died."

It felt like a gut punch.  My brain kicked immediately into the first phase of mourning: denial.  "Shut up.  No.  You're kidding.  Stop.  I can't believe this.  How?  When?  Why?"  No matter what, I couldn't wrap my head around it.

I don't believe discussing him moments earlier - free of the sanctuary of ignorance - was a coincidence.  Because the thing about David Bowie was; he was always there.

Not physically of course.  I always believed I would see him in concert one day and now have to admit that will never be the case.  But his influence is so reaching.  So real.  And so visceral that he was always part of the conversation.  Even if you weren't talking about him.  He was there.  And that's why we mourn.

I won't pretend that I'm the die hard fan that many people are.  I was never alive during his Golden Years (song or cliched phrase).  So I never felt his transformations in real time.  I own only a handful of his vast canon.  And I most likely could recite a mere portion of his catalog.  But it doesn't matter if you knew every song verbatim.  Every moment.  Every choice.  Because the reaching power of his artistry meant that even if you only knew that The Wallflowers had a song in Godzilla called "Heroes", and you really liked it, you were still a David Bowie fan.  Somehow.

Since I was about 18, I claimed that "Heroes" (no, not the aforementioned version) would be my wedding song.  If I ever choose for that day to come, I want to dance with my love under the stars to the wailing sounds of Bowie saying, "I will be king, and you will be queen.  Though nothing will drive them away, we can be heroes.  Just for one day.  We can be us.  Just for one day."  I have no idea who that man will be dancing with me.  But I know what voice will be there to usher in our new life.  And I've known that - unwaveringly so - for many years.

Last year, I was lucky enough to experience "David Bowie Is..." at Chicago's Museum of Contemporary Art.  Now, when I go to museums, I usually pace around and enjoy the visuals.  Sometimes I'll read the plaques.  But mostly I wander.  At this particular exhibit, I read (and reread) plaques, took notes, and allowed every visual to wash over me.  I took my time as I let my eyes wander over every stitch of every costume.  It was as close as anyone born in 1987 could feel to watching a genius unfold in real time.

One of my favorite elements was reading original sheets of lyrics.  I loved reading these words that poured out of him.  But mostly, I loved seeing what he crossed out.  The subtle changes he made in his head.  I saw someone whom I admired so fully go through the same motions of the creative process that I did myself.  A man who created Ziggy Stardust.  A man who took us to the moon and back.  A man who sold the world.  Some element of him was just like me.  It was the most connected I've felt ever to someone so far away.  But like I said, he truly was always there.

I'm privileged to have not seen or read a single negative reaction to his death.  And I would love to keep it that way.  Because what's bad to say about a man who lived his life the way we all should.  With abandon.  With humility.  With grace.  With power.  With vision.  We all mourn because David Bowie Is... Us.  If only we could all be David Bowie.

Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot?

The New Year is a time for many things: resolutions, the end of the holidays, the first grand day of a long journey into Seasonal Affective Disorder.  But since I've become quite a Christmas Grinch as an adult.  And I only make resolutions I know I can keep (this year, my resolution is to not smoke crack.  That's right, folks.  Not a single crack rock in 2016.)  And I spend all of January celebrating the beginning of SAD.  There is only one thing January 1st means to me: Reflection Time, ya'll.

And no year warrants that more than 2015*.

Before last night, I looked back on 2015 as the year I took an amazing trip, decided what career I wanted to pursue ("entertainment" doesn't have the same driving focus as "a television comedy writer who moonlights as a lounge singing hologram, simultaneously being teleported into airport hotels and hipster dives across the globe**".), and put all of my energy into making that dream possible (i.e. moving to LA).

Before last night, I thought this was the year of romantic entanglements that I grabbed by the balls and made my sweaty, gimpy bitch.  I told someone that I loved him even if I knew he wouldn't say it back.  I broke up with a great guy because I couldn't say it back.  And I found out my first love got married and rejoiced in lieu of falling to pieces.  This was the year I could make Beyonce proud.

Before last night, this is how I was to wrap up my thoughts on 2015.

But last night, I got stuck at work and ran my ass around a restaurant packed with bodies in adorable dresses and penguin suits.***  I watched people celebrate with friends, family, and lovers.  Sharing smiles, sharing bites, sharing jokes.

Sharing.

I'm not easily able to check my phone at work.  But in my lonely, vulnerable state, I felt like a kid on Christmas morning as I rushed to check and see what texts I had received after the countdown had come and gone.

About 10 minutes past midnight (and an hour and 10 minutes past Eastern Standard Time), I had nothing.

People are celebrating in the moment.  Good for them!  I reassured myself.

I went back a little later and had received one text from a dear friend of mine.  It felt nice.

But as the moments chipped away, as did my hope.  Here I was, a year where I felt like I had hundreds of friends from various jobs, travel, and the like.  And one person reached out.

I awoke this morning as my phone vibrated.  A text!  I hopped out of bed like a kid on birthday morning**** to see who remembered me.

It was Lucky, my maintenance guy who routinely leaves me five minute voicemails to say five words about fixing the roof hole because he's sucking on Smarties in lieu of talking... or thinking.

This put my life into rather harsh perspective.  This year, I met so many people.  I carved out so many friendships.  I feel surrounded by people I care about, but every single one of them feels just out of reach.  Like the final, essential quarter that rolls under your bed on laundry day.  Or a kid who hops out of bed on Easter morning... but her parents' door is still locked from a night of passionate love-making due to Dad's chocolate bunny fetishization.

And I thought about my amazing trip to the West Coast this year.  All the beauty I absorbed - natural and man made.  The delicious food and brews I wrapped my lips around.  And how all I wanted in this world was to be able to share it with someone.

Perhaps after all these years, I've mistaken total independence for complete happiness.  If I can be happy alone, I can be happy all the time.

The problem with this sentiment is that it is preposterous to be happy all the time.  And even further so, it's missing an important element.  One that we were taught at the youngest of ages.  After we learned to walk and talk and poop outside of our pants, the next thing we learned was to share.

Being independent is a wonderful thing.  If I wasn't independent, I could have never taken that trip.  But to mistake independence for solitude means there is a lonely road ahead devoid of sharing.  One where you will see a humpback whale breach in the Pacific Ocean, turn to the stranger next to you to point and gasp, and realize they have already done the same with their partner.  One where you go to Portland breweries and only get to try the beer you ordered.  One where you will sit on a park bench staring out at the Cascades, start leaning over, and fall when you realize there's no shoulder to curl into.

One where your maintenance man wishes you a Happy New Year.

So 2015 was not the year of Independent Hannah.  It was the year that Independent Hannah learned to share.



*If this isn't a statement you make every year, you are living your life wrong.

**One of those latter statements may be a pipe dream.  But who's to tell?

***This obviously means tuxedos, but how adorable would it really be if people showed up in this???

****There's really no better simile to express unadulterated joy than a kid expecting presents.

All the Women Who Independent

I've become a pretty independent person.  I haven't lived with my parents for nearly 10 years.  I moved to Chicago for college without knowing a single other person at the university.  I travelled to Rome without knowing whom I would find.  I pay my bills.  I've never hit the 6 month marker on a relationship with anyone besides my debit card.  And I recently found myself traveling alone for a month to cities I had never seen outside of images and fabled stories.  I would make Beyonce proud.

And it always made me proud.  Proud to say I didn't need another person (be it romantic or platonic) to put a smile on my face.  This was a conceit I gathered after years of romantic rejection and a few soiled friendships.  People.  Who needs them?

While in Seattle, I rejected the idea of a hostel for a full week in lieu of couchsurfing.  This turned into bed surfing (poor word choice.  I see that now) while my hostess was out of town and needed someone to watch her cat.  So essentially, I had to keep a breathing animal alive in exchange for a week of free room and board.  Sounds purrfect.  (Ugh, I hate me too.)

The neighbors were incredibly kind.  Checking up on me to make sure I had arrived.  Offering their phone numbers if I needed anything.  It was the kind of neighborhood where I felt like I could leave the door unlocked while I slept.  But it was in a city.  The incongruence felt both comforting and terrifying.

Thanks, but no thanks, neighbs.  Seattle had been five days of isolating myself from people.  No hostel to force new friendships, and no budget for bar hopping to let the cool vocal lubricant of alcohol open me up.  Save for a couple visits from people I knew, I had pretty much spent five days alone.

But that's okay.  Because society is wretched.  I don't need anyone to have a good time.  I have myself.  And my thoughts.  And a fully stacked iPod.  Who needs people?

I had been in Seattle about five days when it happened.  I was performing a task so simple that the next thing to happen felt less likely than an alien attack or getting Rick Rolled.

You see, Seattle is big on recycling.  Like, along with the Space Needle and Pike Place Market, Lonely Planet should include a walking tour of a recycling plant. So with my hostess arriving home the next day, I knew it was probably time to take out the recycling.  So I grab the bag, walk outside, shut the door so the cat doesn't run out, drop the bag into the bin - a mere 30 feet from the door - wipe my hands together like I just did a job well done, and walked back to the door.  I turned the knob.  Sorry, I attempted to turn the knob.  But it didn't budge.

I attempted a few more times.  Nothing.  Then a few more times.  At this point, I wasn't so much trying to open the door as buy myself thinking time that didn't consist of me standing there in a state of shock, scratching my head and waving my hands like a Sim whose hunger bar has dipped dangerously red.

I walked around the whole house, checking to see if any door was unlocked.  There was a renter in the basement, perhaps he was home.  Man, why didn't I introduce myself to him when he came home the other night?

But Mr. Random Schedule was not home.  I knew this before I knocked because his car was not there.  But in moments of desperation, as we already learned, we tend to do the illogical to avoid facing the problem head on.

But wait!  I knew the woman next door who gave me the key the first day!  She'll at least be able to call Carla and ask if she has a spare key hidden.

I knocked on the door, but it was fairly obvious from the moment I stepped into the driveway that the family was already enjoying this gorgeous Saturday morning.

So what to try next?  I know!  It's so simple!  I ran up to the front door of my house and tried opening it again.  To my utter surprise, the door was still, in fact, locked.

To make matters worse, the next door neighbor's front yard was like the Bumpus's.  Throngs of giant dogs barking their heads off while a stranger scurried around the front yard searching frantically for a way to break in.

After what seemed like an hour (real time: about 15 minutes), I walked over to the maddening herd to find a man standing there.  Just sort of taking it in stride.

"Excuse me," I piped up.  My voice shaking.  "I'm housesitting for Carla next door, and I think I locked myself out, and I don't know what to do."

"You want to call someone?" He asked, the dogs barking so loud his offer sounded like hiccups.

"I locked my phone inside and--" I started to cry.  But the man had already disappeared inside and brought me the phone.  He handed it to me.

"--I don't know any phone numbers," I broke down into sobs at this point.

The man kept trying to get me to use the phone, but I kept insisting it was pointless.  "Why don't you look up Carla's number?"

"Sir, it's on my phone.  If I had my phone, I wouldn't need your phone."  I felt like I was trapped in some sort of terrifying version of "Who's on First".

Finally, it dawned on me.  The man who was feeding the cat before my arrival.  He must live around here.  "Do you know Max?" I finally asked.

"Oh sure.  He lives right down there." He pointed a couple houses away.

The man walked me to the house, my face covered in saltiness at this point, and I knocked on the door.  Max had a key.  The key fit in the door.  The entire problem was solved.  And I was able to venture out to Seattle for one more day.  Because I finally dropped the facade and asked for help.

I've always considered myself a pretty independent person.  I prefer spending time alone.  I make decisions by myself.  I rely on nobody but myself.  But that day, I realized that these things don't make me an independent person.  They make me an isolated person.  A person who chooses the company of her own person over the rejection that comes from inviting others.  A person who makes her own decisions without consulting others because she would rather push people away than be pushed.  A person who relies solely on herself because it's easier to trust yourself than another person.

But you can't isolate yourself from others out of fear.  Sure, you can live for 40 years alone in the woods and be happy, but only if you do it for yourself.  Not because you're scared of getting hurt.

I used to believe I was a fairly independent woman.  Then I travelled alone for a month.  And now I realize independence is about surviving on your own.  Not by yourself.



*I'm skipping the day to day and writing pretty much however I feel at this point.  But if you want to catch up on how the rest of Vancouver went, click here*

Something Like a Phenomenon

A strange phenomenon occurs when traveling alone.  It lurks in the shadows.  Creeps up when you least suspect it.  Echoes of the unfamiliar shudder down your spine.

It's your voice.

I learned very quickly on my first day that I could not complete this journey on my lonesome; my interactions relegated to the hospitality industry.  Because when I ordered a sandwich for lunch, the sound of my own voice shocked me more than the sound of "Your 2016 Republican Presidential Candidate, Donald Trump" ever could.

I spent my second day in Vancouver on Grouse Mountain.  Rejecting the idea that riding my bike on the flat Chicago terrain made me physically fit enough to scale the mountain, I opted for the tram.

WEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

The mountain activities were included in the initial fee, but I paid extra to go ziplining.  Hell, this was my adventure.  And I was going to live it up.

But since my departure time was still a couple hours away, I decided to escape the hubbub of Grouse Mountain: Tourist Adventure and enjoy Grouse Mountain: Mountain.  I grabbed some overly priced (but not really, because Canadian Dollars...) lunch foods and headed down the mountain a wee way to enjoy a serene lunch.

Looking out on beautiful Vancouver and Mt. Shasta, I felt "This is it.  I'm going to have my epiphany.  My stroke of genius.  Here it comes... Here... It... Ewwwww, that's a really loud bug.  I hope it doesn't COME OVER HERE!  GAH!  GET AWAY FROM ME!  And there goes my bag of chips.  Can't litter in Vancouver!  The punishment is worse than death!"

Man, so even this didn't inspire my Kerouacian breakthrough:

I must be dead inside

After an entertaining lumberjack show that I didn't think was a thing, it was time to fly.  Five lines of awesome until I realized that the first "practice line" was included in the five.  But still!  Four lines of awesome and one photo op!

Ziplining was the perfect amount of adrenaline that didn't tire me out the way I imagine skydiving or going on a date with Ryan Gosling would.

"Hey Gurl, I picked some lilies from my backyard.  They're for you."

"I had egg salad for lunch and now the smell is coming out both ends."

So I zipped and, for all intents and purposes, I lined.  They were breathtaking views that I had about 4.2 seconds to soak in before concentrating on how to land without snapping my neck Buffy-style.

But it was lovely, and I don't regret doing it for a second.  Because, Canadian Dollars!

After checking out the grizzly bears and watching the Birds of Prey show-

I'll take any excuse to show off little Daenerys

-It was time for me to leave Grouse Mountain.  The prospect of missing my shuttle and having to figure out alternative means of transportation back to Vancouver did not suit me in the slightest.

Back in Vancouver, I hiked quite a ways to find a sushi place Lonely Planet had recommended.  It was lovely, but the sun hadn't even set yet and I was out of ideas for the day.  (I decided the moment I planned the trip that my money would not go towards partying at night.)

So I headed back to the hostel where two of my roommates were getting ready to go to the beach and then see the Celebration of Light fireworks display.  They invited me along, and I agreed because I couldn't bear to listen to the sound of my thoughts for another 5 hours before falling asleep.

Here I got my first real taste of the ocean.  Salt in my hair, fly infested kelp beds.  It was delightful.  And the ensuing Celebration of Light did not disappoint.  Landed itself in my top 3 fireworks displays of all time.  Who rounds out the list?  I don't know.  They're fireworks displays.  Probably something in the month of July.  And probably not my dad setting off the value pack in our backyard.  (Sorry, Dad.  Your efforts have always been greatly appreciated.)

So here I was.  End of day two, and I had seen some spectacular sights while ending with a couple gals who not only allowed me to have a better time than I could have had myself, but broke me free of the phenomenon.  Granted me respite from the chaos of uninterrupted thought.

I Move Faster When I Don't Know Where I'm Going

Prior to taking flight to Vancouver on July 31, 2015, I had two expectations for this trip: 1) Don't have any expectations for this trip, and 2) I expect that this is going to change my life forever!!

Obviously, one of those was easier to accomplish than the other.

As hard as I tried to stay grounded before take off that Thursday, I couldn't help but romanticize.  I saw myself waltzing into markets and sampling everything from fresh strawberries to raw squid.  Meeting strangers who would enlighten me on my path to salvation.  Staring into the face of a fawn as we connected on a level reserved for hippies on their fifteenth hour of a mescaline binge.

Vancouver grounded me.

It took awhile for my adventure to fully begin.  There was an ample layover in Seattle before hitting Vancouver, which would land me in the Great White North around midnight.  "19E" was what my ticket read.  A-B-C... D-E... It didn't sound like a window seat.

And it wasn't.  A diminutive young lady decked out in Pepto pink from head to toe got the window.  And, to my lack of surprise, a largess man with a propensity to sweat despite being completely and utterly inactive on a plane blowing cold air directly onto his face.  After the Pink Lady sat down, John Goodman in a Spin Class turned to us and said, "Thank God I'm sitting next to two lovely ladies instead of two big, fat guys."

I'll leave the irony right here...

I had many beautiful music moments on this trip, but it got kicked off bright and early on my first flight.  I had been napping when Frenchie with a Neck Pillow opened up the window.  The sun hit my eyes at the exact moment The Postal Service arrived on my iPod.  "This Place Is A Prison" boomed into my ears as I looked out the window.  "And you may case the grounds from the Cascades to Puget Sound..."  And I could see nothing but golden rows of the Cascades for miles in every direction.  Suddenly, Martin Short's Twelfth Straight Hour in Jiminy Glick Costume next to me didn't seem quite so bothersome.

That wasn't my only amazing flight view, however.  I slept, yet again, on my very brief flight from Seattle to Vancouver.  I awoke as we circled the airport before our descent.  Although the lights were shut off, the entire plane was illuminated.  I looked out my window and saw the full moon reflected in the Pacific Ocean, blanketing the mountains with a soft blue haze.  It was breathtaking.  So much so that the guy behind me preferred to witness it through the lens of his iPhone.  Jealousy has never raged harder.  Neither has sarcasm.

I had created a loose itinerary for Vancouver based on recommendations by a few friends.  As an avid Chicago biker, I knew I wanted to bike in every city I visited.  Thankfully, the west coast wants you to bike in every city it has.  So rentals are both accessible and reasonable.

The man in the bike shop had given me directions to Stanley Park - essentially the only place tourists have on their agenda when they rent a bike.  As I pulled out of the shop, I got a very immediate taste of Canada when a strange man approached me.

"You goin' ta Stanley Park?" he asked, his Tim Horton's coffee in hand.

"Yes," I replied.

"Ya know how ta get there?" he asked.

"Uh, yeah.  The guy in there just told me," I signaled back to the bike shop.

The man proceeded to give me the same set of directions, just in case I wasn't 100% clear about 30 seconds prior.  I thanked him and headed on my way.  Wow, Canadians are so friendly, they seek out being helpful.  Even when help isn't necessary.

While breezing through the ample bike lanes on the streets, I couldn't help but smile.  I was here.  I was doing it.  I was... about to go up a steep fucking hill.  When your legs are trained to bike Chicago terrain, you will never be fully prepared to bike west coast terrain.  No matter how often you bike.

So I hit Stanley Park and couldn't believe how beautiful the Vancouver coastline was.  Mountains in the distance, trees in every direction, dangerously low water levels.  Eh, so the drought is less than savory to witness.  But it couldn't detract too much from Vancouver's beauty.

The one interesting aspect about Vancouver that I should point out is that I was without a cell phone.  My sad little dumb phone is not equipped with international service.  So when I say I was alone on this leg, I really was.

Biking alone has never felt very burdensome to me.  I actually prefer it.  Mostly because I hate being around other bikers.  But a lesson you have to learn very quickly while traveling alone is: You aren't going to share this beauty with anyone.  Obvious, right?  But it won't entirely sink in until the first time you see a harbor seal pop up next to you while stand up paddleboarding, gasp, point, and look around to realize you are the only one witnessing it.  It doesn't take away from its awesomeness.  It simply doesn't add to it.

So after a day of biking, I decided to grab some cheap yet highly ranked Vietnamese food and check out the sunset.  It being my first night in Vancouver, I had no idea what time the sun would disappear behind the mountains.  Not wanting to miss it, I grabbed my take out and departed around 6:00.

I weaved my way through the woods, walking my beach cruiser rental through mountain biking terrain.  And though I got a bit lost, it didn't matter.  I was in Canada!  So a Canadian jogger showed up like a mystical forest fairy and gladly pointed me in the right direction.

Third Beach was lovely.  Full of friends enjoying the unseasonably warm Canadian summer.  (Robin Scherbatsky had me believing I had just missed the two weeks of Canadian summer.)  I ate my curry dish and stared at the sun... still quite a ways above the mountain range.

Oh well, no fear!  I came equipped with my writer's notebook and On the Road.  I read for a little bit, but I couldn't find a comfortable reading position on my beach log.  So onto the purpose of this trip: To Write!  I flipped open my notebook and pressed my pen to the paper and... nothing.  Why wasn't my pen bleeding onto the page?  I'm on this trip!  To be inspired!  To live the Kerouacian dream!  Surely I have something to say!

"Those girls just got busted for drinking on the beach."

It's okay.  I wasn't going to beat myself up over it.  Inspiration comes from the oddest of places.  Mine was still out there, somewhere.

The sun had moved about half an inch in the sky.  I still had about two hours to go.  Why did I think I could enjoy watching a sunset for two hours?  I don't have sunglass eyes.

The ocean!  I can enjoy the ocean!  I debated briefly about swimming in my underwear since I was sans a suit, but my lack of towel and desire to wear every outfit at least twice before doing laundry had dissuaded me.  But I could dip my feet!

And dip I did!  I kicked water around.  I balanced on shore rocks.  I skimmed for flatties and skipped rocks.  I was a regular Gidget!

After the water fun, I still had some time.  So I stared.  I stared at the girls continuing to drink their contraband.  I stared at the friends smoking a joint.  And I stared at the guy getting chastised by the lifeguard for smoking a cigarette.

And finally, the sunset came.  It looked like the same thing I had been staring at for the past two hours.  Except now, it was falling behind a mountain.  I wanted to watch the colors in the sky change as the sun left the horizon (the best part!), but I realized that my bike did not come equipped with lights.  Rankled, I threw up my fists to the heavens and headed back with the few moments of natural light that remained.

I wasn't changed quite yet.  But it's okay.  Day one.  I have at least thirty more to go.  And tomorrow will be Grouse Mountain.  Lots of hiking.  I'm sure to find my fawn.

Why I Stopped Posting About My Trip on Social Media

Some of you- Scratch that- Most of you probably don't know this: I just spent a month traveling the west coast.  I say most of you don't know this because unless you saw an exclamatory post about my purchase of the ticket, there wasn't much evidence online about my adventure.

A few days into the trip, I posted my first string of photos from Vancouver.  I sat in my Seattle residence, pleased as a kid drinking punch that the world was about to see how amazing the kick off of my trip was.

I posted this alone.  In a house I was sitting.  Alone.  Tucked in for the night.  My head buzzing.  My wallet not fat enough to take advantage of the night life.  Alone.

Many hours of my life have been - regrettably - dedicated to scrolling through my Facebook feed.  Coincidentally, many hours of my life have been dedicated to being miserable.  My adult jobs have pretty much always ranged somewhere between lackluster and sucking on some hard, demonic balls.  My romantic life has always ranged somewhere between nonexistent and disappointing.  And my goals and aspirations have floundered right around the "what a nice hobby you have, dumpling" realm.  Essentially, I'm a perfect candidate for Voyeuristic Toxic Shock Syndrome (VTSS).  You know, when you leave the tampon known as social media inside you for way, WAY too long.

It beats you down; staring at the fantastic lives of people you either hate, love, or kind of can't remember how you even met to begin with.  (The answer is: drunk.)  

"Hey, there's Chad swimming with sharks in Borneo.  Wow, that's cool."  

"AnneMarie's new job has a standing Friday night tradition of drinks atop the Wit once a month.  Man, that'd be so sweet."  

"Gloria and Terry just got engaged hiking Mt. Everest.  Hope they make it down.  But still, fuckin' rad, man."

The problem is, however, that no one is happy all the time.  No one is happy all the time.  Let me repeat that once more, NO ONE IS HAPPY ALL THE TIME.  However, most people project a life of happiness to their peers.  Aside from the high schoolers you have randomly befriended on Facebook (I did a community theater production of "Auntie Mame"! I swear! - Don't worry.  We get it), we are used to seeing the high earmarks of each others lives.  Long gone are the mopey Dashboard lyrics and intentionally vague "Wish it was yesterday...:(" posts (hopefully).

So I refused to allow my trip to contribute to VTSS.  Yes, I had an absolutely spectacular time.  And I encourage any and everyone to travel as much as humanly possible.  I also encourage any and everyone to travel alone at least once in their lives.  You will change.  Hopefully for the better.  Please don't come back a douche bag.  We need far less of those.

As I sat alone; lonely, I knew that there was no way to properly convey the lows of my trip - the only antidote for VTSS.  But there were lows.  You can't travel for a month by yourself with a constant smile on your face.  No one is a marshmallow Peep.

Here is a list of bummers I encountered on my trip (that I will get into more detail as I journal for your bemusement):

- Arriving far too early for my first sunset and growing more and more bored as I watched friends together on the beach.

- Getting locked out of the house I was housesitting.  And the ensuing panic attack.

- Walking for hours trying to get to this ONE BAR because I did this trip without wifi.  Ergo, without bus routes.

- Getting lost on a bike for hours with the final dregs of water in my belly and not my bottle.

- My plantar fasciitis kicking in as I realized my bus doesn't run past midnight and Portland is a black hole for cabs.

- Being alone when I've thought every thought I could possibly think.  Twice.

- The only day of rain for an entire month occurring while I camped.

- Not being able to shower for 3 days while still forcing myself to walk the streets of San Francisco in uncharacteristic 90 degree heat.  Uphill.  Always uphill.

- Feeling lonely.

- So. Many. Meals. Alone.

- Breaking the heart of someone I care deeply.

So yes, my trip was amazing.  And the good outweighs the bad.  But before I continue with this series, I felt it was important to inform you all about the depressing lows.  This trip wasn't some fantasy land to which I escaped for one month.  It was just an extension of life.  And life is going to suck a good portion of the time.

Because social media doesn't portray life.  It portrays the cinematic version of it.  The parts we want the world to see.  Edited to reflect a happier version of ourselves than we care to admit.

Please remember that the next time Erica and Frank post pictures of their dream wedding.  Yes, their wedding was a beautiful affair, and deserves to be celebrated.  But they are married now.  And how often are we going to see pictures of their financial woes when Frank gets let off?  Are they going to post pictures of their difficulties getting pregnant?  The affair that Erica had during the seven year itch?  The inevitable distance that grows between them as they realize they bypassed their hopes and dreams to follow a life suited for society instead of themselves?  I may be projecting with that last one.

The point is, I stopped posting pictures because I want to show them to friends and family with a personal explanation.  Not to inject it into the ether of the Internet for near strangers to interpret.  I resisted journaling in web form in lieu of journaling on paper.  On a coast.  Staring at the sunset over the Pacific Ocean.  Listening to Father John Misty.  I ignored Snapchatting airport and train station scenes with a neck pillow draped around me.  Because there's no story in that.  Simply a projection.  A projection that takes zero to little effort for me to post, yet can send an unsuspecting voyeur's world into turmoil.

So the next time you click that button that sends your thoughts into the vastness of cyberspace, think about what you are trying to say.  Why are you sharing this with people you'd probably pretend you didn't see if you saw them on the train?  What's your end game?  To boost yourself by attaining likes?  To show everyone how awesome your life is?  Because remember, someone may not be living the fantastic life you are living right now.  And likewise, you may not always be living your fantastic life.  So in the style of The Most Interesting Man in the World: Post responsibly, my friends.

*I will be continuing this series with a retrospective view of my trip in lieu of posting some day-to-day play-by-play with little creative pursuit.  Up next: Vancouver*