Stealing glances

A visit to the John Hancock Center, or  "Big John," was in order on our second afternoon in Chicago, so after we disembarked from "Chicago's First Lady," we booked it to The Signature Room. More accurately, we stood in line for 30 minutes to get into an elevator that would take us to The Signature Room on the 95th floor. The 360-degree views, we heard, were worth crowding into said elevator with 22 other tourists at a time.

Ahem. They WERE, guys. This photo was taken from the women's bathroom. You read that right. Floor-to-ceiling windows with sweeping views of four states will make you forget what you went in there for.

And you know what didn't hurt? The smoked duck nachos with melted Gouda and verde sauce in the lounge didn't hurt. Sure, this place is totally overrun by tourists, but it was certainly worth a peek at Lake Michigan from above.

Tall buildings in a single boat

Before we left for Chicago, everyone we knew shook us violently and said, "YOU MUST GO AN AN ARCHITECTURE TOUR. BOOK IT TO THE BOAT OR I'LL NEVER SPEAK TO YOU AGAIN." We got the message, guys. After a mimosa brunch Saturday morning, we walked up Michigan Avenue toward "Chicago's First Lady," a riverboat cruise offered by the Chicago Architecture Foundation. The 90-minute tour along the Chicago River was unreal. As we sat surrounded by skyscrapers, I started to understand why multiple friends demanded that we make time for this fabulous floating history lesson.

The gilded art deco buidling shown in the center of this photo is the Hard Rock Hotel, built in 1929. She is said to have been designed to look like a champagne bottle (at the height of Prohibition). The exterior metal you see at the top there is actually 24-karat gold leaf. I hear she's a total diva.

There's something about salmon

They say that when your body craves certain foods, it might be trying to tell you something. A craving could be a window into your nutritional needs, so to speak. That said, this girl must need more iron in her life stat because I managed to devour a lox brunch for exactly three days in a row while visiting Chicago last weekend. Omega-3 fatty acids were all up in my business. 

I blame the Eleven City Diner. Our foursome visited this spot in South Loop on a tip from a doorman, and were immediately impressed with the charming Jewish deli. At right is a shot of my carefully plated Lox & Latke. A potato latke, Nova lox, green onions, capers and a dollop of sour cream smiled sweetly at me. Yes, I will have this dance.

A window of opportunity

Last weekend, I got to meet up with a few former colleagues and fabulous friends in Chicago for a weekend of culture and good eats. Since a couple of us arrived early, and were met with disappointingly cold and rainy weather, we booked it down to the Art Institute of Chicago for a look at the impressionist and post-impressionist art. The first thing I was drawn to was Marc Chagall's "America Windows," which debuted at the Institute in '77. I learned that the piece was created to commemorate America’s bicentennial and celebrate the cultural and religious freedom of America. Although this shot only captures one of the six panels featured, the work as a whole details arts, music, painting, literature, theater and dance. 

A few floors of art later, I found group of engrossed 5th-graders staring at Grant Wood's "American Gothic" and eavesdropped on a few minutes of their Depression-era art history lesson. "Do you think they look happy or sad?" the teacher asked. "Tired." One kid offered. Very astute, young man.

Post-museum, we stopped in for a snack at the historic Gage Hotel (built in 1890) on Michigan Avenue. On the table: A trio of seared Nantucket sea scallops with a Korean barbecue short rib and kimchi. Unfortunately, I was so busy devouring my share, that I didn't even think to take a photo of the little beauties. Forgive me.

A little nap later, and our foursome was complete. Nashville, Chapel Hill and Austin were all united in Chicago just in time for dinner.

We dined at the highly recommended Topo Gigio, a phenomenal Italian joint in Old Town. I opted for my go-to shellfish dish. This time, it was the spaghetti ai frutti di mare, featuring calamari, mussels, clams and scallops in a lovely red sauce.

The Second City was our last stop of the night. The improv club is well known for dozens of alums who went on to appear on "Saturday Night Live." Catching one of their shows was a must, according to friends who raved about the endlessly witty sketches. As expected, hilarity ensued at The 38th Revue.

The Windy City initiation

Upon arrival in Chicago last weekend, my friend and I were greeted by disappointingly freezing temps. I'm talkin' about a below-40, wind-slapped kinda wake-up call. It was a book-it-to-Walgreens-for-gloves kinda greeting, y'all. There was snow just outside the Greater Chicago area and these Texans weren't even wearing socks! (Rookies. I know.) "But it's May!" we kept telling each other, as if Mother Nature might hear us and change her mind. As we walked the 8 blocks the  from the train station to our hotel in the biting drizzle, you can imagine our surprise upon seeing these four crazies rockin' it out on a Segway tour. I looked at my hand, numb from pulling my luggage sans glove, and shrugged. If they could find a way to enjoy a grey Chicago day, then so could we.

Cherry tomato Caprese salad

As a fan and frequenter of potluck celebrations, I like to have a few go-to recipe options in my back pocket. Of course this concept works especially well during that window of time about two hours before an event when I realize that I have no olive oil, for example, and then must proceed to the grocery store on the day before Easter. You know eggsactly what I mean. This sweet and juicy vegetarian dish was a welcome addition to a spread of Franklin Barbecue's brisket, ribs and smoked turkey at a recent meeting o' the meats among South Austin's finest carnivores.

Cherry Tomato Caprese Salad Serves 4-6

Ingredients 1 pint cherry tomatoes (color's up to you) 8 ounces of fresh mini mozzarella balls, or "pearls" if you will 10 small basil leaves 4 tablespoons olive oil 1/2 teaspoon Kosher salt 1/2 teaspoon fresh ground pepper

Slice tomatoes in half lengthwise. Add the tomato halves, along with the cheese to a medium bowl. Drizzle the olive oil over the top. Chop the basil neatly and add to taste, along with salt and pepper. (The mozzarella balls I chose came already swimming in some herb-infused olive oil, so I went ahead and substituted that for the 4 tablespoons mentioned above. You do what you gotta do though.) Toss ingredients together and enjoy alongside your main dish or as an entree.

Spicy Sriracha deviled eggs

I present my contribution to the Super Bowl grub last Sunday. These beauties are also a prime go-to for any pot luck or afternoon snack attack. This is a slightly altered version of The Pioneer Woman's recipe -- adapted to suit my higher heat tolerance. (Un poquito mas picoso, por favor.)

Sriracha Deviled Eggs Makes about 24, unless you're a taste-as-you-go kinda gal like me. Then, you might end up with 17. (Treat yo self.)

Ingredients 1 dozen hard-boiled eggs (peeled, sliced open longways, and yolks removed) 1/4 cup mayonnaise 4 tablespoons Sriracha 1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar Pepper to taste chives, chopped (optional)

In a medium-sized bowl, mix the yolks with the mayonnaise and Sriracha. Then add the vinegar and pepper. Mash it together until the mixture is pretty smooth. There may still be some small yolky clumps, but pay no mind. Either spoon the filling into the egg halves, or get fancy and use a piping bag, like me. Then, if you're feeling festive, top each egg with a couple of chives and dot with Sriracha.

Here comes the sun.

After a few days of traffic-snarling sleet, Austin was pleasantly surprised with a picture-perfect Sunday. 77 degrees and sunny? Yes, please. The day practically begged for some bubbly, so the beau and I spent the afternoon with friends at Driftwood Estate Winery -- just southwest of the city. With the Texas Hill Country as a backdrop, and a feisty wiener dog tow, we sat atop a beautiful bluff that overlooked the vineyards below and let the day take over.

It's a crooked path to contentment.

At brunch one morning on a recent cruise to Cozumel, one of our table mates announced that she'd been married to her husband for 52 years.  Naturally, a round of wows and congratulations went up. She may as well have declared magical powers. Of course I wanted to know their secret -- and so did the rest of the women at the table because someone else beat me to the punch. The veteran wife shrugged. "There is no secret," she said matter-of-factly. "I like him MOST of the time." I appreciated her honesty. And I wondered how many times she'd offered that answer to couples (read: women) eager to perfect their relationships. I was taking mental notes as usual. Scraps of relational wisdom have been taking their place in my back pocket for as long as I can remember. I started keeping a journal at age 9, citing childlike observations about classmates in detail. When I was in high school, I used my public library card to check out a book on tape: "Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus." (You may have heard of it.) If my memory serves me right, this audio "research" was an effort on the part of my resourceful 16-year-old self to master the elusive art of inter-gender communication. The fact-finding mission went on like this for over a decade. And I'd be lying if I said it ever really ended. Let's just say I became real good friends with Trial & Error.

Fast forward 17 years to breakfast on a cruise ship with my sweetheart.

"Are you on your honeymoon?" "How long have y'all been married?" "Any kids?"

These were the kinds of questions we got from both our wait staff and dining companions alike at mealtime on the ship. And a funny thing happened. I realized that a few years ago, that line of presumptuous questioning would have annoyed me. People are quick to assume this is what every woman wants -- that marriage and children are the pinnacle of achievement.

Hey man, I have a career to nurture! I have personal goals to meet!

Besides, my knack for relationships of the square-peg-round-hole variety had made me very well acquainted with the heavy weight of unrealistic expectations and disappointment. I just wasn't on board for more uncertainty. However, as it turns out, a little lady I'll call Timing was off enjoying a tropical vacation of her own, and I'm pretty sure she looked up from her daiquiri only to shake her head at me.

Wisdom or bust

When Mr. W walked into my life unexpectedly a year and a half ago, I wasn't prepared for his even-tempered, reliable presence. Or the easy conversation. He's a thoughtful listener who humors me when I go on about my social conscience, and challenges me when I take myself too seriously. He likes to celebrate the mundane with champagne. And chivalry is alive and well with him. Lord, have mercy! Everything fell into place so ... bizarrely.

One day at lunch, I relayed these bewildered sentiments to one of my girlfriends. She looked at me hard across the table. "Reyna, that's what it's SUPPOSED to be like."

Oh.

I was thrown. Had I really grown so accustomed to the relationship roller coaster that uncertainty had become my expectation? (All signs point to yes.) Thing is, I took that whole "relationships take work" thing a little too literally in the past because no pain, no gain, right? And that's bullshit, people. If it's just not working, and it makes you nauseous, you have to stop doing that to yourself and leave. My "make it work at all costs" mentality meant that I'd come to expect some serious soul-sucking overtime would be a regular part of the gig. And guess what? That's actually not the same thing as a sincere collaborative effort. Go figure.

It's a good thing I've been stockpiling wisdom like a doomsday prepper. These days, Timing is on my side, and she brought along a sickeningly sweet satisfaction that I'm quick to recognize as rare. Besides, I can't keep making chickenshit assumptions about marriage based on other people's experiences. So this time, when the inevitable questions were posed by strangers around the breakfast table, they made me smile. Contentment is a powerful salve, you know.

I guess I'm doing something right.

It's no secret that I'm an advocate for girls' education and empowerment. Research shows that investing in young women and promoting their education correlates with healthier families, higher family incomes and economic development. I believe wholeheartedly in the transformative effect that a good education can have on a girl struggling to find her place in this world.

Oh, so this is about girl power? Kind of, but that's not what I'm getting at. The point is that opportunity doesn't knock on every girl's door. And that's where my campaign for education came in.

Over the last couple of months, I appealed to friends and family requesting donations for my annual fundraiser for the Young Women's Alliance Foundation. YWAF is a female-focused leadership organization that I believe in and serve with -- and it's our gig to award grants and scholarships to young women and girls in the Austin area. These donations not only help provide local young women the gift of higher education, but they also help fund the character-building organizations that support them. These donations create economic opportunities. They support the next generation of smart, capable women leaders. That's what I'm getting at.

For two months I enlisted donors to answer this call. My call. Not theirs. Most of them don't really know what YWAF is. Heck, many don't even live in the Austin area. They simply cared enough to make a donation to an organization that I told them I invest half my time in. And I guess I'm doing something right.

Since I started my campaign in November, I've been carrying around a little extra weight. That's because I felt my heart grow three sizes every time I saw a name appear on my fundraising page offering someone else's hard-earned money to help fund a stranger's future. Incredibly, that happened 83 times -- totaling $4,500 for education.

Nearly $20,000 was raised by our membership at large, and the benefits are already having an impact. Last week, the YWAF awarded a $5,000 Community Grant to Explore Austin, an awesome local organization that combines the benefits of mentoring and outdoor adventure for under-served youth in 6th-12th grades. Explore Austin will use the grant money to expand their girls’ program to a second middle school campus, enabling them to serve 90 girls by the end of 2014. That’s a significant expansion of the program.

Grateful is just not strong enough a word. I’m so humbled to have friends and family who helped make that possible.

Drop me off at the next reef.

Just like a dream, we woke up in Cozumel on a Saturday morning. Can we make this a regular thing, please? Wake up in middle of ocean. Get off boat. Start day on Mexican beach. I'll take two. A short cab ride from the port, and we were lying on the beach at Nachi Cocom, a private club where I had reserved two spots for Mr. W's birthday. Snorkeling was on the agenda, so it wasn't long  before we hopped on a glass-bottom boat for a choppy 15-minute ride to Colombia Shallows, a popular reef made up of large coral heads. Miles and miles of turquoise water surrounded us when seasickness struck, but there was no turning back. I crossed my fingers. We donned our gear and hopped overboard.

Soon enough, serenity found me -- wide-eyed and eager to acclimate. The underwater adventure turned out to be a long slow drift with hardly a current. Perfection. Our guide motioned toward schools of snapper and all sizes of sponges. Underwater, he held up a starfish bigger than his face. He poked at an agitated barracuda. And he pulled up a sea spider with more legs than I could count, asking me in Spanish if I wanted to hold it. 'Preciate the offer, but I'm gonna pass on that one, Señor Joseph. I'll stick to stalking the angel fish. 

On a second stop at the nearby Palancar Reef, a stingray lay solo at the bottom of the sea. We watched him for a while. Rough life, man. Next chance I get, I'm writing him a fan letter.

The sea of approval

I have a new appreciation for toe rings and animal prints after a recent cruise to Cozumel with Mr. Wonderful. Many of our shipmates looked suspiciously like the people of Walmart, but I will give credit where creativity is concerned. Kudos to the groups of cruisers sporting matching shirts bearing phrases like, "Get Ship Faced" and "Titanic Swim Team." What can I say? I I have a soft spot for XXL puns. Well done.

All the while, I was crossing my fingers I wouldn't end up with a "SURVIVOR: Carnival Edition" tee as a souvenir after hearing about the infamous "poop cruise" last fall. If you remember, that's when a fire knocked out THIS VERY SHIP's power, leaving 4,000 passengers and crew stranded for 4 days without sufficient food, water or toilets. I don't think I have to explain the nickname.  Thankfully during our stay, all went swimmingly aboard the Triumph -- named appropriately. Full disclosure: I may have boarded the ship with my own travel-sized bottle of Lysol. I may have worn flip flops in the shower. And I most certainly had the hand sanitizer on rotation. So there you have it. Confessions of a germaphobe. Revealed.

Minus a little motion-induced vertigo, our sunny sail days were pretty solid. Impressive cleanliness, lot of activities, great food, good tunes, and, of course, perfect poolside company.

Actually, seasick sweetheart seemed perfectly content in his lounge chair watching me host a dance party of one on the lido deck. Who knew that Pitbull had such an effect on me? Or was it the lovely libation presented to me in a pineapple? Warning: Novelty drinks may cause illusions of grandeur on the dance floor -- as evidenced by the rum cocktail served up inside a disco ball the night before. All aboard!

Giving peas a chance

My New Year's holiday has been marked by the inclusion of traditional Mexican "bunuelos" for as long as I can remember. There were always tamales -- and often enough brisket for 17 of your first cousins. But after an evening of sparklers, black snakes and  pop-pop snappers in the driveway,  those delicious discs of fried dough dusted with cinnamon and sugar beat any Roman candle by a long shot.

This year, however,  I opted to partake in the Southern institution of black-eyed peas in the form of a lovely dip, via The Pioneer Woman. Obviously. Tip: Don't wait until 3 p.m. on New Year's Eve to secure said peas from grocery store. As expected, the shelf that's usually lined with the little buggers was barren, so I called up some purple hull peas from the bench. To those who partook in the peas: I apologize in advance if you do not fulfill your New Year's resolutions as a result of my substitution. Here's the recipe. Easy peasy. 

¡Feliz Año Nuevo 2014!

That one time I almost broke into someone's car

The problem with searching for my ubiquitous little Nissan among thousands of cars in the Disney World-size parking lot at work is that there are literally dozens of others that look exactly like it -- mocking me. Actually, I'm told it's not all that not uncommon to find yourself attempting to unlock a vehicle you innocently assume is yours. Picture me, stabbing my key into a lock unsuccessfully. First, a glance back at the rear windshield. Perhaps a look at the bumper. Then, the questions start to percolate. "Wait. Did I support Nader in 1996?"

"Am I the proud parent of a U.S. Navy SEAL cadet?”

"I don't own a miniature schnauzer. How can it be smarter than your honor's student?"

OH, DAMN. I DID IT AGAIN.

Before advertising, I was a journalist.

Bound by the border

Last weekend, I joined a group of former colleagues from The Monitor (read: first real job) to celebrate the wedding of two friends who now call Nashville home. More than a decade ago, our South Texas paths crossed as newly minted journalists in hot pursuit of a lead story and the Spanish language.  It was inside that McAllen, Texas, newsroom where lifelong friendships were born, and -- as this weekend would prove -- a certain romance blossomed.

My tenure as a copy editor and occasional reporter for the newspaper there only spanned 2002 to 2005, but as a young twenty-something, those years naturally provided me a great deal of personal and professional growth. Not to mention a whole lot of politics, religion, heartbreak and cheap Lambrusco. Cue Sarah McLaughlin.

In Tennessee, over a few glasses of much better wine, we reminisced about everything from our favorite musica en español to good ole Valley politics. Some remembered late nights sitting around empty pizza boxes awaiting the results of local elections. And I recalled writing headlines about some of those elected officials -- many of them later mired in corruption scandals.  Others lamented long days in the field covering common border issues, like immigration, human trafficking and the drug cartels. One former colleague recounted the time a notorious gang member tripped over his shackles and fell on her as she sat in court to cover his capital murder trial in 2003. (The guy was executed just last month.)

But perhaps more important to our local readers was the other stuff. High school football. The daily crossword. Quinceañera announcements. Letters to the editor. And, of course, the obits. I spent countless Friday nights proofreading editorials, waiting for overtime scores, or poring over descriptions of lost loved ones. And I was smitten.

It's been many years since I left the paper for a relationship with the web. The digital news cycle has long since transformed the role of newspapers, but The Monitor hangs on -- keeping a vital pulse on the Rio Grande Valley and its community.  That newsroom is where I first learned the Space Shuttle Columbia disintegrated over parts of Texas. That Dubya was re-elected president. That Elizabeth Smart was found alive. That the DC snipers were captured. That the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina was much worse than anyone ever expected.

Many of the transplanted journalists I met in McAllen are now scattered across the country. Most have moved on to new fields as readers continue to abandon print for digital media. But on a recent Tennessee Saturday night, there was a damn good reason for a reunion: Yankee girl marries Southern boy.

And just like old friends do, we picked up right where we left off -- celebrating the new couple with the The Hora, a little two-step, y un poquito de Selena. Mozel tov, indeed.

Dance, monkey!

A lederhosen-clad fellow at the Germantown Festival in Nashville, Tennessee, plays a hand-cranked Raffin street organ.

The mother church of country music

Behold Ryman Auditorium, home of the Grand Ole Opry from 1943-1974.  We took a self-guided tour around the National Historic Landmark, which first opened in 1892 as the Union Gospel Tabernacle. Now, the popular Nashville music venue plays host to myriad performances and events. On this Saturday afternoon, the crew prepped for a sold out Lumineers show.

Guten morgen, Nashville.

The scene looked a lot like this on Saturday morning as we arrived in Germantown. Men and women in lederhosen and dirndls lined up beside us for the annual 5K run/walk through the historic streets and farmer's market of Nashville.  At the finish line: A commemorative bier mug and complimentary Oktobefest brew. Obviously.

For the love of SPAM

That's Alice. She plays the canjo. Its long neck is made from reclaimed wood, then fitted with a single Banjo string and a can of SPAM. An empty can of the potted meat apparently produces better sound than, say, Campbell's. In fact, each canjo is tuned to the key of D. I found Alice selling the instruments at Oktoberfest in the Germantown neighborhood of Nashville on Saturday morning.

Yes, that's a Playboy logo in the desert.

On our way outta Dodge on Sunday, we drove past the now-notorious 40-foot neon Playboy logo and, er, Dodge Charger in the middle of the desert. The art installation went up quietly in June on the outskirts of Marfa, and it wasn't long before disapproving locals filed a complaint, calling licensing and permits into question. Is it art or advertising? Stay tuned for the bunny's fate.