My Favorite Travel Buddy

Retiree wine pourer at Sonoma Valley winery... says something about San Fernando Valley.
Me: "Ahh yes, the San Fernando Valley. Is that not* where the Xalisco boys initiated the black tar heroine trade?"
Retiree (with some enthusiasm): "Yes. My book club just finished a book about that. Dreamland."

I told you my newfound knowledge was going to be relevant to stimulating conversation. On a different note, I think I'm going to be very good at retirement. Although, let's be honest, I spent the last three weeks traveling and the three weeks prior working an average of two hours per day,* so I'm well on my way.

I still have to take over the world before official retirement, though, which brings us to my current state. I just finished over-packing two bags that probably won't fit in my New York sublet and am waiting for my mother to pick me up.* This seems the perfect time to write one last post from my favorite spot in Ann Arbor - my little porch. With a cup of coffee, Head and the Heart in the background, and an overly comfortable squirrel shamelessly ogling my breakfast. The topic for today: my favorite travel buddy.

I was twenty years old, and it was the first time Julie and I vacationed alone. Four days at a resort in Mexico. We spent the entire time on the resort, probably in part because neither of us wanted to go out and lose the other - more than likely, I would be the one who got lost.

One day, we indulged in massages. It was my very first massage. The women left the two of us in the room with instructions to de-robe and lie on the table. Until that point, I had been very conservative around Julie, always changing in the bathroom, but I looked at the table, and thought, "Alright, I guess I have to listen to them."

Julie, laying on her table, looked over and graciously corrected me: "Anna, you're supposed to put the sheet over your body."

Ahhh the wisdom of your elders. Eleven years is a large age gap, especially growing up. Julie and I were constantly at different stages, so very few aspects of our lives were relatable - until I graduated college, at which point, many of Julie's friends were beginning a different stage of their lives, getting married and starting families. Since both our other sisters were married, my flexibility made us ideal travel buddies, though there were still some differences. When our first dinner bill in Charlottesville was $100, I gasped in pain, and Julie smiled at how cheap it was compared to a dinner in Chicago.

Our trips have taken us to five continents, one of the seven wonders, countless restaurants and wineries, the Prime Meridian. At least we think. The landmark was closed when we got there, so we had to extrapolate where the Prime Meridian would be and straddle the imaginary line. We've missed a flight or two, underestimated distances, miscalculated directions, had near meltdowns due to lack of food. But we've laughed more,* grown closer despite being on opposite ends of the world, and found that our travel styles are nearly perfect complements.

Julie is happy to plan, and I am happy to let her do so. In February, when I casually suggested a potential trip in April, I was not surprised when three text messages later, she had booked a 7-day stay at a resort in Southern Thailand.

We share a relative disinterest in history. It's not that we don't appreciate history. We just don't appreciate paying ten pounds to climb a flight of stairs in a dilapidated structure that some guy named Henry inhabited at one point and would rather soak in the culture by means of meandering through a city, stopping at reasonable intervals for food and drink.*

We could spend an hour discussing whether we would rather have pizza hands or sweat cheese, along with all the nuances and unintended consequences one must consider when answering such impossible hypotheticals. But we can also talk about careers, love, and hardship. We're also happy to sit in silence and read. For about ten minutes. Then I share a new thought about cheese, or Julie updates me on her body temperature. Or a classic song begins playing, I sing off-pitch, and Julie hums.

When you spend so much time with someone, a squabble or two is inevitable. Like in London, when I thought we should get tea but couldn't grasp why it was exorbitantly expensive.

Me: We're in London. We should get afternoon tea.
Julie: Here are the options in the city.
Me: Why are they all 40 pounds? Why would I spend 40 pounds in the afternoon on tea? This is absurd. There's not even any alcohol.
Julie: I understand your frustration, Anna, but if you want afternoon tea, that's what it is.
Me (indignantly): Well, maybe I don't want tea.

We drank wine and ate cheese instead.

Or in Buenos Aires, when I ordered dessert and set the expectation that I was, under no circumstance, sharing. And then Julie asked for a bite. I think I eventually gave her a bite, though with great hesitation. I may still hold that once the expectation is set, there is no social obligation to share. Especially when it comes to matters of dessert.

Clearly, most squabbles revolve around food.

But food is also the source of much of our joy. From Peruvian ceviche to Malaysian street food to a well-balanced charcuterie board, we both begin thinking about our next meal after the last, and continue to reminisce on its goodness throughout our journeys.

Some things haven't changed over the years. A Seinfeld reference still seems relevant about every day. Cross-cultural massage etiquette still confuses me. For instance, in Thailand, they don't leave the room and expect you to de-robe in front of them. And then they sit you up and wrap the towel around you, repositioning your appendages and grunting. It's all very awkward.

But some things have changed. Netflix, for instance. We watched the first season of Los Chicas de Cable during our nights in Southeast Asia, and I have a new obsession with Spanish men and 20s fashion. We need to bring the top hat and low-waist dresses back. Also, if your name is Pedro or Francisco, I may shamelessly try to win your affections.

Our relationship has changed, too. Those trips, those hours and hours spent with only each other, have made us that much closer. I am very grateful to have another person who can share her experience, encourage me, and challenge me - all while making me smile.

My favorite part of having Julie as a travel buddy is that she's forced to like me the rest of my life. And when we're retired, and she's visiting me in my Sonoma home, we'll remember that day in Queenstown we stumbled upon a cozy inn, drank mulled wine and played an impossible game of LOTR trivial pursuit. Or that meal in Argentina, with steak, Malbec, and so many sauces, that was simply divine. Or that night in Penang we decided to stay up past our usual ten o'clock bedtime. We got the last table at China House, drank the most well-garnished lychee martinis, enjoyed hours of incredible funk,* and finished the evening running through the empty streets in torrential downpour. And we'll sip our wine and laugh.

* I said isn't. But is that not sounds sophisticated.
* Kind of an exaggeration.
* I lent Maleek to someone for the summer, and I'm already missing him, especially because he got in a brawl and has a brutal black eye. And I can't even be there for the path to recovery.
* And louder than anyone
* So every hour.
* They have funk in Malaysia!

Year One in the Books!

I've been thinking about this post the past week. My first year of MBA life came to a close, and I know my ten readers are on edge, clamoring for me to relay my insights and inspirations. Unfortunately, I could not document them immediately, as I began the break with an approximate sixty hour journey that would have been seventy hours had I not made the last minute decision to change my 7 AM flight to 4 PM. One thing the last year has taught me is that I do not do well with 5 AM wakeup calls. The trip included a night in San Fran, where I enjoyed tacos - because Ann Arbor's Mexican game is not strong - and catching up with a friend; a night in Shanghai, where I first applauded myself for not getting ripped off, then got dropped at the wrong hotel, then meandered around the dark streets until I found the correct hotel; and a lot of sleeping in uncomfortable positions. Finally, I landed in Chiang Mai, the beginning of my second tour de Southeast Asia during the hottest time of the year. The first four days, my body was heavily rebuking me for the last eight months - or, more succinctly, the last three weeks - of school by means of a horrendous cough and head cold. Thank you, Julie, for tolerating a level of snoring disproportionate to my size.

Now, sitting on the porch of our incredibly inexpensive but luxurious villa in the South of Thailand, listening to a tropical storm pass through, having finished Dreamland: the True Tale of America's Opium Epidemic, seems the perfect time to finally reflect. When will my newfound knowledge of the spread of OxyContin, prescription painkillers, and black tar heroin come in handy? I'm sure it will arise in cocktail conversation at some point. And when it does, I will be at the ready with a fifteen minute synopsis of how a small, enterprising Mexican town's new take on drug dealing coincided with the perfect storm of Big Pharma, the pain revolution, the deindustrialization and subsequent job loss in the Rust Belt, the rise of WalMart, and of course, health insurance, to wreak havoc on, not the ghetto where heroin once reigned, but the middle to upper white middle class, with Ohio being at the heart of it all.

For my next book, Julie suggested I consider a romance, a book peppered with phrases like, "throbbing manhood." I told her the only time my reading would encounter throbbing manhood is if it was a medical journal on erectile disfunction or STDs. I don't mix reading with pleasure.

Fair warning: this post may be more verbose than usual. The last seven weeks of school, Ross first year students participate in MAP - Multidisciplinary Action Projects* - around the world. It's a great way to experience group work, as you are on a team with three to five other students, tackling a consulting-type problem, although with much fewer resources and likely lower expectations on the sponsor's end. I realized during the project how little group work I have actually done throughout my career. I was the marketing department at VividCortex, and in client work, while I may have been on a team for the same client, there was generally a clear delineation of power and responsibility, so this project pushed me in different ways. Among them was my communication style, which, believe it or not, can be seen by some as, "too much talking." Shocking, I know.*

I think I did a fair job adjusting, though as I type, both my brain and fingers are relieved to be free from the shackles of stifling structure. They want to sing, dance, and break into the Phoebe run.* With that caveat, let's recap year numero uno.

I had a lot of firsts. First Wolverine football game. First Wolverine t-shirt and subsequent first time my parents seriously considered disowning me.* First keg stand - which, I'm surprisingly good at. Terrible at slap cup. Pretty good at keg stands. Finally, the fruits of those second period study hall Nalgene-chugging competitions with Bobby Doyle are showing. First time I made it to every class in a quarter - only one quarter, but I did do it.

I got rejected a time or two. By a venture fund, for peer coaching. Ross Diaries. The German immersion class. Pretty much any serious spot I tried to obtain. How am I not qualified to go to a country hailed for beer where beautiful tall blondes roam the street? Probably because I'm Polish. I've managed to get over it as I sit here with views like this.

I didn't get rejected from the bus, though, and you better believe Nips Navs will be vying for best white girl moves on top of that sucker every Saturday home game. I also will be helping direct Follies, the b-school version of SNL, where my sarcasm, knack for shameless humiliation, and song writing abilities can really shine. I think if I'm perfectly honest with myself, my talents are best suited there and not on venture funds.

I had to make some big decisions. I volunteered to ref the MBA2 games which are an opportunity to showcase the extent to which your athleticism has continued to deteriorate over the course of two years with the competitive vigor of a post pubescent teenager. Section two was going for a two point conversion, and I had already made a controversial call against them. The quarterback threw a dart, the receiver caught the ball in, questionably, the back corner of the end zone, bobbled it as he fell, and secured the ball as he came to the ground. To make the judgment more difficult, someone had thought it okay to step in between me and the end zone. I went with my gut. Incomplete. I then had five angry men in my face, demanding my first born child's birthright.

I also had to decide which internship to take.

I acquired some nuggets of knowledge. Although let's be honest, much of my homework was done watching NFL at Hopcat, my go-to sports bar that isn't quite as good as Citizen's, but has some phenomenal crack fries.

I had a few accomplishments. Like getting the arbitrary award of best laugh in section five.

I met some wonderful, lovely people. Ones who made me laugh, who encouraged me, who stretched my thinking, and who could belt out every nineties classic with me. I also met a few I care never to see again. But definitely more of the former.

The time has affirmed much. While the generation of Seinfeld lovers is fading, those who appreciate a reference to yada yada, the soup Nazi, or the Elaine dance are true gems. You should never be bummed about not being included. You should just invite yourself. And anywhere you go can feel a bit like high school, so it's best to smile a lot and not involve yourself with frivolous aspects of the experience.

I hate winters in the Midwest. They begin tolerable enough, but around day thirty of no sun, as my skin becomes translucent, I question my decision to leave the mild months of sun and chill in Virginia. Then I remember how much I love being closer to family.

Mostly, though, it has affirmed my decision to pursue grad school when I did. When I left Charlottesville, I quoted Andre Agassi's book, Open*: "Get yourself tired. That's when you'll know yourself. On the other side of tired." My six years had solidified that.

There were times that were harder than others. But even during the week in Winter A when I desperately wanted recruiting to end, and the week in Winter B when I seemed to be an endless stream of sobs, I never once questioned who I am, what I value, or why I'm here.

And I'm freakin pumped that it ain't over yet.

* Very high letter to syllable ratio with this acronym
* I'm also too sarcastic from time to time.
* May I just say, I think it interesting that in situations where one style of communication is less structured than another, it is generally assumed that the less structured style should adjust. I think both styles have their place and advantages. What if, instead, the structured communicator listened to the unstructured communicator and put a framework around what the unstructured communicator said?
Also, the Phoebe run is my ten second burst when I want to feel absolutely uninhibited. It has been done on many streets, many university quads, and a winery or two.
* I kid, I kid. I'm too cute to disown.
* Read it!