family – AdventuresOfTheRattyPack

Don’t Go Chasin’ Waterfalls

Published on October 4, 2017October 16, 2017 by Kim Ratcliff6 Comments

“How many bikes?” asked the guy at Big Sur Adventures.

“Just one,” I said.

“You alone?”

“Yep.”

Jimmy had just left on a 3-day dudes only backpacking trip. I was ready for an adventure of my own. I’d heard about this pop-up electric bike rental biz that opened after last winter’s storms left a section of Highway 1 closed so I went down on a whim. “Good timing,” the guy said as I signed my forms. When the road reopens on October 14, he said, this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity will disappear faster than the mist in the Big Sur redwoods.

The Mercury News said biking through Big Sur with no traffic was like visiting the Louvre on a private tour. I was excited. It was an epic Indian summer day—80 degrees. I had to park in Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park, then hike in 30 minutes through the campgrounds and steepish trail to reach the pop up.

With beefy tires and an electric motor, my Rad Rover power bike was a cross between a mountain bike and a moped. (Love Rad’s slogan: The ebike that makes you feel like a kid again. So true!) The bike had an easy learning curve. I felt like much less of a dork than the time we rented Segways in Golden Gate Park and got flipped off by all the locals.

The suggested route was 18 miles round trip — out to Julia Pfeiffer State Park and back. Sounds like a trek but totally do-able because the e-bikes have pep. And even with five levels of pedal assist, pedaling is involved so you get a decent workout.

I snaked around Highway 1’s curves with a bird’s eye of the blue green coves and thrashing waves. The redwood trees smelled fresh and clean. Having the whole highway to myself was amazing. I shared the road with maybe 20 cars during my ride. A smile was plastered to my face the entire afternoon.

In no time I had traveled nine miles to iconic Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park where far below sat a stunning white sand beach. McWay Falls Waterfall poured into a cove with the prettiest aquamarine water I’ve ever seen.

The guys at the shop said the beach was inaccessible, but anyone who knows me knows I can not be near a river, stream, lake or ocean without submerging. I looked all over for a way to get down that treacherous cliff, the one that said “STAY OFF! DANGER!”

A wooden observation pathway curved teasingly along the cliff. As I walked it, I thought there has to be a way down. I found one way but the terrain looked sketchy plus I would have had to navigate a rocky outcropping at the bottom to get to the beach/waterfall. Every ounce of me wanted in that water. Then I saw the ILLEGAL sign and cooled my jets.

On the way out I chatted with two nice chicks in their 30s from San Francisco. We fangirled over how the pretty water was, etc. Then one asked, “Are you alone?”

“Yep.”

Soon I started back, waving at other e-bikers as we passed. Being so isolated from the mass of humanity was heaven for a crowd-avoidant person like me. It was almost 5 pm but still warm and sunny. The guys at the shop told me to look out for a dirt pullout and green gate leading down to Partington Cove. “Can I go in the water there?” I’d asked.

No, they said, the cove was too rocky and dangerous. Yada yada yada. I locked my bike at the gate and hiked down the quick but steep trail, passing a few bikers walking up. At the bottom I found myself alone in a remote cove. The water was definitely not Julia Pfeiffer Caribbean blue –more like bong water brown, littered with big blobs of seaweed and lots of rocks.

But the only child/rule breaker in me said: You are going to get in that water even if it kills you…

Then the words of the guys at the bike place echoed in my ears…it’s really rocky…We wouldn’t advise it….

I pictured myself eating it or getting trapped under a boulder. If anything happened it would be after dark when they noticed I hadn’t returned my bike, then they would have no way of seeing my bike from the road. I did not want to recreate my own version of “127 Hours” with me in the James Franco role.

Hot, sweaty and defeated, I looked around. Nearby a pithy waterfall gurgled its way into the cove. I stripped down to my bikini, plopped into the 4 inches of water, awkwardly leaned back, and let the cool water tinkle over my head.

While sun drying on a rock afterward, I looked closely at the seaweed blobs. They looked just like… SEA OTTERS. Then I remembered after the bike guys told me I’d die if I went into the rocky cove, they said to look for sea otters. There must have been 50 baby sea otters bobbing in the waves. At least I think that’s what they were. Still not positive but bringing bino’s next time for sure.

I had to return my bike by 7 p.m. so I hustled up the trail, hopped on my bike and rode to Nepenthe, the Big Sur institution perched 800 feet above the ocean. The last time I’d been there was with Mary Jubb, who passed away a few years ago. We were high school juniors road tripping down 1 to go check out UCSB. Mary ordered the roast chicken, I remembered, and we probably tried to order Barcardi cocktails and got shut down. I sat there with that glorious view, those sweet Mary memories and that killer glass of Chard, and soaked up the moment.

On the dusky mile ride back I did not see another soul. Zooming those curves, damp hair drying in the warm evening, I felt like the last person on earth. A few bikes were left in the Nepenthe lot as I left, including the two women I’d seen back at Julia Pfeiffer. We talked again about the amazing day and they asked me to let the rental guys know they were running a few minutes late.

I returned my bike and began hiking back to my car. The sky soon darkened but I flicked on my trusty iPhone flashlight. The road threaded through campsites with tents and families sitting around fires. The smell of oak and eucalyptus drifted through the air. It was all good until suddenly I found myself walking down a dark deserted road with no idea where my car was. The trees rustled and everything was eerily quiet.

Just then two figures came walking toward me from the opposite direction. Silhouetted against the black forest I imagined two big hairy ax murders. They came closer, oh my god. Forget “127 Hours,” I was going to star in “Nightmare on State Park Street.” I start to freak… soon we were face to face. Relief flooded me when I realized it was the SF women I’d chatted up throughout the day.

“Oh hey, you lost too?” they asked.

Map in hand we crunched through the trees together. They told me they recently completed grad school and this was their last blast before starting careers as mid wives.

Miraculously we stumbled our way through the forest, crossed a bridge and stumbled into deserted Lot 4 where our two cars waited.

“What’s your name?” asked Midwife 1.

“Kim.”

“Kim, it’s so cool you said ‘Peace Out’ to your husband and did this alone,” Midwife 2 said.

I laughed and told them I’d quite enjoyed my own company.

We hugged it out and got in our cars.

Truthfully I was surrounded by a bunch of baby otters (I think?), a couple of midwives, Mary Jubb and best of all, the gorgeous Big Sur scenery.

I hadn’t been alone. Not at all.

How to do Oahu Like a Local

Published on August 31, 2016September 8, 2016 by Kim Ratcliff4 Comments

Whenever I arrive anywhere tropical, I’m always jonesing to jump in the ocean. That’s why, right after landing on Oahu earlier this summer, we hit Waikiki beach. After years of bribing and threatening, Jimmy and I are stoked Tanner & Saxon finally love to surf. (Although I do not love how they constantly tell me what a crappy paddler I am and how I need Jimmy to slingshot me into waves.)

We hooked up with legendary pro surfer Hans Hedemann. Hans is Oahu born, owns two surf schools (Waikiki and Turtle Bay Resort on the North Shore), and is super down to earth. He took us to a mellow spot called “Sandbar” toward the Honolulu zoo end of Waikiki.

The water is so warm and aqua. And you can surf in a bikini! The view—Diamond Head, the highrises and iconic pink Royal Hawaiian Hotel was gorgeous—and gliding over that turquoise glass made me feel giddy.

I tried to get some scoop from Hans about his time on the world tour but he was tight lipped.

He did tell me that he gave Cameron Diaz lessons twice a day for an entire month, and she got so good, by the end he was taking her out into juicy double overhead surf. He also told us about his son, Johann, a musician who attends the Berklee College of Music in Boston. Jimmy, the bros and I caught a ton of “party waves.” We even surfed alongside an outrigger canoe on a few waves. After a few hours, we got out of the water all salty and blissed out, and walked past Kuhio Beach Park where locals were hosting grad party BBQs. I asked Hans if I was ready for juicy surf like Cameron.

“Not yet,” he laughed.

With the smell of plumeria and teri chicken wafting through the air, we hopped in the car. As we drove off, Hans’ son, Johann (aka Johann Beach), played us out…Listen to Johann’s perfect post-surf sesh song, “Girl Crazy” here.

One of the best things about visiting Oahu was hanging with our good friend, Rich and his family. We’ve known Rich since junior high and his personality has definitely improved with age.

dixon
Next, it was off to the windward side of Oahu to Kailua with Team Erickson.

Kailua Beach is postcard pretty. I always feel like I could stay out in the water forever doing handstands and splashing around. The sand is soft and white, palm trees sway in the tradewinds, and the beach is dotted with an eclectic mix of people and dogs including Charlie, the amazing camouflaging Golden Doodle.

After our beach day, Jules took me around Kailua, and showed me all the hotspots.

Aloha Suprette was my fave.

A superette is a New Zealand term for a small supermarket or convenience store. The gem of a boutique features unique wares by different artists. The jewelry draped over chunks of coral and cute neon-trimmed beach togs had me drooling.

samudra2

I was obsessed with this fuchsia surfboard by Travis Reynolds, a Santa Cruz surfer/artist/shaper. Alas, it wouldn’t fit in my suitcase…

Luckily, this cool piece did.

Travis upcycled leftover surfboard fiberglass to make the “canvas,” even splattering it with neon resin. Reminds me of surfer spin art.

Another happening ‘hood is Monsarrat Avenue near the base of Diamond Head. There are Acai bowl places and juice joints, the order-at-the counter Diamond Head Market with freshly made scones, passion fruit cheesecake and pickled mango by the pint. By far our favorite spot was ARS Cafe. With vintage vinyl spinning on the record player and industrial chic decor, this espresso/coffee/gelato/art gallery is a charming spot to chill.

food-feat2-1024x576 — The avocado toast is a must. The soft bread is so flavorful and comes smothered with beets, arugula, avocado and a poached egg.

Later, it was time to venture into Waikiki. We arrived at House Without a Key at the Halekulani Hotel just in time for sunset. Under a pinky blue abalone shell sky, a trio of musicians played the ukulele and sang about a yellow ginger lei while a hula dancer swayed gracefully.

Could there be a more quintessential Hawaiian experience? Honestly, I think these are the tastiest Mai Tais on the planet. They have the perfect tart to sweet ratio and a little sugar cane swizzle stick you can chomp on. (Try the recipe here.)

I could have pounded 10 so it’s a good thing we had to dash—it was time for dinner.

kimmy with mai tai

Tiki torches licking the black sky, we took the beach route passing a dude with a metal detector sifting the now cool Waikiki sands for treasure—classic!—to a swell little boutique hotel in Waikiki called the Surf Jack and Swim Club.

It’s the coolest vintage-y hotel. Their motto is “Bringing soul back to Waikiki.” Walk into the covered lobby and the first thing you see is this swimming pool inscribed with “Wish You Were Here”…

Surf Jack.JPG

The center of the hotel is open air so you look up at a starry sky. On the platform bar area above the pool area are cute little cabanas where you can party semi-privately, and on the upper ten floors, 112 guest rooms which seem reasonably priced.

We ate at the hotel’s restaurant, Machina & Sons.

Great food even if the shaka wall paper nauseated poor Jules. — Great food, company and decor. Check out the Shaka wall paper!

Next, it was on to the North Shore. The North Shore is relaxed and lush. Locals have managed to keep it country. Hans has a surf school at Turtle Bay so once again, we hit the waves. Here, Jimmy gives Kelly Slater a run for his world title.

We cruised into Haleiwa for sushi and window shopping. When we arrived at Matsumoto’s for shave ice, the line snaked out the door and deep into the courtyard. Jimmy wanted to bail. I thought there was no way this place could live up to its hype.

Guess what?

This shave ice is legit. Watching the women create perfect snowballs from an ice block, then drizzle it with tropical flavors—mango, papaya, lilikoi, yes please! and the piece de resistance a touch of sweet condensed milk—was mesmerizing. Plus the taste was nirvana.

In the end, we didn’t want to leave. Oahu feels so much less touristy even though it’s supposedly the most touristy isle of all. There are fun new restaurants and hotels to explore, along with old school institutions.

After grabbing some tuberose leis from the airport stands, back we headed to the mainland.

Still thinking about all the fun we had and missing these cute little mango sellers.

Debbie Downer Does San Diego

Published on August 31, 2015September 2, 2015 by Kim Ratcliff7 Comments

Tanner and I were flying down south for a musical theater audition at SDSU. I saw the sojourn as the perfect mother-son bonding opportunity. After all, I had to milk every moment before he left for college.

“Don’t mess up, Kimmy,” Jimmy said before we left. “I need you on your A-game.”

We arrived to unseasonably warm mid-February weather. Everyone was in a glorious mood. Everyone except Tanner. Buds jammed in his ears, eyes glued to his phone, he totally ignored me.

On the morning of the BIG DAY, I ran through the La Jolla Cove where we celebrated our boy’s first birthday with a cookout and cupcakes 18 years ago.

How quickly the years passed. Anticipating life without Tanner belting show tunes and dirtying every pan with his muscle man meals made me feel blue.

Tanner’s audition wasn’t until four so after my run I suggested lunch at Puesta taqueria in downtown La Jolla.

After we sat down, I pointed across the street. “There’s my favorite restaurant, Herringbone.”

“Hrrmmp,” he said. “More like Pricey-bone.”

“This menu sure looks good!” I said.

“Uh-oh,” Tanner said. “‘Not guaranteed to be cooked in a gluten free environment’—NOT good.’”

“If we alert the waitress, I’m sure she’ll be on it.”

“Achoooooo!” Tanner sneezed. “Oh no, I think I”m catching a cold!

Womp. Womp. Who was I dining with? Debbie Downer? — Womp. Womp. Who the heck was I dining with–Debbie Downer?

I chalked Tanner’s grumpy mood up to pre-audition nerves and tried to keep the mood sunny.

Speaking of sunny, Windansea Beach was a few blocks away. I proposed a quick post-lunch swim to help dry his stuffy nose.

I bodysurfed in the warm water. Tanner sat on the beach checking his watch.

“We should go,” he yelled.

“Five more minutes!” I pleaded.

We returned to the hotel with plenty of time. Blissed out from the beach, I leisurely ironed his chino’s while he lingered in the shower. By the time we climbed in the car, it was 3:15. I felt a twinge of panic.

It’ll be tight but we’ll make it, I thought…until we pulled out of the hotel driveway. It took fifteen tortuous minutes just to crawl one mile onto the freeway ramp. SD traffic had become as brutal as LA’s.

Tanner was livid. Smoke was pouring from his ears.

And who could blame him?

How could I be so irresponsible? How could I misjudge rush hour traffic? Why couldn’t the beach have waited until after his audition? Jimmy’s pep talk echoed in my ears, Don’t mess up, A-game Kimmy.

As we merged onto the 52, I prayed for empty lanes only to find a river of red brake lights. It was now 3:40. And SDSU was still fifteen miles away.

“We’re NOT gonna make it,” Tanner said. “If I’m late, I WILL NOT go to my audition.”

Inside I was freaking out. Tanner’s slot was 4:00 to 4:10—exactly enough time to perform two monologues and 32 bars of “I Chose Right” from Baby. There were no other audition days. No other weekends. This was Tanner’s big chance.

Then an idea hit. “Pull up the audition email on your phone,” I said. “We can call the theatre department.”

“It’ll never work!” he said.

“We have to try!”

He dialed the number on speaker.

1st ring—we are so screwed.

2nd ring—NO way anyone is going to answer the Friday before President’s Day weekend.

3rd ring—Tanner is never going to forgive me.

Fourth ring—Click. “Hello?”

Then some guy, no, some Saint named Peter answered. St. Peter told Tanner, “No problem, we’ll squeeze you in when you get here.”

We screeched in at 4:25 and Tanner bolted for the Don Powell Theater.

He found me after his audition, ecstatic. “They were scribbling notes during my song. I think they liked me.”

Relief washed over me like the aqua waves at Windansea.

In the car, we cranked Hall and Oates “You Make My Dreams Come True” and sang at the top of our lungs. We were BONDING. Finally!

The following morning, Valentine’s Day, I woke yet again to grumpy Tanner.

I brunched alone at Caroline’s Cafe; he stayed in bed checking his Twitter.

Sitting on the deck overlooking La Jolla Shores, I noticed a cute towhead nearby smothering his mother in syrupy pancake kisses. Melancholy crept back in. I envied her. Time with her adoring child stretched before her endlessly like the white sand below while mine was vanishing.

I was excited for Tanner to begin this new chapter, but part of me wished he could stay.

I returned to the hotel and we packed. Tanner surprised me when he suggested a quick boogie boarding session at the Shores.

We hustled to the beach and rode waves side by side, meeting in the swirl of white water. I looked over at Tanner, his lips curled into an excited O, audition behind him, not a care in the world. My heart swelled.

Twenty minutes later he called, “We better get going. We don’t want to miss our flight.”

I did not beg for one more wave.

Okay, maybe just one.

But as I glided across that last wave, a sheet of celadon glass, I thought maybe instead of regarding our time with our children as finite, we should think of those bonds as constantly shifting, yet always there. Like the sand and sea.

***

Last weekend we took Tanner to SD for good, of course narrowly avoiding missing our 8 a.m. flight.

“I’m going to miss you guys,” he said, “but I’m gonna love never being late for anything again.”

Bunny Cakes

Published on May 12, 2015June 4, 2015 by Kim Ratcliff4 Comments

Tanner’s girlfriend, Blaire, has to be the coolest chick ever. Prom was only six days away, and Tanner still hadn’t officially asked her. Blaire hadn’t uttered a peep but I was getting antsy.

I’ve been obsessed with Prom Asks (aka “Promposals”) since I wrote this for the LG Patch and discovered boys go all out when it comes to procuring a prom date these days. Scavenger hunts, mid-class serenades, Post-it covered cars. One kid at Tanner’s school even got help from Walter Freakin’ White (watch the youtube here). “Stefan’s proposal made all the major TV outlets for God’s sake!” I said. “We gotta get on this!”

Tanner couldn’t be bothered. He was busy pumping iron, playing X-Box and d*cking around as usual.

Lucky for him, we had an ace in the hole: Jimmy Ratcliff, master baker. A few years back Jimmy made Saxon the coolest SpongeBob Squarepants cake ever, so I threw down the gauntlet.

Let’s make Blaire a bunny cake! She loves bunnies, especially her pet bunny, Marlowe.

Meet Marlowe, the world's most adorable bunny. — Meet Marlowe, world’s most adorable bunny.

So while Tanner was ~~working hard at school~~ d*cking around in APES class, Jimmy rushed home between patients to bake Blaire a cake.

Jimmy begins performing his bunnyectomy. haha! Get it? Foot doctor--Bunionectomy? — Jimmy gets busy performing his bunnyectomy. haha! Get it? Foot doctor–Bunionectomy?

As he performed surgery on the bunny’s ear which broke mid-transfer, I, his trusty assistant, asked why he liked making cakes.

“There’s something cathartic about it,” he said.

First, Jimmy iced the bunny a frothy, fluffy white.

Then he gave him Junior Mint peepers, and a pink Jelly Belly nose. After carefully cutting out a paper mold, Jimmy sprinkled the inner ears with pink glitter candy.

With surgeon-like precision, Jimmy uses forceps to finesse the black licorice whiskers. — With surgeon-like precision, Jimmy used forceps to finesse the bunny’s black licorice whiskers.

After school Tanner made a hot pink sign to go with the cake,”I NEED SOMEBUNNY TO GO TO PROM. YOU DOWN?”

Shakespeare got nothing on home boy.

It wasn’t Bryan Cranston and I doubt we made CNN’s ticker, but hey, low-key is how the Ratty Pack rolls.

Then we raced over to Blaire’s. Tanner put the bunny cake on her door step and hid in the bushes. He even let me stalk them from the neighbor’s yard.

Blaire loved her cake, and we, I mean, Tanner felt such a sense of accomplishment when she said yes.

When we got home, we, I mean, Tanner was on a promposal high. “Gotta go work out at the gym, hashtag gains,” he said. “Later ‘nade.”

Luckily Saxon was chilling at his desk. “Listen. I have the BEST idea for your junior prom ask next year. What you’re gonna do is take your girl to the Santa Cruz Boardwalk on the Skyglider…”

“So far so good,” he said.

“Then on the car in front you can put a sign up that says ‘PROM?’ and when you get off, I’ll be waiting right at the bottom with a bottle of Martinelli’s Sparkling Cid—”

“Wait—what?” he interrupted. “You’re gonna be there? I don’t think so.”

Maybe one proposal will have to last this Momzilla a lifetime.

The Old Man & the Sea

Published on May 7, 2014August 13, 2014 by Kim Ratcliff6 Comments

If you know Jimmy, then you know tends to be a tad full of himself. He’s always posing shirtless for photos, and boasting about his latest triathlon P.R. (personal record).

“I bring it!” he’ll say. Or “Kim, you’re over your skis with me!” And of course, his trademark flex/brag combo, “Have you ever seen a 49-year-old this yoked?”

Recently something terrible happened. Jimmy turned 50. And like Ethan Hunt’s tape, his ego was dangerously close to self destructing.

It was time for a MISSION IMPOSSIBLE.

Tanner & Saxon threw down the gauntlet… “Yo bro, you need to catch 50 waves for your 50th b-day.”

“Fiddy for fiddy?” he asked. “BRING IT!”

So, Jimbo hopped a plane with his over-her-skis wife (me!) and two teenage sons and headed to Cabo to try and reach his goal of catching 50 waves in 3 days.

Our hotel of choice, Cabo Surf, was located in front of a surf break called “Old Man’s”—how perfect is that?

As soon as we checked in, Jimmy was on it! He slipped into hibiscus print board shorts. No wetsuit necessary—not when the water was a balmy 73 degrees. Just a thin rash guard to prevent chaffing.

Cabo Surf is home to the Mike Doyle Surf School. Along with co-inventing the boogie board, Mike was a champion surfer and paddler in the ’60s. He hung in Malibu with the original Gidget gang. We kept our eyes peeled for him from the get go.

“Tiki” Mike Doyle, Hermosa Beach circa 1963,

That first afternoon was windy with texture on the water. Jimmy easily caught 10 waves—1/5 of his quotient. “Not much competition,” he sniffed. “Frankly, I’m more ripped than all these young bucks a quarter my age.”

Located in the center of the resort overlooking the surf, it's the optimal spot to relax after a grueling sesh. — Located in the center of the hotel overlooking the surf, the jacuzzi is the optimal spot to relax after a sesh.

With only 36 nicely appointed rooms, the Cabo Surf has an intimate, laid-back feel. Boards are propped against banana trees and cocopalms, and from dawn until dusk there’s a constant trickle of guests, boards tucked under their arms, cruises across the grounds headed for the sea.

On our first day, I awoke at 8 to find Jimmy’s side of the bed empty. Seconds later he came into the room dripping saltwater, clad in his rasta board shorts which perfectly reflected his chill mood. He’d dawn patrolled it, notching another 5 waves in his surf wax case. He was up to 15, and feeling quite confident. “There was some ‘Ed’ wearing lame reef booties trying to snake me, but I shut him down,” Jimmy boasted over huevos rancheros and gluten free French toast at 7 Seas, the hotel’s open-air restaurant.

After breakfast we headed out for a family surf sesh. It was relatively uncrowed—there were beginners taking lessons, local chicks who ripped, and assorted groms. The vibe was mellow and the break has multiple take off points. Unlike other more punishing spots, Old Man’s has a steep wave, but wipe outs are soft and forgiving. We caught tons of fun party waves.

After a few hours, we took a break. Twenty-three waves in, Jimmy gloated, “I could have caught way more, but I was in instructor mode with you guys.” Thanks, dude.

We were kicking back on the beach reading our books when we noticed Jimmy’s ripped six-pack was looking more like a seven-pack.

“Dad! It looks like you have a tumor!” Saxon grimaced. Turns out all that board-on-bone contact caused Jimmy’s previously broken rib, an old surf injury, to become inflamed. We started calling him Frankenstein Rib, Frankenrib, then finally McRib for short.

After reading a few chapters and tossing around the football, Jimmy announced he was heading back out for another sesh, his 3rd of the day.

“McRib, you better chill!” we warned.

But Jimmy ignored us. “Oh yeah, you only wish you could be this studly when you’re 50,” he said.

I was content to chill on the beach with a Modelo. — I was content to wriggle my toes in the sand.

By the end of our second day we still hadn’t seen Mike Doyle. He splits his time between SoCal and Cabo, but the supposedly the legendary waterman was in town. I wondered if we’d ever see him in the flesh.

Speaking of flesh, Jimmy accidentally squirted a wedge of lime meant for his happy hour cerveza on his chafed inner thighs. Which didn’t make him so happy. “Sh*t!” he yelled. “That hurt!” Hmm, I wondered. Was the old man starting to crack?

The next day was picture perfect. The ocean fanned out before us like a peacock’s tail in stunning shades of cobalt, turquoise and aqua. We had a dream session riding the soft, fun waves. Counting his dawn patrol and our family sesh, Jimmy’s total wave count catapulted to 37!

He had 13 to go. We were leaving the next morning. Who knew what the surf would be like? It could be flat, it could be blown out. McRib could not risk defeat, so he three-peated yet again, dragging himself out for a sunset surf. By the end of the day Jimmy had reached 47.

He came in utterly exhausted, self-medicated with three Modelos and a bottle of cab, and passed out.

He only had three waves left but I wondered: Could he make his goal? Could he bring it?

On our last morning, Jimmy stepped gingerly into his Greg Knoll-style black-and-white-striped jailhouse board shorts, a fitting choice as he was in a prison of pain. He shuffled across the room, elbows and knees raw burger, deformed rib protrudint like an angry pink beet. Speckled with blood, his thighs looked as though they’d been sanded with extra coarse paper. He was shark bait.

The teens and I paddled out with him in solidarity. The swell had definitely died down. Jimmy scrapped for one wave. Then another. 49! “Dad! One more to go!” Tanner hooted. Thirty minutes passed. The clock was ticking. From out of nowhere a set came barreling in, and finally Jimmy scored his 50th wave.

As we paddled in, we passed a man with piercing blue eyes, broad muscular shoulders, his big hands cupping the water like oars. Mike Doyle.

From the jacuzzi we watched Mike catch the longest, most effortless wave of our trip. Glding gracefully across the bay, he cross stepped up and down his board from tip to tail, looking every bit surf royalty at 73 years old.

“Oh man! I’m gonna bring it like Mike when I’m 73,” Jimmy boasted.

Jimmy may have a broken rib but his ego will remain invincible until the end of time.

Bieberlocks and the Three Colleges

Published on February 27, 2014June 1, 2014 by Kim Ratcliff8 Comments

Once upon a time there was a high school junior named Bieberlocks. It was time to start thinking about colleges, but Beiberlocks’ parents worried he didn’t have eye of the tiger. Everyone was stressing about SAT’s and GPA’s and AP’s—that was everyone except for Bieberlocks. He just sat around tossing his blonde mane, playing Grand Theft Auto, strumming Sweater Weather on his guitar.

Then along came winter break. Mama and Papa arranged a little SoCal college tour in hopes of lighting a fire under Bieberlocks’ butt.

First they visited Chapman University. Intimate and charming, located south of L.A. in the quaint town of Orange, Chapman boasts state-of-the-art Dodge College of Film & Media Arts.

There were grassy lawn as far as the eye could see, piazzas with gurgling fountains, even an artfully displayed chunk of the Berlin Wall. Mama smelled the orange blossoms wafting through campus. “Oh, I like this school,” she exclaimed. “I really do.” But when the perky tour guide said Papa would have to pony up $50K a year, he growled, “TOO EXPENSIVE!”

“Anyway, it’s TOO SMALL,” complained Beiberlocks when he heard the student population was only 5,000. Mama was heartbroken. She envisioned Beiberlocks becoming a famous screenwriter and thanking her from the podium at the Oscars. But when she passed a bust of Ronald Reagan on the way out, a shiver ran down Mama’s spine, and she said under her breath, “TOO REPUBLICAN.”

Next, the trio visited University of San Diego. Located on a hill with sweeping views of Mission Bay, the university features Spanish architecture, fabulous succulent arrangements, and a library study nook straight out of Hogwarts. There was even a five-star restaurant with valet parking for co-eds with really rich parents, which unfortunately was not the case with Bieberlocks.

Luckily, Bieberlocks did not dig USD. “TOO SLEEPY,” he said.

“TOO TRAFFIC-Y,” agreed Mama, noticing the shuttles and traffic coursing through the campus thoroughfare.

“TOO EXPENSIVE,” growled Papa.

And so they headed up the 8, past Mission Valley and Hotel Circle to San Diego State. Mama worried that this school was too big for Bieberlocks. She hadn’t been back since the ’80s, and barely recognized her alma mater. “IT’S SO DIFFERENT!” she gasped. Instead of a Walkman, every student had a cell phone glued to his ear. The crunchy health food store she’d frequented in the Student Union had been replaced by a Starbucks!

Bieberlocks took one look at the hot co-eds soul cycling in the mack daddy fitness center with the 50-foot climbing wall, and the bronzed bros long boarding through campus, and he said, “JUST RIGHT!”

Mama looked at the tropical campus, lush with banana trees and birds of paradise. She thought about surfing in the warm La Jolla waters while visiting Bieberlocks. SDSU even offered a Film/Business major. Maybe she’d go to the Oscars after all. Mama smiled and said, “JUST RIGHT!”

And when he heard the $20K price tag, Papa, too, said, “JUST RIGHT!” Then he told mama she better start job hunting STAT.

Bieberlocks was so ecstatic at the thought of attending such a fine institution he promised to NEVER play Grand Theft Auto again, and spend ALL his time studying for the SAT’s and making straight A’s.

Well, not really. That would truly be a fairytale.

Where will Bieberlocks wind up? Stay tuned. After all, there are more colleges to explore. Can’t you just hear it now…

Colorado State University? “TOO STONEY!”

UC Santa Cruz? “TOO SLUGGY!”

UC Santa Barbara? “TOO MUCH TALENT!”

The Dream Inn: Stoner’s Paradise

Published on January 15, 2014May 30, 2014 by Kim Ratcliff4 Comments

Post-holiday blahs got you down? A getaway to the Dream Inn in Santa Cruz, might be just the “medicine” to lift your spirits!

Each room has an ocean view, a mini-bar stocked with Marini’s salt water taffy, and a photograph of the Ferris Wheel which you can ride right down the way at the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. Santa Cruz’s premier hotel is just a fun, beachy hang. It also happens to be the destination of choice for discriminating stoners everywhere. Let me explain…

When we visited over New Year’s, the first thing we did was crack open the sliding glass doors. Immediately the crashing waves and salty sea air filled our room delighting our senses….but wait. What was that other scent wafting in from the balcony?

Was it W-E-E-D?

Why, yes, it was. And we’re not talking a faint hint of ganja. We are talking full-on, back-of-Spicoli’s-van, mushroom cloud of Cannabis smoke.

Who was staying next door—

Freakin’ Snoop Lion?

“This happens every single time we stay at the Dream Inn,” I remarked.

“What do you expect?” said Saxon. “It’s Santa Cruz.” He had a point.

That night we chilled in the room while Saxon commandeered the remote. He made us watch some super lame Lifetime movie called “The Other Woman.” It stared Winnie from the “The Wonder Years.” We had just settled into our double beds when suddenly there was that smell again.

Not sure if it was the contact high or Winnie’s crappy acting, but soon I was snoozing away. Suddenly a loud noise awoke me with a startle. “MOM!” Saxon yelled. “QUIT snoring! You sound like a leaf blower!”

“Sorry,” I said, readjusting my sleep mask and rolling over.

The next morning our neighbor decided to wake ‘n’ bake, and that sweet, earthy scent permeated our room yet again. No worries, mon. We were up and at ’em anyway. One of the best things about staying at the Dream Inn is walking along West Cliff Drive, checking out the surfers at Steamer Lane.

Somehow our friend, Dwain Christensen, makes the SC H20 look warm and inviting in his gorgeous photos. We're here to tell you that water is freakin' cold! — This is Andrew Christensen shredding. Somehow his dad, Dwain’s gorgeous photos make the SC H20 look balmy…We’re here to tell you that water is freezing!

We are beginners (well, except for Jimmy “Kelly Slater” Ratcliff) so we stick to the long, smooth Waikiki-style “party waves” at Cowell’s in front of the Dream Inn.

Before heading to the hotel’s restaurant for post-surf huevos rancheros, we dashed up to the room to change. “MOM, noooooo!” Tanner shielded his eyes from my bra-and-underwear-clad body as if avoiding a total eclipse of the sun. “THANKS A LOT! Now I’m scarred for life.” We’ve always shared a room with the boys, but like a whiff of sour milk to the nairs, I realized this cozy arrangement had probably reached its expiration date.

We accompanied Tanner and his burned retina down to Aquarius, stopping to check out the new Jack O’Neill Lounge. Adjacent to the Dream Inn’s Aquarius restaurant (site of the first O’Neill surf shop), the cozy space features memorabilia and cool photos…

Jack became Santa Cruz royalty after inventing the wetsuit.

Our second night was a deja vu~the waves crashed, Saxon tortured us with more Lifetime schlock, I got yelled at again for snoring, and Snoop Lion sparked yet another spliff. Good times.

The best thing about the Dream Inn is how relaxed you feel when you get home. We chuckled while recounting our stoney stay to our surfer friend, Larry. Not surprisingly, Larry said the same thing happened to his family once. Only his wife called the front desk to complain, and got some money shaved off their bill. Truthfully the smell doesn’t bother us. It’s part of the charm, like the sandy lobby floor and wetsuits draped over the balconies. In fact, I can’t wait to visit again. But next time I’m gonna coin up for two rooms. That way I can snore and walk around in my skivvies to my heart’s content.

Hope your new year is SWEET!

Love,

The Ratty Pack

Solo in the City

Published on January 1, 2014January 1, 2014 by Kim Ratcliff1 Comment

My cousin, Katie, is funny as hell. She lives in Midtown Manhattan, and smells of adventure—that, and the faintest hint of cigarette smoke (she’s forever quitting). I was ecstatic to stay with her last summer.

Until I wasn’t. Right before my visit, sad circumstances pulled Katie to the West Coast.

The thought of spending three days in New York City was daunting, but I was locked in.

My interior design friend, Laura, suggested the swank Crosby Street Hotel.

So chic! But rooms costs a kajillion dollars. — So chic! But the rooms cost a kajillion dollars.

Luckily, I scored a killer last-minute deal at the Soho Grand on Hoteltonight (great app!).

After indulging in way too much orange soda at my Grandmom Rosie’s 100 year-old rest home rager in Philly, I hopped an Amtrak for NYC. I got off at Penn Station, hopped the A train to Canal Street, and arrived at my hotel too early to check in. I dumped my bags, and wondered: What now?

My growling stomach led me to Momofuku Noodle Bar. On the way I got lost half a dozen times. Finally I arrived, sweaty and disoriented.

Perched on a stool at the counter, the Friday lunch rush swirling around me, I realized I’d forgotten to bring reading material. So I just sat there awkwardly wondering where to look. Should I glance at my waiter drying glasses behind the counter? The guy to my right with his face buried in the Times? Or out on the packed floor, where it appeared everyone but me was seated with a gaggle of ramen-slurping buddies?

Just then a woman to my left turned in my direction, her diamond nose stud twinkling in the light. I perked up. She was going to engage!

“Pass the hot sauce?” she grunted.

“Sure,” I replied.

As I waited for my lunch, I remembered our fun family visit a few years back when we cheered Jimmy on in the NYC marathon, and scored the trip’s best eats—steamed Chinese buns slathered with hoisin and filled with crispy pork belly—right here at Momofuku.

But this time, my taste buds were unimpressed. It could have been my subway pass nestled between that pillowy wrapping. I knew the problem wasn’t the chef; it was me. I’d lost my appetite. The daunting prospect of spending three days—and countless meals—alone in the City had sunk in.

After lunch I rode the subway to the High Line, an elevated subway track converted into a gorgeous mile-long popular park. The path was packed with families and tourists lounging on the grass, snapping Selfies and marveling at the sights. Yet I had no one to ooh and ahh with over the lime green hydrangea, or the “Stop praying. God’s too busy to find you a parking spot” billboard, or the metallic, block-of-ice high-rise that would have made the perfect lair for a James Bond villain.

Hours later I finally checked into my hotel. Plopping onto the bed, I wanted so badly to grab a Corona and peanut M’n’Ms from the minibar and turn on Bravo tv, but it was dinnertime. A friend had recommended La Esquina which I yelped from my bed. Apparently it was a hip NYC haunt, patronized by the likes of George Clooney, Julia Roberts and Kate Hudson.

The minibar was looking better and better.

Then came my inner-pep talk: It’s Friday night. You’re in NYC. Would Carrie Bradshaw cower in her room binging on M’n’Ms? Hell no! She would strap on her Manolo’s and make it happen.

So I pried myself from the sheets, donned my cutest outfit and headed down to the lobby to ask the concierge for directions.

The concierge was a ruffled, Mark Ruffalo look-a-like. He pointed me toward Spring Street, and offered to call ahead and put me on the wait list for the bar.

A wait list? For the restaurant bar? Dorothy, we weren’t in Los Gatos anymore.

“Um,” I balked. “I guess so.”

My heart pounded inside my jean jacket the entire five blocks. Then I turned a corner and saw La Esquina’s glowing red neon sign. From the outside, the former dumpy deli didn’t look intimidating at all—so far, so good.

As I stepped through the entrance, a burly bouncer body blocked me at the door.

“Name?” he said.

“Um,” I stammered. “Kim. Kim Ratcliff.”

He eyed me as if I’d come in with a Nikon camera the size of a microwave strapped around my neck…

…then called for backup.

“Name?” a second bouncer demanded.

I repeated my name. He stared me down. “Okay, go ahead,” he said. At the bottom of the stairs, a trio of bitchy hostesses awaited.

“Hi,” I chirped. “I’m headed for the ba—”

“That way,” Bitch #1 said, jerking a red lacquered talon toward a door.

Um, are you sure? I thought. Because that looks like the kitchen. I walked through a steam-shrouded kitchen, deeper into the labyrinth. After a few more twists and turns, I entered the subterranean dining room. Candlelit chandeliers illuminated the dim, cavernous space and its Day of the Dead decor.

I sunk into a comfy communal sofa and waited for the cocktail waitress. But guess what? La Esquina doesn’t offer cocktail service, so I took a deep breath, and elbowed my way to the bar.

Fifteen dollar marg in hand, I beelined back to the sofa. After my eyes adjusted, here’s what I did not see: George, Kate or Julia. Still, once I pounded my marg, I fled the boisterous bar for the safety of my hotel room where I climbed into bed with Andy Cohen and my chorizo-yucca tacos.

Compared to La Esquina, brunch the next morning at chic French brassiere Balthazar was a piece of cake—or should I say piece of brioche. Thanks to Mark Ruffalo, who’d secured a ressie the night before, I got right in.

The clink of silverware and soft classical music was mediative. Wall St. Journal in hand, I devoured my eggs benedict, and thought, maybe I can handle this traveling solo thing. Then, after brunch I passed a woman in the West Village walking her golden retriever. I felt a pang of loneliness. Back home I was never alone. I had Jimmy, the boys, a golden retriever glued to my side. Someone was always demanding a ride, or sex, or chewing on my Jimmy Choos. Someone always wanted a piece of me. And I was a bit of a lost soul without my pack, my wonderful, pain-in-the-ass pack.

I dragged my sad sack self back to the hotel, freshened up and rode the subway to 42nd Street. Swallowed by a sea of tourists out in Times Square, I felt ever more alone. At the theatre I waited silently in the long line for Kinky Boots. Inside, I took my seat and greeted the woman sitting next to me. We chatted about my kids and her Arizona garden boutique. Then, the lights dimmed, and for the next two hours, we whooped and cheered in tandem.

If I’d been with Jimmy and the boys, they would have been horrified, shushing me as usual, but I felt so free. After the show I walked to the Flatiron district. Entering the madhouse that is Mario Batali’s Eataly on a Saturday night, I snagged a seat at the Il Pesce counter.

Although I had both reading material and a bird’s (fish’s?) eye view of the chefs in the tiny, open kitchen, a woman from Ann Arbor who was traveling with her 14-year-old, introduced herself.

Sipping our Chardonnay, we shared city stories. After I spied Ann Arbor sprinkle sea salt in her virgin olive oil, I did the same. We dunked our fresh, rustic bread into the concoction, and I swore nothing could taste more delicious.

After dinner I walked back to Soho. Stopping every few seconds to marvel at the Empire State Building glowing purple in the dusky sky, I realized I’d found a rhythm and had finally begun to relax. Yes, I missed my family, but they would be waiting when I got back with hugs and gluten-free dinner demands, so why not milk my time alone for all it was worth?

Of course I wasn’t really alone. The streets teemed with energy. Lovers ringed the fountain in Washington Square Park; a piano man serenaded the crowd on a baby grand. As usual I got lost multiple times. Two young Frenchmen righted me as I made a wrong turn out of the park, creating the sexiest human compass in the City.

In the end, it took a village—Greenwich Village—to get me back to my hotel.

On my last morning, I woke up early and rode the train uptown. I got off at Columbus Circle, where there waiting on the sidewalk was cousin, Katie, chomping furiously on a piece of Nicorette.

We rented bikes and explored Manhattan, top to bottom. We rode past Central Park, through Columbia University, down the West Highway, laughing, talking, breathing in the City in all its sewage-y, Sunday morning glory.

By the time our adventure ended, I was so famished I was eyeing Katie’s Nicorette as if it were eggs benny at Balthazar. “I’m sorry plans didn’t work out, you staying with me,” she apologized.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “Everything worked out perfectly.” And I meant it. During my travels I’d rediscovered the feeling of independence and embraced it. Comfort zones are just that, comfortable, but not always exciting. And we all need some excitement in our lives.

Love you, KT, even if you kicked my ass! — If you ever go to NYC, you gotta look up my cool, cosmopolitan cousin, Katie.

Katie and I hugged goodbye, and I made my way to Ma Peche, Momofuku’s sister restaurant. Sunday Times in hand, I sat down, and ordered.

The pork buns arrived, and the crunch of pickled cucumbers, tang of hoisin, and crispy pork tasted exactly as I remembered—delicious.

I sat and devoured them, at home with myself at last.

Trottin’ with the Baby Daddy

Published on December 3, 2013December 3, 2013 by Kim Ratcliff2 Comments

Guest Blogger: Jimmy

Every Thanksgiving we run the Silicon Valley Turkey Trot 5K which benefits the Second Harvest Food Bank. Not only is the race a good way to get a little exercise before you indulge, but also it’s great way to help those in need.

The night before the race, I carefully pinned our numbers to our bright purple jerseys and laid them all out for easy access during the following morning scramble. “Don’t forget, we have to get a picture of us wearing our race shirts after the race!” chirped Kimmy.

As always the race was epic. Cruising through the deserted streets of downtown San Jose, serenaded by Taiko drummers, cheered on by bystanders, running alongside chicks dressed like hot pilgrims. What’s not to like?

After we finished, we met in front of SAP Center and headed back to the car, cutting through St. James Park on the way. There it was Thanksgiving, yet sprinkled though out the park were folks bundled in blankets drinking Coke and eating PB& J’s. Some were obviously homeless. It was heartbreaking. I knew I would go home and enjoy a great meal in a warm house with family and friends, but these people were obviously not as fortunate.

Halfway through the park, we saw a guy chilling on a bench smoking a cigarette. “Hey!” he called. “Where’d you get that shirt, man?”

“We did the Trot, dude!” I called.

“Huh?” He didn’t seem to know what the Trot was.

“You know, running?”

“Oh! Did you have to pay for that?”

“Yeah, man. We had to sign up and pay.”

We were halfway to the car when Kimmy said, “We should give that guy one of our shirts!”

“No way, Kim. Let’s go,” we all balked.

“Come on!” she pleaded. “Mine’s an extra small—it won’t fit him. Sax, quick give me yours.”

Saxon grudgingly took his shirt off. I gave him my sweatshirt. We waited at the car while Mother Teresa ran back through the park.

A few minutes later she arrived at the car out of breath with a huge smile on her face. “He loved it!” she said. Her smile faded, however, when Tanner said, “Nice job, Mom, now we can’t get a photo of us wearing our shirts.”

“Shoot!” she said. “We’ll just have to go and ask if we can borrow it back for a second.”

We all shot Kim down. “NO WAY, Forget it!”

But she insisted. So back we drove. We got out of the car and headed toward the dude. His name was Marvin. Marvin introduced us to his lady friend, Esperanza, who was drinking a super-sized blackberry ice tea from the can. “Are these your boys?” she asked.

“Yes,” Kim replied. “These are my sons, Tanner and Saxon.”

Esperanza pointed at me. “That the dad?”

“Yep, that’s my baby daddy.” We all cracked up, Marvin and Esperanza included.

Marvin told us had two daughters, 6 & 7, and boy, were they were a handful. Esperanza said her son was a wrestler at Independence High School. We stood there for a few minutes, laughing and chatting about the agony and ecstasy of raising children. Then we asked if Marvin would join us for a photo. “Sure,” he said.

Esperanza snapped the photo, eyeing our shirts admiringly. We told Marvin we hoped to see him next year at the Trot and suggested he start training and ease up the smokes immediately. Right before we walked away, I took off my shirt and handed it to Esperanza. Her eyes lit up in gratitude. (Or maybe she was just checking out my studly naked upper torso.)

Truthfully, it was me who was grateful. They may have gotten the shirts off our backs but in that moment, our family interacted with people we’d normally never engage with in our daily lives. That cool moment turned out to be the highlight of my Thanksgiving.

As we walked away, Esperanza called out, “You better keep an eye on your baby daddy!”

Broadway, Balthazar and Camel Balls

Published on October 8, 2013October 8, 2013 by Kim Ratcliff5 Comments

Guest blogger: Tanner

It all started with my manic mom. She saw Kinky Boots on Broadway in August, and called us hyperventilating after the show.

“OHMIGOD, OHMIGOD, that show was amazing,” she said. “JIMMY! You have to bring Tanner when you come here for your podiatry conference next month. He needs to see there is more to life than MINECRAFT!”

So, that’s how I found myself spending a whirlwind weekend with my dad in NYC.
We arrived at JFK exhausted after catching the red-eye, and my dad promptly forgot his iPhone in the taxi. Luckily, the guy who got into the taxi after us was a bro. He arranged to meet us at Rockefeller Center so he could give Jimmy’s prized iPhone back!

We dropped our bags at The Days Inn on the Upper West Side, and headed for Cafe 82, which my dad called a “glorified Dennys.” Since I have Celiac Disease, my mom researched gluten-free friendly restaurants before we came. We were pleased to discover Cafe 82 even offered a separate GF menu.

After I finished my delicious GF chocolate chip pancakes, we hopped aboard the subway headed for the NYU campus for our tour. The campus was absolutely beautiful. Unlike most colleges that have a closed off campus, there is no gate at NYU. It was open to the whole city. We got to see the gigantic library that houses over four million books and the living quarters. The student-guides also showed us a sun-filled, modern classroom, which looked so sophisticated equipped with comfy desks and chairs.

After our tour ended, we walked to a completely GF restaurant famed for its delicious breadsticks, Risotteria. The food was tasty and our waiter was a cool dude who was Tahoe bound!

Later we checked in only to discover my mom had booked us a total 1-star ghetto hotel. We had one bed to share between the both of us. Our room smelled like strong, poisonous house cleaner and was probably infested by bedbugs. I shot off a text: Thanks, Mom, for the shit-shack of a room!!

Room with a view...not! — Room with a view…not!

We had maybe an hour to chill before we had to get back on the streets to go see Kinky Boots. My dad was bitter when he discovered there was no wine opener in our room even though he was paying three bills a night to stay. While I checked my Facebook, he went down and gave the front desk a piece of his mind.

No glassware for Jimbo's vino so a Dixie cup had to do. — No glassware for Jimbo’s vino so a Dixie cup had to do.

The show was phenomenal. Stark Sands and Billy Porter both did an amazing job at their parts. After seeing the show, we were pooped and headed back to our room to relax before the next adventure packed day! Saturday I navigated the City alone while my dad dug into some yummy cadaver feet at his lab in the Bronx—who doesn’t love the smell of formaldehyde in the morning? First, I hit up Cafe 82 again. I was becoming a regular. This time I gorged on fluffy, homemade mashed potatoes and GF pasta with marinara.

Afterward it was time for It’Sugar. Even though I’m almost 17, I still love candy. The place was filled with huge-sized Laffy Taffy, SweetTarts, and Nerds. I got myself some treats, and even brought back a box of extra sour bubblegum “Camel Balls” for Saxon.

Nothing like a big bro who buffs you out with camel testies!

Then it was time to see Book of Mormon. I had to take the red one line to Times Square-42^nd Street. I proceeded to walk the seven blocks to 49^th and 8^th Street where the theater was located. My seat was so swank, about eight or so rows back, but snack-dab in the middle of the row, perfect view of the stage. Couldn’t ask for better (thanks Katie for the tix!) The show was amazing. It was written by the same people who did South Park, so it was hilarious in a crude humor way. The acting was superb as well, consisting of college-aged men belting catchy tunes that I couldn’t stop singing the next day.

After the show, my Dad, our cousin Katie, and myself went out to dinner at a fancy restaurant, Balthazar. I gobbled up plenty of their delicious oysters while Jimmy and Katie proceeded to down several bottles of beer and wine (Partiers!!).

The restaurant’s bathroom even had their own employee that would offer you towels after you had finished washing your hands. They also had a small plate of mints, matches, and other miscellaneous crippity-crap in an attempt to achieve a tip.

I am very big into acting as I have been performing in musicals since the 5^th grade. Seeing these shows on Broadway was eye-opening for me to see what it would be like for me if I continue on with my acting through college. I was so impressed by the skills demonstrated by the actors in the musicals.

On our final day, my Dad and I went on a beautiful walk up on the Highline trail. Although the path was packed with deodorant shunning, slow-walking Euros, I enjoyed the unique perspective of the City. We even were able to watch a guy make us snow-cones by scraping ice off a huge block of ice.

Overall, this trip was one of the most important experiences I’ll ever have. I am so fortunate I was able to go to NYC and see the fantastic city. I’m happy to claim this experience has opened my eyes to many opportunities that I have access to in my life.

At Eataly's Beer Garden. Later NYC! I'll be back. And hopefully I'll be old enough to try the GF brews. — At Eataly’s Beer Garden. Later NYC! I’ll be back. And hopefully I’ll be old enough to try the GF brews.