Absinthe Trepidation

You know me. I’m usually on a health kick—carrots are the new chips, Yoga’s for everyone–you’ve even seen me hugging a water bottle.

But forget all that…let’s talk about absinthe!

Now I think of beer as my steady even though I engage in the occasional red wine flirtation. By no means am I an expert on absinthe, but I have always been intrigued by the Green Fairy. Haven’t we all?

For my second novel, Everything’s Not Bigger, Prague served as a primary setting. “Absinthe Trepidation” is one of the chapter titles.

When I was studying abroad in Germany many summers ago, a visit to the City of a Hundred Spires was imperative.

If you’re ever stumbled over my last name “Skrabanek”, know you are one of many, and you have my Czech heritage to blame for it. In elementary school, my principal called me “Brittney S.” during awards assemblies, because he just gave up.

An easy pronunciation trick—it sounds similar to “bubonic” as in Bubonic Plague. Forevermore may you remember me when you think of a catastrophic illness. Wait…please don’t do that.

Furthermore, Eastern Europe was one of my areas of concentration in college. And one of my professors said he would only give a recommendation for my study abroad application if I swore to go to Prague.

He called me “the proud daughter of the Czech Republic” in class all the time. So, I went.

Prague is certainly one of the most enchanting cities in the world. Miraculously unscathed during World War II, it boasts historic wonders like you wouldn’t believe.

Back in 2004, absinthe was illegal in a good portion of the world. As such, it was heavily marketed to curious American tourists like myself visiting the Czech Republic.

Too apprehensive to drink it on my own, my fiance (present day hubby) and I had the bright idea to smuggle it back to the States in a Listerine bottle, so we could try it together.

I know, I know. Bad, Britt!

I sweated bullets at Stuttgart Airport security, believe me. I’m one of those people who often gets caught, but it doesn’t always stop me from participating in crazy shenanigans.

But, I made it home with the forbidden loot.

Even though I had washed out the mouth wash bottle a thousand times, the absinthe and spearmint had morphed into one. Needless to say, trying a shot was deeply unpleasant.

We knew nothing about the rituals of absinthe preparation. Now I am aware of the calculated art to drinking the beverage…and we absolutely disgraced it. Hey, we were pups!

Knowing my shameful stint wasn’t much to work with, I decided to do some book research on the drink by watching Absinthe the documentary.

Automatically absinthe stirs the imagination, embedding visions of mad painters and conniving fairies dancing in circles with bulging, iridescent eyes.

Lo and behold that’s all a bunch of boohockey—early twentieth century propaganda. It was a formidable scheme cooked up by the green drink’s competitors of the time–the wine and beer merchants whose businesses had floundered during absinthe’s peak.

I’m mesmerized by the care absinthe lovers show to the rebellious drink, appreciating it for its rarity. More than anything, I applaud absinthe for its sustainability against all the odds, resurrecting after bans, enticing still to this day.

Absinthe has been said to bring out one’s inner poet.

I think it carries a romantic notion, a feeling of the past when Bohemian artists created zealously and lived with abandon. There is no other drink quite as controversial or mysterious. Even though the myths have been widely debunked, I think the elusiveness will continue for centuries to come.

What about you readers out there…have you tried absinthe?

A Welcome Distraction

I live in a modest apartment. I use a secondhand dining room table as my rickety desk. I make words come to life by the speed of my thoughts and fingers.

This is how I write.

Along comes a cat. Yet I power through, attempting to ignore warmth for the sake of accomplishment.

Then, I surrender. Because a welcome distraction is always welcome. It reminds me of life—its tangibility, its humor, its comfort.

Today…get distracted.

Designed to Move

After a lot of back and forth, I’m proud to say I’m finally going for my Yoga teaching certification. One weekend a month for ten months I will meet at Yama Yoga, a quaint gem of a studio, with a small group of eager minds to explore gravity-defying poses, anatomical prowess, and spiritual receptivity.

Then I will be unleashed into the world, ready to complete my new mission…Yoga’s for everyone.

No, really. It is.

I feel that Yoga is for everyone just as dance is for everyone, because we are humans, and humans were designed to move. Instead we spend the majority of our time sitting in front of a computer.

Hey, I’m guilty, too. Writing novels, manning social media fronts, and spearheading a blog make me a stationary perpetrator on the grandest scale.

More than ever it is important for us to move. Often scheduling that time in the form of a class is the only way we can commit. The beauty of a mat and bare feet? They’re portable.

The idea of Yoga may cause you to roll your eyes. I get it. I used to think the inner peace mumbo-jumbo was just a hoax myself.

I discovered Yoga about ten years ago when my mother encouraged me to take class with her in Forth Worth, Texas. Being in my early college years, there was some major eye-rolling on my part.

Despite my flexibility and agility, being a dancer actually worked against me in Yoga. No more turning out, only parallel. No more floor traveling, only stationary on a mat. It felt wrong.

And, meditation at the end of class? Talk about squirmy! My mind raced thinking about everything else but the now, and 5-10 minutes was about a century long.

Nonetheless, every time I left class I felt different. There was no denying it. Without bothering to be fully engaged, my mind, against my will, felt calm and clear.

A lifelong dancer and instructor, in recent years my body responded to dance like it was on cruise control. Movement began to lose its direction, circling around and around a cul-de-sac. In dance classes, I became antsy and wandering, just like when I was a college kid with a bad case of the Namaste wiggles.

Yet this time it was different…it was burnout.

So, I revisited Yoga. I have been consistently practicing, enjoying countless emotional and physical benefits along the way.

An impatient person, I have to work hard every day to overcome anxiety and stress. It doesn’t come easily for me. My high energy and drive are great for kicking ass, not great when it comes to sitting still. Yoga challenges me to face my weaknesses head on, cultivating them into strengths.

This is when I started thinking about sharing my unrequited love for Yoga with others. And a teacher was born.

My goals as a Yoga teacher will be the same as I have for dance: check the negativity at the door and leave inspired. Yoga is for everyone in my opinion: young or old, active or inactive, spiritual or skeptical.

Stress, whether instigated by external or internal elements, surrounds us one way or another. Yoga encourages us to search ourselves, something we don’t take the time to do when we’re rushing from point A to point B.

I strongly believe if we, as individuals, are happy and peaceful, the world will become the same way. Just as fear and negativity are powerful influences, so are hope and positivity.

If you haven’t tried Yoga, I hope you’ll reconsider. It’s nothing but good.

My First Food Anomaly

Ah, the curious subject of food anomalies. People claim to see celebrities in their toast, animals in their crackers (pun intended), and UFO’s in their oatmeal. There’s even a Museum of Food Anomalies dedicated to this edible hoopla. Who knew?!

To this day I still childishly identify cloud shapes and have been patiently awaiting my very own food miracle. Well folks, here it is.

The hubby made salmon and sweet potato and carrot mash, one of my favorite meals. I was beside myself when I peered down at my plate.

I exclaimed, “My salmon looks like Africa!”

I took a picture, because who knows if something this monumental will every happen again. It had to be documented.

Then, the nerdy geography enthusiast side of me struck up an internal debate over whether or not the salmon looked more like Africa or South America. After carefully comparing the image with my world map, I’m leaning towards South America.

I think you guys should decide in this poll. And, please feel free to share any of your oddball food sightings in the comment section. You know it’s fun!

San Diego, Day 3: Like…Chill, Dude

6:00am…I’ve only been asleep for three hours and I’m wide awake. Damn you, time change! My head is cursing me for my self-induced, nocturnal debauchery.

Being chic in San Diego comes at a price.

Comparable to the aftermath of an earthquake, I’m disoriented and shaky. The past two days have been a ten on the entertainment Richter scale—great company, incredible food, and fun in the California sun.

I’m supposed to drive up to Los Angeles for my final day, but my exhausted body is revolting. Sometimes too much fun has a debilitating effect.

I think of Winston, one of the dogs my friend Devon babysat this weekend. Would Winston run around in circles chasing his tail until he collapsed for the sake of enjoyment?

Nah. He would take one look at my non-stop vacation itinerary, snort, and go back to sleep.

A legitimate Cali pooch, Winston would speak human just long enough to say, “Like…chill, dude.”

Hence, the fatiguing, back-and-forth Los Angeles voyage is scrapped. Today is all about doing nothing, something I rarely remember to do.

Devon stays behind to tend to her platform shoe wounds. Naeiry and I decide to make a downtown day of it, leisure style.

After downing a magical elixir in the form of carrot juice and a few hours of gabbing, we stroll to Hash House for a late afternoon brunch, figuring it was the only way to get in the place. There is always an absurd wait (a.k.a. severely tasty grub).

It’s about a two-mile walk in mid-eighty degree temps, and I’m sweating out various beers and chintzy champagne from the night before. It feels good to get around by foot, an everyday activity I’m used to at home.

California harbors a car culture. My traffic highlight for the weekend…it took us forty-five minutes to go eleven miles. It kindly reminded me of one of the SoCal cons I can definitely live without.

Even at closing, we wait a half hour to squeeze in for brunch at Hash House. The portions are ginormous here! We share the mushroom, artichoke, and spinach hash and leave our biscuit untouched.

A doll of a waitress brings us a free Bloody Mary. I don’t ask questions, I just enjoy.

Now that the kitchen is closed, tunes are pumped up and the wait staff is smiling and dancing. Oddly, there’s a bit of a soiree.

Seated in the back corner, we crane our necks to investigate the source of cheers and applause in the main dining area. And, look at the cuties we discovered…

On the way home, we make a pit stop at Cremolose for coffee. Reminiscent of European cafes, I can’t ignore the chocolate cream puff calling my name in the cheerful case.

I feel that the next photo merits an explanation. Naeiry and I got on the subject of lips, and I explained that having larger lips as a child was a traumatic experience.

The boys made fun of me constantly. So, I spent a good year or two sporting smaller lips by sucking them in. This is our small lips attempt…

I round off my non-scheduled day grilling back at Devon’s house with her and her hubby. Rosemary chicken, scallops, trusty beer, and lounging around are just the reset I need before my long flight home, clear across the country.

Finally I’m relaxing on my vacation and wouldn’t you know it—it’s time to leave.

How many of us do this every time we travel? Museums, excursions, bar-hopping, restaurants, attractions…phew! Guess that’s why we feel we need a vacation from the vacation.

I miss my new home and must say goodbye to my old one. So long humiliating waves, pretentious art, endless traffic, and city noise.

I’m ready to go back to my little, quiet Milwaukee, where I can look across icy Lake Michigan, pretend it’s my very own Midwest ocean, and have my favorite piece of SoCal.