A Summertime Florida Thunderstorm

I smelled the rain coming as a bead of sweat gathered enough momentum to drip down the side of my face. I sat outside slouched in a patio chair with my feet propped up on the one next to me. The air was still. So still that if it weren’t for the dripping sweat I would have mistaken the stillness of the water in the swimming pool for a tiny frozen lake. I looked out over the screened in patio, past the pool and into the yard beyond the screen. Not a blade of grass moved. I thought it was all make believe until two cardinals suddenly broke the stillness and flew away. Other birds followed their lead - the last to leave before the rain started to fall. I scanned the area for other movement and saw the front of the storm quickly approaching in the near distance.

Before a Florida thunderstorm begins to rain, it smells. It’s a damp scent, different than mold, wet clothes, or wet dogs. It’s fresh - the freshness of newly formed rain clouds. But it’s more than fresh; it’s also the smell of tree bark, freshly tilled soil, and rainwater. This particular scent is what I imagine the air to smell like when I look out the window in an airplane mixed with what it is like to be in the wilderness first thing in the morning.

It’s a comforting scent to a girl who grew up in Florida. As a child, the smell meant you had to abandon that game of basketball and go inside. It meant that its time to get out of the pool or leave the beach. It meant that we had to play indoors for an hour every afternoon from May to September. That hour was a welcome break from the escalating heat and humidity that was building all day.

Besides the scent, in Florida you can see the afternoon thunderstorms coming. Their clouds billow up as they gain momentum over flat grasslands and swamplands. The clouds get darker and darker and start to swirl as they visibly move forward.

The rain will come slowly at first. Soft drops here and there ting the metal cage of the screened in patio I’m sitting on. Then it starts pouring and you can’t see through the rain. Sometimes, so much rain will fall in such a short amount of time that flash flooding is common in some areas every afternoon. The rain comes predictably at the same time every afternoon. So predictably that people plan their afternoon activities around it. You don’t need to carry an umbrella.

Floridian children are taught a game about how to tell how far away a storm is. Once you see a flash of lightening you start counting, “One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand,” and so on until you hear the rumbling thunder. The amount of “one thousands” between the lightening and thunder will determine the distance of the storm to you in miles.

As the rain gets heavier the cracks of thunder get so loud and so deep that they reverberate through your body as if you were standing next to a speaker at a club. It’s the same feeling as the bass of the music through your heart and breath. I count as the lightening pops and it nearly lulls me to sleep. Suddenly my hair stands on end as lightening strikes almost directly on the other side of the fence. I can barely count “one one th—“ when the sound of thunder almost took my breath away. If this wasn’t such a normal experience for me growing up, I would be terrified. I would be hiding behind the bed, like the dog. Instead, I’m sitting with my in-laws and we speculate about how someone from a drier climate might be freaked out by the amount of rain and thunder.

As a little girl, I would sit with my dad and watch the storms. As soon as the smell of the rain touched his nostrils he would grab a beer, pull the garage door open by a manual handle, and put his plastic chair on the edge of the smoothly poured concrete. The mist from clashing raindrops would moisten our skin as we sat on the edge of our safe shelter. Our little spaniel dog, Lady, would loyally accompany us, not moving from my dad’s side the entire storm. Although she was afraid of the thunder, I’m guessing she liked the smell of the rain more because while she sat there she would close her eyes and sniff the air as if she was intoxicated by the scent. He would sit there quietly and watch the storm go by without reading, talking, or distracting himself in any way. When I would join him, I felt like I was in on a secret.

During the strongest part of the storm, the rain clashes with itself and onto every object in its path. The sound is a constant hissing that calms ones nerves, though it seems like it would be the opposite. The thunder rolls into a crescendo, driving the rhythm of the raindrops. At this point he rain is so loud that you can’t hear someone talking only a foot away. Then suddenly, it’s over.

I’m stirred by the sound of Gman’s voice, “Sweetie, we’re going to the store. Did you want to go with us?” I must have dozed off while counting my “one thousands”. I got up as he talked and wiped the misty raindrops from my legs, arms, and face. As quickly as the storm arrived, it was gone. It left the colors of my surroundings a deeper and brighter hue than when I fell asleep. It looked like I lived in an oil painting. I walked inside, the birds returned to the feeder, and the smell of the rain folded back into my childhood memory.

Candy Orange Slices

When I was a little girl my sister and I used to go over to my grandparents' house. We would go over there often, for entire weekends, and on weekdays after school. No matter how frequent our visits, we always had special little things we did. For instance, we played dress up in my grandmother's silk night gowns and made up dance routines to Disney soundtracks (Beauty and the Beast being a favorite) and Barry Manilow tapes (no snickering, he's awesome). One special treat always sticks out in my mind when I think about those days.

When you walked in the front door of their house the formal living room was to the left. We weren't really allowed to play in there as it was for adult company. The room wrapped around to the formal dining room and then connected to the kitchen, where you would walk if you went straight instead of to the left when you walked in the door. We could run around the entire house in a loop. On the coffee table in the formal living room there was a large glass lidded candy dish. My grandfather was a sucker for orange slice candies and always had the bowl filled with them. For a long time he was the only person I knew who actually ate them (much like finding the person who really likes Peeps or candy message hearts you get on Valentine's Day). I used to run through the room and sneak a slice or two while we were there. I never took too many because I didn't want him to know I was sneaking one of his special candies!

Many years later my grandfather has passed away, the house has been sold, and the candy dish sent to a consignment shop. Sometimes when I'm feeling lonely or I miss him, I'll swing by a drug store and buy a bag of orange slices. I eat them quietly and linger over the crunch of the sugar crystals between my teeth. The gummy texture and artificial orange flavor take back 20 years. While I'm eating them I think about my grandfather and all of our wonderful memories together. 

Do you have any foods that bring your back to your childhood? Any that help you remember your loved ones?

Celebrating Our Wedding Anniversary

Yesterday was my wedding anniversary. Gman and I celebrated three years of wedded bliss by re-creating our first date. Seven years ago we went on a picnic and had gouda and tomato paninis with little fruit tarts for dessert. We got a 4 euro bottle of wine from a bodega and sat in the grass behind Les Invalids on a beautiful summer day in Paris. We sat there for hours and hours getting to know each other for the first time. Later, Gman proposed to me in the same spot. Amazing how a little patch of grass (pictured above) can be filled with so much meaning.

So last night we made a picnic on the living room floor. We lit candles and laid out a picnic blanket, then made gouda and tomato paninis. For the wine, we opened a bottle we purchased when we were in Bordeaux a few years ago, a 2005 St Emilion (I'll give full notes another time). The taste of the wine brought us right back to France and our memories flooded back. We sat on the floor for hours reminiscing until finally the wine was gone and it was time for bed.

I couldn't think of a better way to celebrate then remembering all of the wonderful moments we've shared so far and I can't wait for what the future holds.

PS - last year's wedding post.

Happy 100th Birthday

Today is my great-grandmother's 100th birthday! She is one of the women in my life whom I admire greatly. Her name is Florence Hinton, we call her Nannie. She is from Covington, Georgia which she loves as much as Scarlett loved Tara. This picture was taken of her in her late 20s. She is my Dad's maternal grandmother.

She is known as "Feisty Flo" in the nursing home she now resides in. The name suits her though. She worked very, very hard her entire life and grew a pretty thick skin to deal with the hardships (and sometimes she's a bitch, but hey, it happens).  

Things that I admire about her: 

- She spent her money wisely on objects that were of good quality, most of which I use now (including my furniture, china, and jewelry!). 

- She said she used to save up a portion of her wages (working in a cotton mill) to go to Atlanta every few months to buy the most beautiful fabrics to have her clothes made from. 

- Despite having modest means, it was important to her to look put together (never leave the house without your hair and makeup done, was one lesson amongst many). 

- She also used to have a magical green thumb and grew a garden so abundant that she fed her family from it - which is part of my suspicion for her living 100 years. 

One of my favorite quotes: 

Nannie to Grandma (her daughter): "Anne, looks like the bird done shit on the winda [window]."

Grandma: "Mama, we don't say that word around little ears."

Nannie: "What? Winda?"

When I was a little girl she would babysit my sister and I. She would give us chocolate milk and we would play on the floor while she watched Wonder Woman and Wheel of Fortune from her perch on her floral patterned couch. 

She also used to drink coffee with just about every meal. Including hamburgers at McDonald's.

I love you, Nannie! Happy 100th!

Studio Visit with Patrick Romelli

“I like to play.” Patrick Romelli was distracted with moving the perfect shade of green-ish blue around the canvas. Dotting it here, sweeping it there, with loose thoughtful brushstrokes. He’s finishing up the under painting of a new commission and I can already tell it’s going to be beautiful.

A native Cincinnatian, Romelli had enjoyed a rather successful commercial illustration career/business, when about ten years ago he decided to expand his creative boundaries and started painting with oils. Oil painting allowed him the freedom of emotion and artistic expression that his professional subjects did not.

Romelli is an Impressionist painter. But what does that mean exactly, especially considering the contemporary context? Impressionist painting, in the simplest of terms, is a painting that is able to describe the sense of something without actually depicting it in detail. For instance, you can get the sense of looking at Monet’s Water Lily paintings that the plants are floating in a pond without the artist actually painting water lilies. You get the impression of them. While the Impressionist Movement was one of the most influential artistic developments in the late 19th and early 20th centuries (and arguably ever), many artists today still paint in the Impressionist style. Like an impressionist painter of years past, he understands light. The way he captures the light gives life to each painting. Romelli paints a variety of Cincinnati subjects close to his heart – Union Station, horse racing, and musicians. He also paints Italian landscapes.

My mom’s college friend lives in Cincinnati. While we were in town he said his father-in-law is an artist and we must see his work. I don’t have enough fingers and toes to count the number of times a friend has said, “you should see my friend’s work, you’d love it” and I have to politely compliment them while desperately trying to find my way to the exit. This was not the case with Patrick Romelli. As soon as we stepped foot in his studio I realized he was talented. I didn’t have to politely compliment him. Instead, I wanted to know what he was thinking. What drove him to paint and why the ubiquitous Italian scenes?

It was hard not to take one of these littles home as a souvenir.

Horse racing at Churchill Downs

Romelli recently went to Tuscan Italy. He took up a castle residence with five other artists for a few weeks to paint. Just to paint. Everyday, twice a day, he left his comfortable surroundings to venture out into the landscape and simply paint what he saw and felt. As he told me the stories of his trip, I couldn’t help but think that this is out of a romantic movie where one finds the answers to life’s questions. But this wasn’t a movie, he was there. And he painted it.

He went were many have gone before, but in a good way. When you look at the loosely painted brushstrokes on the orange rooftops of a neighborhood in Cinque Terre, you remember it. It’s familiar. It brings back those good memories of being on vacation – even if you’ve never been there.

Romelli’s work isn’t serious. It isn’t searching for a deeper meaning to our humanity or rejecting the politics of his city. He paints because he cannot imagine doing anything else. Simply put, he enjoys painting what makes him happy. His energy leaves the viewer with a sense of content nostalgia for a moment when they themselves were happy.


Thank you Steve and Patrick for the tour!

See more of Patrick Romelli’s work on his website here.

Detail of a Las Vegas painting, love all the little brushstrokes.

Volver

traditional Argentine Mate tea in ceramic cup

Argentine Tango lyrics make me think about travel in a conceptual sense. You travel through life gathering memories, experiences, and sometimes pain. This song, Volver, captures a journey many of us have taken. Imagine the music and dancers as you read...

Carlos Gardel, Volver (English translation) 

I imagine the flickering 
of the lights that in the distance 

will be marking my return. 

They're the same that lit, 

with their pale reflections, 

deep hours of pain 

And even though I didn't want to come back, 

you always return to your first love 

The tranquil street where the echo said 

yours is her life, yours is her love, 

under the mocking gaze of the stars 

that, with indifference, today see me return. 

To return 

with withered face, 

the snows of time 

have whitened my temples. 

To feel... that life is a puff of wind, 

that twenty years is nothing, 

that the feverish look, 

wandering in the shadow, 

looks for you and names you. 

To live... 

with the soul clutched 

to a sweet memory 

that I cry once again 

I am afraid of the encounter 

with the past that returns 

to confront my life 

I am afraid of the nights 

that, filled with memories, 

shackle my dreams. 

But the traveler that flees 

sooner or later stops his walking 

And although forgetfulness, which destroys all, 

has killed my old dream, 

I keep concealed a humble hope 

that is my heart's whole fortune. 

To live... with the soul clutched 

to a sweet memory 

that I cry once again

A Yearly Recap and a Happy New Year!

Its time, yet again, to sit down with a glass of champagne and look back on the year. There have been many great travels – Savannah, New York City, Clearwater Beach, Denver, Winter Park, Scottsdale, Sedona, San Francisco, Napa Valley (story to come), Buenos Aires (story to come), and Las Vegas. Gman and I went to our first trip to an amusement park together, too! Time spent in-between trips was busy hosting many out of town visitors and exploring Washington, D.C. I also went to my ten year high school reunion! We had some guest poetry here on the blog from the talented Kate Lindblom. I’ve learned a lot about wine and art, and continued to develop my personal style (thanks to Pinterest!).

This year has been met with many growing pains as I ventured out on my own, attempting to make long-standing career fantasies a reality. From starting my freelance writing career to the process of expanding High Heeled Traveler to a print magazine, to learning more about photography and design. Many hours have been spent productively learning and some to crying from exhaustion. I would have never taken the leap(s) without the whole-hearted encouragement from Gman, family, and friends. To them (you!) I owe many thanks.

Finally, I feel very blessed to have met so many new and dear friends this year through blogging. More than anything else I’ve done, blogging has provided an instant network of like-minded, ambitious, and stylish men and women with whom I can collaborate and build friendships with. I hope to continue to have the pleasure of being your friend in the New Year!

I’m looking forward to what 2013 will bring. I am expecting to drink lots of wine, have lots of laughs, and continue to challenge myself and push the boundaries of my comfort zone. I wish the same to you!

Cheers to all! Happy New Year!

A Guide to Gift Giving

Ah yes, tis the holiday season. A time recognized through ones physical senses by a chill in the air (or freeze, depending on your latitude), the smell of street carts roasting chestnuts, freshly cut Christmas trees waiting to be taken home and decorated, or Menorahs in the window waiting to count the days of Hanukah. To get in the holiday mood, some watch their favorite Christmas movie, decorate cookies, or go to church, while others start a Wish List Pinterest board, or email their families a Word doc listing gifts to be received, separated by category and price. ::coughs::

Ever since I was a young girl I’ve had some issues giving and receiving gifts. It’s not that I’m ungrateful or thoughtless, it’s that I take it personally. I want the recipient of my gift to feel touched by my gesture. I want it to mean something. I want to show my affections for this person, and I want them to think of me while enjoying their gift. In return, I would like gifts that are equally as thoughtful and fun. I don’t hide my “are you serious?” face very well. When someone misfires on reading what I will want, I do my best to diplomatically and graciously thank them for their thoughtfulness. Just because I ride horses, Grandma, does not mean that all I want is horse themed paraphernalia for every giving opportunity.

My favorite Christmas memory was when I was a young child, still playing with Barbie dolls. This is also my cousin’s favorite memory, and likely my sister’s too. We woke up Christmas morning to find three newly purchased Barbie motor homes waiting for us under our grandparent’s bountiful tree. They were the coolest things we’d ever seen. Barbie could pack up the family and go anywhere in the world, just like that. The back of the car separated and unfolded to reveal spacious living quarters complete with a mini kitchen, bed with linens, and fold out table and chairs. The car part, once detached, had fold out seats. Upon reaching their destination, the whole family, or group of friends, could venture out and discover new shops, restaurants, hiking trails, and even waterfalls. We played with those until we finally grew up enough to have cars of our own and a means to explore life as adults. I’m pretty sure my parents still have them in their attic somewhere.

But gift giving has its missteps too. Just two years ago my father tried to combine my love of shoes with my love of my college football team (University of Florida Gators, if you don’t know by now ;). He proudly presented my sister and I with Gator themed Crocs and I nearly fainted in disbelief. “Are you serious?” was too stuck on my face to hide with gracious praise.

I’m not always the best gift giver either. Most of my gifts to Gman consist of things that include me and that I will enjoy like, movie tickets to something I want to see, vacations, picnics, wine, and lingerie. I also buy him things I think he should wear.

However, I am a firm believer that giving a gift as an adult can be painless and enjoyable. Here are a few guidelines for always getting it right.

Give something consumable. If you aren’t sure of someone’s style or if you are like me and have a very particular ‘to purchase’ list for your home and closet, it’s a good idea to offer gifts like wine, chocolate, expensive olive oil, specialty coffee*, or even an all expenses paid night out to the recipient's favorite restaurant/bar. It’s the gift of spending time together; can it get any better than that? Flowers are also appreciated and fall within this category, though I don’t recommend you eat them.

Give something shiny. People love shiny things, including but not limited to – jewelry, crystal, ceramics with gold leaf, silver objects, stemware, new golf clubs, makeup, candles and candle holders, ipads, iphones, Venetian glass ornaments, scarfs with sequins, food with edible gold leaf on it, especially French macaroons or cake, and a new car (cue Price is Right music)!

Give something handmade. I handmade all my Christmas presents until… well I still do. Every year I write a letter and give it to friends and family updating them on our activities. I like receiving their cards as well. Also acceptable - wreaths, ornaments, picture frames with meaningful pictures (from one of your travels, perhaps?), artwork, moonshine, and food (cookies) fall into this category as well.

*A Starbucks gift card counts as specialty coffee, especially for this caffeine-crazed writer.

Exploring Wine: A Thanksgiving Pairing

I almost bored myself to tears last week as I wrote about suggested wine pairings for your Thanksgiving feasts. I was going argue why the body, structure, and fruitiness of a Pinot Noir would be perfect with your succulent turkey and cranberry sauce. But then, I thought better of it and instead I’m going to tell you a little story about pairing wine with the holiday meal.


It’s 10am. I’ve just finished serving my family a generous meal of scrambled eggs, biscuits, ambrosia, fresh coffee, orange juice, and applewood smoked bacon. I need the bacon for Brussels sprouts I’m roasting later in the day. So I do a pre-Thanksgiving breakfast feast. I can’t just cook bacon at 9am with a house full of people and not expect them to eat it all before I can say, “that’s for later.” I buy double what I need and accept the fact that I will also be sneaking little bits of it all day.


After cleaning the kitchen, I sit down to finish my second cup of coffee and go over my lists and recipes to make sure I start cooking everything on time, and in the right order. My sous chef/mother notices I have no oranges or sugar. She sends dad out for them while she starts peeling apples for a pie. I ask for Sucanat to try and keep the meal as dairy-free, organic, and non-processed as possible.


He comes back with a pound of refined white sugar, along with Grand Marnier and champagne to use to kill off the orange juice; because we obviously can’t just have orange juice sitting around. My sister decides it’s too much for her and goes for a run. My dad abandons his new mimosa making duties to accompany her. Gman is already out. My coffee is down to the last bitter, cold sip.


I start on the Brussels sprouts, rinsing, chopping, and roasting them with apples and bacon (which barely made it into the dish). My sous chef and I decide there is no time like the present to sample the good wine I carefully choose to compliment our dinner. My, my do I love Pinot Noir. It’s the Goldilocks of wine - not as heavy as a Cab or Malbec, not as light as a Nebbiolo or Chianti - and it goes down so easily too, especially while one is cooking. As soon as the Brussels sprouts are in the oven, we start the cranberry sauce. The Grand Marnier doesn’t go to waste, and we pour a little into the cranberries and orange zest. Man, the wine is so good. It makes everything fragrant and I pat myself on the back for such a fine selection.


More biscuits, and some cornbread go into the oven as the Brussels sprouts finish up. I start boiling the potatoes and cook the sausage for the dressing. Everyone returns. We open a second bottle then nearly burn our fingers sampling the Brussels sprouts straight off the pan. “Yes,” I say, complimenting myself out loud, “the Pinot Noir picks up the bits of bacon nicely without over-powering the apples”. My sister rolls her eyes.


Then I realize that the turkey roast is still chilling in the fridge. It’s now 2pm and the side dishes are near completion. I ignore everything that Giada and Ina have taught me and rub a bunch of butter all over the cold roast, and then dump some salt and pepper on it. It’s thrown into the oven about 50 degrees hotter than noted on the packaging. We consider cutting up and grilling it instead, then realize the grill is out of gas and its also 40 degrees outside.


Slowly the day slips through my fingers. Once everything is finished in the kitchen, we are forced to drink cheap Chardonnay with the turkey (which wasn’t a total loss) instead of the hand-selected Pinot since my sous chef and I finished that off, oops. But no one seems to notice or mind. We end the night with a rousing game of Apples to Apples. Then devour some apple pie and vanilla ice cream.


Nothing was exactly as I prepared for in my head the weeks leading up. In the moment, I was stressed more than I was calm. I was even resentful that I couldn’t go for a run too, but really, I was relieved to get some quiet time to do one of my favorite things: sit in the kitchen with my mom, drink the finest wine we can afford while pretending to be focused on the food, but really we’re just gossiping until everyone returns and the moment is gone.

Weekend Recap: a reunion

I’m not really one to reminisce. I don’t have a fabulous memory. Although remembering the past can lead to belly-laughing story telling and pure joy, one also runs the risk of opening the door to regret and heartbreak. So I like to live in the moment. I like to try and be completely present and just keep moving forward.

This proved difficult this past weekend. I went back to my hometown for my ten-year high school reunion. I wasn’t nervous about it. The event was slapped together at the last minute, hosted at a popular local marina with a bar right on the water. With such a causal approach, how could I feel worried about reconnecting with people who saw me through my youth?

I spent little time concerned about who would be there and who wouldn’t. I thought many of my friends, my “group,” would come because I thought everyone went to their reunion. That’s why I went.

I showed up right on time with one of my best friends, Kate, who not only went to high school with me, but became my college roommate, my confident, and your favorite High Heeled Traveler poet. But being there felt awkward. I felt the insecurities of my adolescence creeping into my stomach. I got a beer and we chatted with a very nice girl that I remember having classes with. The crowd grew and a not so talented band started playing songs that were popular when we were in high school. No one really mingled and I couldn’t put names with faces. People found a spot to sit, ate the chicken fingers from the buffet, and only talked to the people from their previously defined social circles. After panicking that perhaps I was in the wrong place, I did find a few lovely people I was glad to see in person that I already reconnected with on facebook.

Just as I was thinking it was time to wrap it up, two people walked onto the patio - two people who I spent almost every waking hour with for four years of high school and whom I’ve known since I was a child. I haven’t really spoken to them since the day we graduated high school with a bittersweet separation, each of us moving on to find our futures and ourselves. I thought it might be hard to pick up the pieces but with people like this you just pick up where you left off. As the party wound down, we decided to go to another bar where Kate and I’s college friends were waiting.

When we arrived, a band was playing some sort of swing, country, rock combo. A middle-aged woman with wild hair and no shoes danced around me and couples swung to the beat. I stood there quietly sipping my beer, watching my worlds collide, as my college friends and high school friends divulged my secrets to each other over the music. Everyone was having a great time together and I thought, perhaps reminiscing isn’t so bad when, in a moment, my bittersweet past became part of my very joy-filled future.

Art to Inspiration: Lani Trock, Hello Blue Moon

Lani Trock, Hello Blue Moon

It was a cold January night by Florida standards. We had to make an emergency run to Walmart to get warm socks and gloves. I had two wool sweaters and a pea coat to my name and wore all three to keep my teeth from chattering. Once on the road it took about 30 minutes to find the perfect spot along Highway 441. The news mentioned the best place to watch the meteor shower would be in Paynes Prairie, just outside of Gainesville and the University of Florida.

The prairie is a 22,000 acre state park preserve that is home to some of the greatest plants and animals Florida has to offer (the Everglades isn't the only natural wonder in Florida!). It's a bird watchers dream and even has wild horses. During the day one can stay very busy hiking, fishing, canoeing, biking, and horseback riding (not on the wild ones...). There are no street lights lining the highway and at night the area is empty, quiet, and pitch black. Because of this, on any given night the sky suddenly comes alive with so many stars one wouldn't think it possible. The evening of the meteor shower the highway was lined with college kids, professors, and local families with their cars pulled over and people spread out on blankets or perked on the hoods of their cars. A tailgating scene, so familiar to Gainesville, yet in complete darkness. The constant sounds of whispers and giggles relieved any concerns I had with being so close to the deep  mysteries of the grass lands only steps from our spot.

My roommates and I huddled together on a sheet and waited patiently for the stars to start falling. It took hours, we ate all our snacks, told jokes, stories, and eventually waited in silence. Dew formed on the grass beneath us and the cold wetness prevented any sort of nodding off. Finally, after hours, a shooting star burst across the sky. Then a second. Then two at time. Then three, five, ten. Magically the sky lit up with bright streaks each quicker than our eyes could process. Before we could react and say, "oh! there's one!" it would be gone. We couldn't point or communicate with each other for fear of missing the very fleeting moment and the collective gasping of individuals created a symphony of awe and delight across the highway.

As the sun crept up on the horizon, the crowds thinned and the stars disappeared. We dusted ourselves off, threw the sheet in the trunk, and with a peaceful satisfaction, headed straight to Denny's for some pancakes and eggs.


Started by the lovely Supal of Chevrons and Eclairs, Art to Inspiration is a once a month blog post inspired by a work of art. If you would like to participate in Art to Inspiration, click here to read more and sign up. 

And in case you missed it here's July's and August's Art to Inspiration.

Shoe Love: Cowboy Boots

The only shoe love that would be appropriate after a week of talking about the wild west, is my affection for my cowboy boots. I bought these about eight years ago, back in college. I had this childhood memory of cowboy boots. My mom had this creamy colored pair in the back of her closet. I loved to sneak in there as a little girl and try them on. I memorized every detail, like the little metal heart that protected the tip of the toes. Then as I grew up, my feet grew many times her size so I needed a pair of my own. 

At the time of my purchase many women's boots were colorful, trendy, and some outright obnoxious. But I wanted a pair that I could wear the rest of my life. Brands like Tony Lama are carefully hand-crafted with the finest leather which is an investment, some costing around $400 a pop. After no luck in the women's area, I headed to the men's section and saw this pair of classic congac colored beauties. It was love at first sight and I've been wearing them ever since.

I'm gettin' my art blog on.

Aaron Canipe, Native Place

I've been crazy busy lately with some exciting new ventures, in addition to some new project for High Heeled Traveler, I've been hired by ArtSee DC as a blogger (yippie!).

If you aren't familiar with ArtSee DC, they are an arts company who engage with artists and art enthusiasts in the D.C., Maryland, and Virginia to discover, exchange, and promote art in the community. I will write a monthly artist interview column as well as review gallery exhibitions. Check out my first interview with photographer Aaron Canipe here!

A Wedding Post

Happy two year anniversary to the most handsome man I know!

When we were planning our wedding we got lots and lots of unsolicited advice on what we should do, serve, wear, how we should talk, who should be invited, you name it someone told us their opinion. At first it was fun to share in the excitement but then it was so overwhelming that I just wanted to do whatever the heck was good for me. No tanning or princess dress for instance.

So here is my unsolicited advice to all you brides to be. Pick three things that are really important to you and let everything else go. Gman and I choose three each and there was some overlap: good food, good music, free booze for the guests, and I was obsessed, and still am, with my flowers.

The planning process is stressful, and the day of even more so (for me anyways) but remember why you are getting married and keep your eye on the prize, which is hopefully your husband to be.

All photos in this post were taken by Mike Buoy for Mike & Ann Visual Storytellers (except the dessert bar; that was taken by one of my lovely bridesmaids). They were a pleasure to work with and two of the most dedicated and hard-working people I know. You can find more of their photographs on their blog here and if you like their work (how could you not!?) follow them on facebook here.

Here are the rest of our vendors. They all created a perfectly seamless experience for me and my guests and I couldn’t be more pleased with their services. 

Flowers: Flowers by Jenny. She's seriously the best ever.
Ceremony site: Palm Harbor White Chapel. I liked the white washed walls and stained glass windows. It also had the shortest aisle in town.
Reception site: Bon Appetit Restaurant and Inn. Carmen took care of everything for us, making the wedding day run perfectly. Almost all of the guests stayed at the hotel too and it made for a fun weekend get-a-way.

UPDATE: I forgot to tell you who I'm wearing :) Dress is Douglas Hannant, shoes Manolo Blahnik, and  cage veil Tigerlilly Jewelry.

We also had a second chef make the cakes but unfortunately I can not remember who it was! I will do some digging and add an update when I can.

Exploring Wine: A Rosé Story

This Exploring Wine post won't be a review but in honor of the warming weather, a little story about that pink wine.

During the hot summer days in Georgia my grandmother used to drink sweet rosé wine over ice. She loved it almost as much as sweet tea and sprite, her go-tos. She isn't a big alcohol drinker and her taste in wine was whatever was sweet and cheap. As a young adult I remember looking down on her choice as less than sophisticated. I always associated rosé with tacky old-fashioned furniture and matching shorts outfits that older ladies in Florida just love to wear. As I became a wine drinker, I teased her behind her back about her beloved  rosé with ice.

Then I moved to Paris in the summer of  2006 to study abroad. I became a francophile and fell in love with all things Parisian. It was hot, I mean real hot, and there was little air conditioning to be had. We even bought hand fans to cool ourselves and spent little time in our apartments or classrooms. Parisians congregated in the street cafes in hopes of a breeze and at least some interesting people watching. My girlfriends and I followed suit. I looked around to see what everyone was ordering and was horrified to see chic French men and women drinking  rosé with ice. Just one ice cube floating there in the middle of the pink liquid. Then I did the unthinkable and ordered one (let's be honest, I ordered a bottle). The first sip was smooth, light, slightly sweet, and coolly refreshing.

Grandma, in fact, knew what she was doing. She knew what would take the edge off of summer heat. I gained a new respect for her that summer. Now she's no longer able to enjoy her  rosé with ice. So each year when spring finally gives in to the heat of summer, I buy a bottle in her honor and toast to the miserable heat to come.

Destination: Clearwater Beach, Florida

In DC people always ask, “where are you from?” and I say, “I moved here from New York City.” To which they insist, “No, where are you from originally?” It’s very important for people here to know your residential history. Perhaps it’s a way they try to find common ground or maybe they are suspicious of non-locals. Either way, I’m originally from Palm Harbor, Florida. Most people don’t know where that is, so I usually name one of the closest bigger cities, Clearwater (and if they are still looking at me like a deer in headlights, I follow up with Tampa.)


Clearwater is best known for two things: the take over of Scientology and it's pristine white beaches and crystal clear blue water. Clearwater Beach was the first beach I ever set foot on. When I was a tiny baby, I did not appreciate the beautiful, white, powdery sand. If the sand touched me, I would sit there with my fingers and toes spread as far as they could with that “this is yucky” look on my face.


When I was a little girl, our family would take a trip every summer to the beach, even though we only lived 25 minutes away. We would go with our grandparents, aunt, cousin, my parents, and sister, and stay at what is now the Marriot on Sand Key. As a child, the attraction here was not the beach but the huge pool and freedom to explore it. My sister and I took our Barbies along so they could explore too. There was also a parrot in the lobby.

This beach is the place I keep coming back to, the beach environment - the tacky culture, casual attitude, and open air dining - are like home to me. This is the place of my childhood and of my adolescence. I’ve been here countless times and have memorized the way the waves lap the concrete poles beneath Pier 60. I know that families and tourists hang on towards the north and teenagers layout in groups on the south side of the pier. Old leathery beach bums bask in teeny tiny string bikinis and toddlers shrill with excitement each time the water touches their toes. While amateur skim boarders try their best to look professional.


I have a spot where I go to sit. It’s at the far north side of the beach, where only locals go. In high school I would go there with my girlfriends we’d listen to loud music on a boom-box, read Cosmo and Glamour, and catch up on gossip. I didn’t notice then that the water changed colors as the sun and clouds moved across the sky. I didn’t notice that tiny crabs snuck out at low tide, I was too busy checking my tan lines. I kept a towel, bikini, sunscreen, and flip flops in the trunk of my Hyundai Sante Fe, just in case we wanted to cruise over after school.


I recommend Sand Key as a more secluded, romantic spot or if you have young children and are worried about a crowded beach. There is also a famously delicious Cuban restaurant on Sand Key called Columbia Restaurant. It would make for a great date night spot; just remember to wear real shoes and clothes, not your flip-flops and cover-up. Reservations recommended.

This one time, the day after my wedding, two of my bridesmaids and some of our guests headed over to the beach to get some R&R before jumping on the plane. They stopped at Publix to get subs (remember how delicious I told you these were?) and intended to picnic at the beach while trying to absorb a little vitamin D. One of them was not a native Floridian and made the mistake of not guarding her sandwich with her life. The seagulls sensed her vulnerability and started circling. They took turns diving at her to try to nab a bite or steal the whole sandwich. Terrified, she threw the sandwich into the air and took off running and screaming. Everyone else laughed so hard they couldn’t breathe.


This brings me to one of the most important bits of advice I can give: when at the beach never EVER feed the seagulls. They are aggressive terrors who get bolder by the tourist. They will snatch your food, and anything that looks like food. If you bring food to the beach, be sure to throw everything away properly on your way out. In case of emergency, if the birds are swarming, hide your food with your body or under a bag/towel, etc. If they are still bothering you, do not give in and throw scraps. Try to ride it out, as they will eventually leave you for an easier target. Avoiding these creatures will make your visit much more enjoyable.

Some of my favorite spots for shopping and dining include... my favorite place to buy a bikini is the Mandalay Surf Company. Best places to grab a grouper sandwich or burger include any of the Frenchy's locations (Salt Water Cafe being the best) or Palm Pavilion (go here for live music and sunset views). For a fancy dinner Bob Heilman's Beachcomber is a must and if you're in the market for a place that serves everything try Clearsky Beachside Cafe. Its also where many of the colorful locals hangout.


And some things tourists do that locals don't (but are worth doing once): Captain Memo's pirate ship tour, dolphin watching tour, and Clearwater Marine Aquarium which is home to Winter, the dolphin with the prosthetic tail made famous by the movie A Dolphin's Tale (I laugh inside every time I read this, sort of mean, "punny" title...).


If you have any boating experience, or can afford to charter a small boat, I recommend skipping all of the above and cruising around the inter-coastal waterway on your own. Not only will you see dolphins and other wildlife, but you will get to check out all of the fabulous homes over-looking the water. I just love peeking into the windows!


The best place to stay is the Sand Pearl - I'll give you a full review of it on Thursday!