Sarasota, Fla., we shall return to you

It's an endurance test: talking about Florida without talking about the weather. So why bother playing at all, which is why I'm just going to get it out of the way right here in the first graph. Yep, Florida ... it be hot. And sticky. And muggy. It's like walking through a sauna with all your clothes on. And your clothes are made of burlap. I blame all the water. It's everywhere. Puddles, streams, marches, swamps, canals — everywhere you look water is evaporating around you in these wispy vapor clouds. The state hovers over a teapot, I'm sure of it.

And all this coming from someone who lives in Arizona. I eat little bits of magma-flecked sun for breakfast. My fingertips are nearly immune to roasted metal seatbelt. Even worse, I’m a native Arizonan. Some people know where they were when JFK was shot; I know where I was when Phoenix hit 122 degrees. It was June 1990, and I had a Little League game. So it surprises me that when I arrived in Florida last week that I found the weather so ghastly hot. Not like my-blood-is-boiling hot, but more I-love-Arizona’s-dry-heat hot. Both are stifling, but Florida and all its gator-smelling humidity was noticeably excelling in the heat department. Congrats, Florida.

Heat aside — by the way, I exaggerate for effect only — Florida was a blast. After a night in New York City, because jetBlue doesn’t fly direct, Florida was a welcome surprise. First of all, it’s so very green and lush. There are parts of the Sarasota area, and probably all across Florida, that are literally overgrown with vegetation, some so thick you can’t even see through it. I’m talking palms, big frond things, Spanish moss, vines, lots of sand, big long-necked birds (and freakin’ PELICANS!!!), clingy green crawlers … it’s the closest I’ve been to a jungle.

Our first day there, Sara and I joined her good friend Krysta, Krysta’s husband John and their 2-year-old Shelby — they also let us stay with them — on a tour of the arty downtown area of Sarasota. We were on a quest for bakeries, and they knew of a bunch in the area. We struck the mother load. In that brief little walk we found more cozy little ma-and-pa bakeries than we did in New York City, and their treats were just as good. I had a single cupcake and was promptly full, but that didn’t stop us from buying other baked goodies. We went from store to store buying up new and interesting items. Tarts from a French place, cannoli and tiramisu from an Italian store, cakes, cupcakes, cookies … you name it and we bought it. In one Italian pizza place we got a sfogliatelle, which looked like a stack of Pringles chips, but flaky and filled with something. I had watched Tony Soprano eat one once, so it couldn’t be all bad, but it was kinda funky. It tasted like gym socks smell. (We need to try one from a better bakery possibly.) Also, I got Sara to eat a macaroon, which has coconut — she hates coconut. Anyway, we boxed up all our pastries and cakes and took them back to Krysta’s, where they sat in the fridge until two days later when we all sampled from everything. Sara loved an apple strudel; I was gonzo for the flourless chocolate cake. Mostly, though, we learned a lot about bakeries: good ones can survive even with competition around.

That night we met the rest of the family, including John Jr. and Kylie, both of whom became our good buddies quite quickly. The house was a little chaotic, but loads of fun. We had little John talking our ears off about trains, Shelby leading us around and telling us to kiss her robot-dancing teddy bear — when we wouldn’t do it she would say, “KISS IT!” in her sweet little Exorcist voice — while Kylie was chatting our ears off and three dogs were playing at our feet. Coming from a very quiet house with no kids, I loved this. So did Sara. That night we ventured out to Siesta Key and its beautiful beach for some more shopping and dinner. The sand on that particular key is very fine and very white, and when it gets wet it looks like soggy flour from a bread dough on your fingers. It was beautiful. Later, as an appetizer for dinner Sara and I ordered some raw oysters. I have had some before, Sara has not. And she loved them!

The next day we hit Busch Gardens for roller coasters, zoo animals and lots of fun with Krysta and her family. Sadly, the little ones couldn’t ride the big coasters with us, but we made sure to ride some little ones with them. I loved the zoo/theme park hybrid: it’s the best of both worlds. At one point we saw gorillas, and 15 minutes later we’re dropping into a vertical plunge at 65 mph. More places should start combining attractions; I’d invest in a skydiving water park.

Before we knew it, we were heading back to the Sarasota airport, which is quaint and simple — except for the leering, smiling conquistador who, judging by the painting in the main terminal, has just raped the entire indigenous population before carting away with all their goods. We would not leave with such smiles simply because our time had flown past (and we hadn't raped anyone, thankfully). I remember settling into our 9-hour flight back to AZ thinking, where did our Florida time go? It flew past us almost. Oh well, that just means we have to go back.

New York City / Represent / Represent

New York City is the greatest city in the world. And if you disagree here are some simple instructions: 1.) Fly to New York City. 2.) Buy a Metrocard and take the subway into Manhattan. 3.) Figure out which river you’re nearest to, the Hudson or the East River. 4.) Walk to that river. 5.) Then jump in. Yeah, you heard me — jump in a river.

Remember when David Letterman coined the phrase, “Our city can kick your city’s ass”? Well, I’m trying to behave myself and trying not to invoke those kinds of words — too confrontational? — so just roll with my punches here for a moment. It’s just that NYC does this to me ... it hypes me up, like fourth-quarter, bottom-of-the-ninth, the-jury-has-come-to-a-verdict hype. It makes me wish I had this kind of enthusiasm for the place I did live, but alas, Phoenix hardly compares.

So, yeah, I think pretty highly of New York City. But before I continue further I must admit something: I’m not that well traveled. Paris, Rome, Tokyo, Berlin, Chicago, Boston … haven’t been to any of them. I intend to visit them all at some point — Boston next week — but until I start making that Dan Rather money — or I just make the switch to the Dark Side ... public relations — I’m going to have to piece together my comparison guide from my limited travels thus far, which includes parts of Utah, New Mexico, Los Angeles and San Francisco, and some of the touristy spots of Mexico.

But here’s a wild idea: even if those other cities are amazing, which I’m sure they are, I doubt they would unseat NYC on my charts at this point. It just seems very unlikely. See, I really love New York City. I’m talking deep infatuation here. From the moment Sara and I stepped off the A Train in Downtown, I was on this cloud. I didn’t descend from it until I was back in Phoenix admiring the blandness stream past on a highway to nowhere. Yes, Phoenix is my home, but after NYC it feels like a dramatic plunge down the desirability index.

My last trip to the Big Apple, last June, was one of self-discovery. I was mostly alone, walking the city with nothing more than a camera and this impossibly ambitious goal to see every square inch of everything. This trip, though, had several themes: parks and bakeries were two of the dominant ones. Brooklyn, the borough I saw the least last time, was also a prominent theme. We stayed with Sara’s very awesome cousin Alex, who pointed us to some very cool attractions, like the Neo-Futurist’s 30-play/60-minute Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind, the 100-meter dash of off-off Broadway plays. Alex and her boyfriend, Aiden, live in Brooklyn Heights, which is just across the river from Manhattan. Walk 60 feet from their front door and you’re staring at the New York City Skyline — pretty much amazing in every way. Nearly as close to that view is the subway entrance that hauled us to and fro from Manhattan. We couldn’t have asked for a better location; or better tour guides.

Alex also pointed us in the general direction of some really good dessert places, like City Bakery with their world-famous hot chocolate, Magnolia Bakery, Momofuku Milk Bar and Cake & Shake, which operates out of a little baby-blue cart at Washington Square Park and at the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Sara’s favorite was City Bakery, where we nibbled on a giant apple muffin thing (non-technical term); my fave was Cake & Shake, where we had these delicious filled cupcakes. Funniest part about the bakeries: while we were looking for these locations (and in some cases, not looking for them) we would run across dozens of other bakeries. If we tried to hit every one, we’d die of heart attacks right around the time my wallet ran dry. Luckily, when we were full of desserts, we’d just find the nearest park for a digestion break.

I have a thing for parks. All of them. Bryant, Madison Square, Washington Square, Central Park, Union Square. We did all of them. Sara seemed confused why I would deviate from our path to hit these lush green blocks. They’re nice places to take little breaks after walking (we walked half of Manhattan after all), but they were also just beautiful places to relax. Parks in Arizona are irrigated fields with soccer goalposts. Maybe they have trees or, more likely, desert shrubs. But a NYC park is like paradise: winding paths, park benches, manicured lawns, dense trees providing shade, historical concrete structures and fountains. I love them, especially how they attract the people like green little beacons amid all the glass and steel.

Sara and I became very proficient subway users. We learned how to use our Metrocards without any help, and by the end of the trip we were commuting like regulars, even making complicated transfers with ease — only once did I get us completely turned around. On Sunday, we jumped on the F Train and rode it all the way out to Coney Island, which was a rather interesting experience. September is pretty much when Coney starts shutting down, so not much was open and the boardwalk was filled with derelict homeless people and small pockets of tourists. And it was cold — the coldest we’d been so far. We sat on the boardwalk looking out at the ocean and the seagulls, and simply shrugged our shoulders: “Yep, that’s it, I guess.” And we left. No Cyclone, no Wonder Wheel, no Warriors t-shirts, no Midway game. Coney Island was kinda sad.

We did end with a bang, though, by grabbing original Nathan’s hot dogs before we left. Nathan’s is one of the most famous hot dog spots in the world, and the location of the annual Fourth of July Hot Dog Eating Contest, where Kobayashi and Joey “Jaws” Chestnut race to eat enough hot dogs to feed all of Darfur for a week.

I’m leaving a lot of stuff out, and, well, I’m packing for our Florida trip, which starts in less than 12 hours, so I’m going to stop right there with the transitions and stuff. Here’s a bulleted list of other stuff that happened:

• While we were waiting to go into the Neo-Futurist show, this girl behind us in line had this conversation with her friend. keep in mind she said this stuff kinda loud. Woman: “So we were, like, at this concert, and we did this drug, like PX-4 or something like that. It was really mellow and awesome, and I could just feel everything. So me and this guy were having sex in his tent, and afterwards I was kinda laying there naked in this post-orgasmic bliss and I just all of the sudden really wanted some soup.”

• We were at Ground Zero actually on Sept. 11. You’d think it would have been reverent and peaceful, but not really. It was neat to hear the families reading out the names of the victims, but beyond that it was kinda chaos down there: protesters, demonstrators, religious nutjobs, people selling 9/11 memorabilia ... it was all very disrespectful. And some people think the Muslims are going to ruin everything when it looks as though Christians have done their fair share of desecration down there.

• We had a celebrity sighting: Gwen Stefani. We were walking through SoHo and we saw the paparazzi milling around outside a store. We waited around for like 30 seconds and Gwen and her kid strolled out. I’ve photographed her before, and this time she was taller than I remember.

• We shopped at Mario Batali’s new restaurant/grocery store, Eataly. Very cool! We were looking for birthday gifts for my dad, who loves to cook, especially Italian dishes. We'd of love to have ate there but it was mass pandemonium for Mario's food.

• When we couldn’t get tickets to see The Addams Family, we jumped over to 42nd Street to a movie theater to see The American. I loved it; the rest of the theater was too amped up from Michael Bay movies to give it a shot — no attention spans anymore, geez! Sara slept through most of it. The movie theater was like seven stories up. We literally rode the Stairway to Heaven to get to this movie. And we walked far once we were in the theater, too. Once we were in our seats I was sure we were in East Jersey.

• On one of the subway stations we saw these teens sitting on the edge of the platform with their legs dangling off the sides. This short little NYPD female officer jumped out of her pants to go yell at them: “You gotta be kiddin’ me?!?! Wanna lose your legs?!” She looked and sounded like Michelle Rodriguez (Sara pointed this out). Now, for the life of me, I can’t remember what she really looks and sounds like. All I can picture is the real Michelle Rodriguez.

• On the plane ride home we sat behind JetBlue’s founder David Neeleman. He fell asleep on a pillow. When he woke up his hair was messed up. Haha! CEO with messy hair! (I did think it was commendable he was riding in the back with us chumps, though.)

• We went to the MET, but only to see the Bambu exhibit on the rooftop garden. But while we were there, we might as well see the rest of the museum, right? I wanted to see some Monet, Van Gogh or Pollock. But we pretty much walked right past some famous works. We just wanted to see that bamboo sculpture. I kinda felt like Godard's Band a parte, where the people race through the Louvre. We didn't run, though, nor did we break any speed records. On a side note, the Bambu exhibit was simply amazing!

NYC, I'll miss you! see you in several weeks!

A New York me

Sara's turn.

My New York state of mind is emerging.

For months Michael and I have talked about planning a trip to the Big Apple. We talked about visiting record stores, Central Park, bakeries, museums and Brooklyn Banks. Our thoughts are consumed by taxi rides, subway systems, horse-drawn carriages and pounding the pavement until our ankles ache.

But I'm mostly obsessing over red lipstick.

I'm really a Chapstick kind of girl. On more formal occasions I will put on a layer of glittering lip gloss. But New York City is worth applying something thicker than Burt's Bees. At least I think so.

The city is alive. It has character and is envied the world-round. The people, the buildings, the streets, everything is glamorized in NYC. And I want to be, too. I want to strut on Fifth Avenue like it's my personal catwalk. I want heels, high fashion and rouge lips. I want flawless hair, perfect skin, sunglasses made by Coach or Guess. I want to own New York.

So, I shopped today for lipstick. I tried to prepare myself by flipping through the latest issue of InStyle magazine before arriving at Ulta. Turns out, red isn't in. In fact, flashy lips are not the current couture. Nude, beige, peachy puckers are king. How is one supposed to stand out in New York City with nude lips? But that's OK, I told myself. At least I knew what was "in" and what was "out," and that knowledge would lead me. So I settled on the recommended color and brand for my skin tone, a lipstick made by Smashbox called "splendid." It's very ho-hum and kind of sand-colored. Not splashy. Not wow. Not who is that girl?

It doesn't really matter what color the lipstick is. I realize that. The idea, the concept I hope to embrace, is that we can give ourselves permission to be whomever we want when we travel. If I want to walk the streets in coal-rimmed eyes and plump red lips, I can. If I want to travel without running a comb through my hair, I will.

And so for New York, I will be a "higher class" Sara. A sophisticate. Someone with confidence. For Boston it could change. For Florida, I might just be me.

Leia Takes Manhattan

We're adopting new identities for our trip to New York City. Big cities do this to me. No one knows me there, so we can be whoever we want and no one would be the wiser. Unless we suck at our new identities, of course, which is entirely possible considering I'm going as the much-taller, much-darker, much-sportier Derek Jeter, the epitome of New York Cool.

Actually, I'm going as myself, the impersonation I do best. Myself even patched his favorite jeans with like 15 little iron-on patches just in case he doesn't feel his true self, which wouldn't happen in crisp new jeans. Luckily, though, NYC is the place to go to be yourself. Maybe that's why "conservative" people frown down on "dem big liberal cities and their city slicker ways" — big cities are the beacons of hope for people to go to turn loose without fear of judgment or reprisal.

Several cases in point: Last time I was in New York City, I saw a bum pooping on a sidewalk. I saw a man practicing tae kwon do all by his lonesome in a full business suit in the grass at Union Square. I saw a group of Hasidic Jews, fur hats and all, arguing in the middle of a crosswalk. I saw a woman in a skirt dangerously maneuver through traffic ... on a bike ... in the rain ... on a cell phone (!!!). Point is, New York City is a place where people do what they want, how they want it. Even the guy pooping seemed well aware of this as we strolled past drawing his wrath for noticing his excellent form and technique on such a challenging set of steps.

In Arizona, the space is so large and so sprawled out, that people tend to notice these things quicker, and then pass judgment on them. If a man practiced martial arts by himself in public on any sort of lawn in AZ, it would make the front page. I know this because I've actually photographed sightings like this for reporters, who then turned it into news copy on prime news real estate on our front page. (Although, I have to admit that Sara and I went to Adults Night Out at the Arizona Science Center on Friday night and we were able to turn loose without feeling like weirdos. Please see the attached photo of Sara peering into a glass typhoon.) But in NYC, the weirdness is just life. The tae kwon do man, the pooper, the fearless biker, the bickering Jews ... everyone is a gear within the city, and all of them help make it turn.

We were discussing this notion of becoming other people as a joke. I think it started with that Alicia Keys line in Jay-Z's "Empire State of Mind": Concrete jungle where dreams are made of / There's nothing you can't do. (New Yorkers probably hate that song by now, but I still love it.) Alicia is right, though: there's nothing you can't do, except maybe poop on sidewalks.

And speaking of the song, I must dissect one particular line, which I hate. Jay raps: I made the Yankee hat more famous than a Yankee can. As Sara would say, " What the what?!?!" Does Jay not know about Mickey Mantle, Lou Gehrig, Joe Dimaggio, Roger Maris, Yogi Berra, and, uh, this semi-professional minor league hack named Babe Freakin' Ruth? Oh yeah, and Jeter/Me? Surely Jay-Z made the sloppy, over-the-ears, don't-cut-the-tags-off, sticker-on-the-bill, sideways Yankees hat more famous than a Yankee did. But when it comes to hats worn like men, only Yankees can be thanked there.

As for Sara and her alternate identity. She's going as herself as well. Although, I made some strong suggestions that she go as Princess Leia after she accidentally wore the Leia Bun several weeks back. She vetoed my suggestions. I still have three days to convince her otherwise. Wish me luck.

The Jack Problem and Other Randomness

Michael here. Nearly a week until Sara and I depart on our All-You-Can-Jet passes and we can start to feel the immensity of these trips bearing down on us. Most of it is excitement; the rest is just nervous energy kinda wildly bouncing around the room, like playing racquetball in a phone booth.

For starters, we have a Jack problem. Jack is Sara's beasty, yet super friendly, golden retriever who I have inherited upon dating Sara — a perk since Jack and I quickly became buddies with the mutual admiration for the always-amusing "hey-that's-my-ball-give-it-back" game. For a trip in July we had Jack kenneled at this pet boarding place near where we work. It had this goofy Teddy Roosevelt Hunting Lodge theme, and they occasionally do puppy proms — I shudder just thinking of this — but it was a decent place and he always came back surprisingly chipper considering he's jailed at night in a little fenced bunker with a doggy-sized cot. It's just expensive — $40 a night. So for our 16 or so traveling days in September and October, rather than send him to the hound hotel we've decided to turn him loose on the street and just buy a new dog when we get back. No, wait — we've decided we're going to have a friend watch him. Our friend likes Jack, but her dog Poncho ... well, not so much. It's all going to work out, but the poor guy — I call him Bubba — is going to get ferried around like a lost piece of luggage. By the middle of October he'll probably just collapse on the rug at home and cling to George, his glow-in-the-dark rubber ball, like it was his security blanket.

We have some other concerns, of course, like money. Our company seems to change everyday — tomorrow they're turning off the A/C in one department — and with each change we have to wonder if traveling right now is the best thing. My theory is this: we can be glum at work that we're still on furlough, sitting in warmer rooms, cranking out work for a company that is grinding our emotions into a fine powder ... or we can travel. I vote travel!

First on the list is New York City, of which I have nothing but good things to say. Then Florida, by way of NYC. Then Boston. Then another weekend in NYC. You see, JetBlue flies to Boston and JFK in New York from Phoenix. That's it. Luckily, though, we like the East Coast, so we're thrilled that we've found a way to use the tickets and squeeze every dime out of them. Eight days to go before Trip 1 ... HURRY UP!!!