The Thrilling Conclusion!

Cedar Rapids

I woke up in my darkened hotel room, disoriented by the blackout curtain. The alarm on the other end of my king size bed was beeping and I rolled over to turn it off. As with the previous morning, I hopped out of bed and did some stretches and lunges before throwing on pants, a blazer, and the shirt I bought the night before at SuperTarget.

While I lamented the small selection of breakfast foods at the TownePlace Suites, I was ecstatic at the selection of items at the Hampton Inn. Biscuits and gravy, cereal, fruit, oatmeal, waffles, coffee, juice, tea. How could I pass up a breakfast that had both oatmeal and biscuits and gravy? I grabbed some items and sat down at a table with a copy of the USA Today and a cup with a mustache on it.

After breakfast, I called my mom who had been watching my cats for me. We talked about the final leg of my trip before I packed my things and checked out, grabbing a “happy kit” from the front desk before getting in my car. I drove to Hy-Vee again, looking for a beer called Jesus on a Forklift brewed by Exile Brewing Company in Des Moines, but I found out it is only available on tap. I made it out of Hy-Vee, but not before buying more snacks for the road, some Chinese food, and a six-pack of Exile’s Ruthie Blond Lager to share with people in Milwaukee.

I sat in my car and queued up Too Bright by Perfume Genius.

“It’s time to go home,” I said. I backed out of my parking spot and headed to I-380.

Iowa/Illinois/Wisconsin

Let’s face it: There is no route across Iowa that doesn’t feel boring. I have a friend who once told me his family wants to abolish Iowa because of how dull the drive is. I usually scowl at him or roll my eyes, but the next time he points it out I will probably agree.

As I drove past the harvested fields, I kept wondering if this drive was me doing penitence for the arguing I did with community elders earlier this year, or for not really appreciating someone who really seemed to care about me until I was on my back in the ER, him by my side.

I eventually made it to Walcott and went to use the bathroom, but because of how many travelers there were, I ended up going to a McDonald’s–did you think I would go to the I-80 Truck Stop?–and then eating the Chinese food from Hy-Vee. As I shoveled the lo mein noodles in my mouth, I started crying because I forgot how good Hy-Vee Chinese food is and I cry when I eat really good food.

I got back on the interstate and nothing happened until I got to Rockford, other than me contemplating my place in the universe. Shortly outside of Rockford, I was trapped in really bad traffic as a result of trucks breaking down, which meant I spent about an hour in the Rockford area. I drove past the exit for Rockford University and wondered what would have happened with my life if I had accepted the scholarship I was offered and gone there instead of DePaul University.

By the time I got to Beloit, I was pumped. “I made it to Beloit! I’m almost home,” I told myself, before debating if I should stop and get pizza at Domenicos. (If you’re ever in Beloit, you need to stop at Domenicos and have pizza.) I decided to keep driving, the rain pounding on my still-dirty car as I played Middle Cyclone by Neko Case.

Milwaukee County

Music: “Finale” from In the Heights

I did it. I made it back to Milwaukee. The traffic was lighter than I was expecting, although that might have been because it was the day before Thanksgiving. I got back to my apartment and happily walked through the door, although my cats only seemed excited to have me back to feed them.

And then it hit me.

I didn’t listen to the original cast recording of Falsettos the entire time I was driving.

Ames, Morning

I awoke in my hotel room and started my day like I normally do, with stretching and doing some exercises. I went down to the lobby for the free breakfast and was a little disappointed by what was there, although I was excited by the giant cauldron of oatmeal. (What? I like oatmeal.)

I sat at the table, reading the Ames Tribune while watching CBS This Morning. As I sipped Lemon Lift tea from a cup with a sleeve that said, “I Wake Up Like This,” I turned my head up at just the right time to see a story about parents in Dubuque trying to challenge The Perks of Being a Wallflower. “Oh, come on!” I yelled at the TV.

“Is everything okay?” a hotel employee asked.

“Oh, yes,” I said sheepishly after realizing what I had done.

I went back up to my hotel room and got ready before packing my bags and loading them into my car, heading out to my engagement in Ames.

Ames, Afternoon

I had a splitting headache and felt sick to my stomach. My thing in Ames had gone long and I found myself crawling into the Village Inn on Lincoln Way to get some pie. The rain was beating down on me because of the wind and all I could think of was, “Oh God, I have to drive back to Milwaukee in the wind and the rain. This should be fun.”

I sat down at a booth, trying to shield my eyes from the bright, pastel signs. I only wanted pie initially, but I talked myself into getting breakfast because like tacos, I believe breakfast consumed at any hour of the day solves everything. I placed my order and felt the urge to curl up under the booth and close my eyes, hoping the headache would pass. My food arrived and I devoured it, finding my headache starting to subside. The waiter handed me my cherry pie and I ate it, remembering trips to Village Inn with my mother when I was a child and late nights spent eating pie in high school.

I then drove to the Wheatsfield Cooperative, which has been open for more than 40 years. As someone who is very enthusiastic about cooperatively-owned businesses, it was exciting to go to a business and see one that has thrived in a community and expanded. Honestly, I felt like I had died and gone to heaven when I saw the prices of the coconut milk creamers, the selection at the meat department, overheard the conversations happening among the customers. It was also what I always dream of cooperatively-owned businesses being, where all of the people in the community feel comfortable and buy local, organic goods.

(They had just reopened the hot bar for the first time in months and the chicken was incredible.)

I asked my mom to look at the radar, so I headed east on Highway 30, which isn’t nearly as boring as Highway 20. When you travel on Highway 30, you still encounter the problem of the drive not being particularly exciting, but at least you pass things like Marshalltown and the Meskwaki Hotel and Casino.

I eventually accepted between the wind, rain, and setting sun, I didn’t feel safe trying to get to Milwaukee that evening and would just spend the night in Cedar Rapids. At this point, my headache had come back, so staying in Cedar Rapids seemed like a really good idea. I booked a room at the Hampton Inn off of Collins Road and then headed there, but not before Waze suggested I take a gravel road most of the way there. I would normally have no problem driving on a gravel road because I learned how to drive in Iowa. That said, I can comfortably drive on a gravel road when it’s dry and daytime. I can maybe handle a wet gravel road in the daytime or a dry gravel road at night, but not a wet gravel road at night. I eventually turned around, stopped at a gas station, and headed into Cedar Rapids.

Cedar Rapids

Music: “Stop Desire” by Tegan and Sara

I’ve always had a soft-spot for Cedar Rapids. When you’re a kid who misses the big city and always feels uncomfortable where you live, Cedar Rapids feels like a godsend.

As I entered the city, I instantly felt at ease while I drove past Westdale mall. I had switched to another GPS app after the gravel road incident and headed to the NewBo area, but not before sabotaging myself by taking a wrong turn and not listening to my GPS app. As I drove past the NewBo Alehouse and the NewBo City Market, I thought, “This is what I wish the Third Ward in Milwaukee was. This feels hip, not douchey, and a place where a broader population can enjoy the businesses.

I parked and rejoiced over people in Cedar Rapids being able to parallel park well*. I stopped in Raygun’s store in Cedar Rapids to look around and try to not buy everything in the store since Raygun is the maker of my favorite shirts and some of my favorite magnets. I convinced myself to only walk out with a sticker and mug for myself and magnet for my sister, but enjoyed every moment of walking around a store for a company I’ve been a fan of since they were Smash.

As I was driving on I-380, I was reminded of how you know you’re in Cedar Rapids because you smell it. I was also reminded of something I often found during my trip, which was how Iowa really hasn’t changed in five years. There was the U.S. Cellular Arena, Fox Eye, Rick’s. The only thing I immediately noticed that was different was the Doubletree Hotel in downtown Cedar Rapids, which is a development I applaud because I want to stay at a hotel with warm chocolate chip cookies before walking to a play at Theatre Cedar Rapids.

I arrived at the hotel, tucked near Rockwell Collins’ headquarters. I checked in and was given directions to Hy-Vee, Target–“We have a SuperTarget!”–and the movie theater that is “in walking distance when the weather isn’t this terrible.” I walked down the hallway to my hotel room, making a mental note that I prefer higher floors because something unnerves me about being on the ground floor.

I opened the door and walked into the cozy room, immediately excited at the sight of an armchair and a desk. “Why didn’t I stay at a Hampton Inn in Ames?” I thought.

“Because the TownePlace Suites was less expensive,” I told myself.

After getting settled, I went to Hy-Vee, which is the main supermarket chain in Iowa. Similar to when I was at Bar La Tosca, I had an experience of reverse sticker shock because a bottle of store brand acetaminophen was less expensive than I was anticipating. I went back to my car, took the medicine, and looked around at how things hadn’t changed since I was a kid. I remember seeing the Collins Road Hy-Vee as a child and in the shopping center near the Hy-Vee, there was still an Old Navy and a Barnes and Noble my mom would take me and my sister to before they opened in Waterloo. As the rain fell on the windows of my car, now dirty from the gravel road, I felt comforted while my headache slipped away.

I went up to SuperTarget and snapped a picture for my mom, who always misses the SuperTarget in Waterloo. For those of you who have never been to a SuperTarget, but still think Target is the greatest place on earth, all I can tell you is it is like a really big Target with an expanded grocery section.

“But Targets have grocery sections, Monica.”

Ah, but these have deli and bakery counters and a full produce selection. The aisles are longer and the selection of goods broader. I only needed to pop in and buy a clean shirt to wear the next day, but I had to walk around because I hadn’t been to a SuperTarget in six years. Like the buildings visible off of I-380 and the Barnes and Noble on Collins Road, it was comforting to walk around a store that felt exactly like the one I grew up shopping at in Waterloo.

I decided to then walk around Lindale Mall while I decided what to do for dinner. I was surprised by how empty the mall was since the malls in Milwaukee always seem to be swamped when you get closer to the holidays, but it made it nice to walk around, stretch my legs, and think while I popped in to different stores.

I eventually decided on Cheddar’s for dinner because everything in the area seemed to be a chain, but I knew I had enjoyed eating at Cheddar’s in Lansing, Michigan.

I sat down and ordered iced tea before sitting at a booth and reading. Dinner was going fairly well, even if I was annoyed by the music for the evening mostly being break-up songs from the past ten years. (How I managed to not sob into my chips and queso while “The One That Got Away” by Katy Perry played is beyond me.)

Then the quickest way to ruin dinner for me happened at the Cedar Rapids’ Cheddar’s. They played “Breathe” by Michelle Branch over the speakers and I felt my appetite disappear while my right eye started twitching.

“Please. You can play ‘Everything We Had’ by The Academy Is right now and that would make me feel happier,” I thought. “I can’t stand this song.”

My disdain of “Breathe” stems not from hearing it too often on the radio as a kid, because if that was the case, why do I love Dido’s “White Flag”? I dated someone who had a habit of doing an acoustic cover of “Breathe” while warbling off-key. As a result of this, I have developed a deep hatred of that song and find any situation I’m in ruined if that song starts playing.

I folded my hands and furrowed my brows, looking at the spicy chicken and rice (with salad!) I no longer had an appetite for. “Is everything still okay?” the waiter asked.

I wanted to say, “No, you just played ‘Breathe’,” but instead I said, “I think I’m ready for the check.”

I left the restaurant and headed back to the hotel, ready to get cozy with math curriculum while I sipped tea in the armchair. At ten o’clock, I turned on the evening news, wondering how it was possible for Bruce Aune and Joe Winters of KCRG to have seemingly not aged in the five years I had been away from Iowa. I looked at the forecast and planned my trip for the next day, before falling asleep in my room.

*People in Cedar Rapids always seem to be really good at parking, but when you live somewhere where people seem to struggle with parallel parking, you really appreciate good parking.

I haven’t been to Iowa in five years.

I’m sure if I sat down with a therapist, I can find some deep reason as to why I have managed to not visit the state I’m from, but I chalk it up to me not having a reason to go back.

I was asked to go out to Ames for something on November 22, so I happily hopped in my car and headed west from Milwaukee.

Southern Wisconsin

I haven’t done a road trip since college and even those road trips consisted of me driving from Michigan to Milwaukee to visit my mom. I was excited for this trip and had a bag of snacks on my front seat as I pumped up the music while heading towards Madison. I drove past the exits for places I had heard of, but never visited. Oconomowoc! Pewaukee! Delafield! Jefferson! I made it to Madison, “Gonna Make You Sweat” blasting from my speakers, a vegan chocolate chip cookie in my hand. I could do this. I was going to make it to Ames and have a good time.

What most people will not tell you is the drive from Madison until Dubuque is very dull. While driving through Iowa involves a lot of going past corn and soybean fields, you will see the occasional exit where there’s a gas station or a McDonald’s or both. Driving through this portion of Wisconsin largely involves going past a lot of exits and watching the rolling hills, which does add to a little bit of nice scenery. The unfortunate thing is this seems to go on forever.

Dubuque

Music: “Invisible Light” by Scissor Sisters

You know you’re getting closer to Dubuque when you see billboards for the casinos more frequently. This was exciting to me because getting to Dubuque meant I could get out and stretch my legs. I crossed the Mississippi River, but not before yelling “No, you don’t,” at the sign saying “The People of Iowa Welcome You,” because the only way people in Iowa welcome you is in the style of “Iowa Stubborn.”

I stopped at the Visitor’s Center in Downtown Dubuque, where I learned Visitor’s Centers tend to be gift shops with those giant racks filled brochures on area attractions. It was nice to walk around and I was able to grab a map of Iowa and a visitor’s guide to Ames, neither of which were put to use on my trip. I then hopped back in my car and headed towards Waterloo and Cedar Falls. I decided to play the Original Off-Broadway Cast Recording of Fun Home, because nothing seemed more fitting for my drive towards the Waterloo/Cedar Falls area than a musical about coming to terms with your past, particularly your childhood.

I also wanted to cry.

For those who thought Highway 151 between Madison and Dubuque was dull, you’ll despise every second of Highway 20 between Dubuque and Waterloo. What was strange to me was I distinctly remember taking that trip multiple times as a kid. I have vivid memories of going to Dubuque with my mom so I could compete in state music competition at Dubque Senior High School, which is a gorgeous building.

Why was I finding this drive so dull? Was it because I was driving and not the person who was in the front passenger’s seat, dressed well and ready to nap at a moment’s notice? Or was it because it was dark and it felt like it was just me in my tiny Honda, belting out “Changing My Major”?

When I hit Independence, I got off at an exit to try to find a Burger King because I was hungry and dried cranberries, sesame sticks, and granola bars get old after a certain point. I didn’t find the Burger King, but I grabbed a much-needed bottle of water at a Casey’s General Store and patted myself on the back for not buying a slice of pizza.

Waterloo/Cedar Falls

Music: “Emotion” by Carly Rae Jepsen

I had every intention of stopping in Cedar Falls, maybe getting something to drink from Cup of Joe, and then heading to Ames, but those plans fell through. Getting to Waterloo and Cedar Falls meant I was almost to Ames and I just wanted to get to my hotel and have dinner.

I eventually called my Dad to talk to him to avoid going stir-crazy, which is inevitable when you drive for more than five hours. He encouraged me to drive at the speed limit because I had out-of-state plates, and I told him, “I know. I saw that episode of The Good Wife.” We later talked about unions and I told him about someone who asked me if I was joining a union. “I mean, is the pope a Jesuit?” I said.

“Does a shark shit in the ocean?” my dad added.

(My Dad is a car-hauler, so he confirmed to me that, yes, the route I took was an exceptionally boring route.)

I eventually got to I-35 and right as I was going on the ramp from Highway 20 to I-35, I got to the Lady Gaga part of my travel playlist. “Bad Romance” came on over the speakers and I thought, “I’ve got this. I can make it to Ames.”

Ames

Music: “Edge of Glory” by Lady Gaga

When booking a hotel, booking one labeled as “new” doesn’t hurt. However, it’s best to maybe look into how new the hotel is, because otherwise you may have the experience I had when arriving at the TownePlace Suites in Ames.

The hotel, which is located in a corner where all of the hotels in Ames seem to be clustered, had an incredibly empty parking lot, leaving me to wonder if it was just going to be me and the staff at a four-story extended stay hotel. I checked in, spoke with the very friendly front-desk clerk who was from Milwaukee, and headed up to my room.

The room was very cozy and had a kitchenette that was better stocked than I anticipated–how many plates does one person need?–but it lacked a desk. I’m a weirdo, but because of how much writing I do both on my laptop and in notebooks, I truly love having a physical desk to sit at because it helps me divide leisure and business when I’m in a hotel. In fact, there wasn’t even a chair, which meant I ended up abandoning meditation because it felt weird while I was sitting on my bed.

That said, it’s a very nice hotel and I felt spoiled by the Elfa closet in the hotel room. It was nice to have a hook to hang my scarf on.

I then hopped in my car and headed to Target where I bought some mouthwash and almost started crying at the sight of Anderson Erickson Egg Nog because I thought, “I’m with my people.” (Anderson Erickson, as well as Casey’s General Store pizza and Hy-Vee Chinese food are very Iowa-specific things.) From there I went to Downtown Ames to meet an old friend.

Bar La Tosca is a cozy, but eclectic space with delicious food. I also experienced reverse sticker shock when I was reminded I was in Iowa, and most things are cheaper in Iowa. I had a nice chat with her and we then went to a self-serve wine bar with a really comfy couch, before heading to chat at another place. I eventually decided to head back to the hotel, where I contemplated my place in the universe before putting snacks from a food co-op on the counter of the kitchenette.

I would go to the movies with a guy I dated and as we were leaving, I would notice the moon. I would comment about it and he would just say, “Huh” or “That’s nice,” as I looked in wonderment.

During one of these moments where I stood in amazement at the moon, I howled at it after being encouraged earlier in the evening by one of my neighbors to do so. I normally wouldn’t do this as I’m one of the most restrained, internalized people you will ever meet, but I had spent the previous evening in the ER and I didn’t care what I did that day, I just wanted to feel alive and normal.

I was driving home from a potluck tonight when I noticed an orange moon hanging above Lake Michigan. As I drove up Lincoln Memorial Drive, I kept hunting for a place to park so I could pull over and look at the moon. I found a spot, parked my car, and jumped out. I kept running around the beach, noticing how perfectly the moon was reflected on the lake. I didn’t care about how sand kept filling my ballet flats or how the lake wind kept whipping around my skirt or that it was pitch black outside.

As I stood looking at the moon, I thought about my neighbor who had previously encouraged me to howl at the moon told me on Thursday night at a full moon celebration to stay until I saw the moon. I made excuses–I wanted to do some writing, I had to work in the morning–as I continued walking to my car. The moon I was looking at tonight was exactly the one I wanted to see, exactly how I wanted to see it.

I had a perfect view of the moon, illuminating the night as I stood there feeling at peace as I heard the waves of Lake Michigan lap against the sand.

It was sixth period AP English Language and Composition and I was sitting there, ready to analyze the work of the great philosophers. I just had to make it through this class, and then I could enjoy the short walk home and start my homework.

The bell hadn’t rung yet to start class and I had something to say, a pressing matter on my mind. So I said it to everyone in my classroom.

“I have a really intense craving for milk right now.”

Almost everyone in my class looked at me like I had dropped in from another planet, which by senior year I was used to that look. I didn’t care, I just wanted to let everyone know that before we started discussing rhetorical choices I really wanted milk, even though only 49 minutes had passed between my lunch shift and class. (I had Independent Study Art during fifth period, so maybe doing graphite drawings of figures made me thirsty for milk.)

“Oh man, that sounds so good!” a friend said.

“Nice tall glass? Ice cold?” another classmate asked.

“You know it,” I said. “Straight from the fridge.”

“I think I know what I’m having when I’m getting home,” my friend added.

I credit my parents for raising me in a household where drinking soda was something that only occurred when we were eating out, and even then they usually encouraged me and my sister to drink juice. I grew up in a household where we drank milk with every meal, even though by high school I was drinking all natural cherry vanilla soda from the natural foods store in Cedar Falls. (RIP Roots Market.) By the time I was an adult, living alone in Chicago, I was continuing to drink milk. I have vivid memories of going to the Whole Foods in Lincoln Park to get milk before the Blizzard of 2011, wading through people stocking up on salmon and wine, to try to grab fat free milk before settling on 2 percent milk. (From that point on I had nothing but 2 percent milk.)

I went off to college and made sure I always bought a gallon of milk at Kroger, a little note on the label to remind me nothing pairs with milk quite like a package of Chipmates, the store-brand chocolate chip cookies it sold. While I lived on campus at Michigan State, I was usually running around, chugging a bottle of milk and eating something from the East Lansing Food Co-Op or Sparty’s, the convenience stores on campus. If I was sitting down an eating dinner in a dining hall, my dinner was always accompanied by a book, a cup of Lemon Lift tea, and a glass of milk.

Towards the end of senior year, I started to notice how uncomfortable I felt after I consumed dairy, particularly large amounts of dairy. I shrugged it off and just figured it was the result of stress, but after I moved to Wisconsin, I continued to feel discomfort after consuming dairy. I had an office job shortly after graduation, an apartment in a desirable neighborhood. Things were going pretty great for me, but I still felt miserable. I did the only reasonable thing I could think of, which was go on a vegan diet.

This lasted for about six months, with me realizing I should eat whatever I want as long as I don’t feel miserable or get sick. Maybe it was me accepting my love of quiche or the terrible service I had at an upscale vegan restaurant in New York, but I decided to just go back to eating meat and eggs to my heart’s delight.

Just no dairy.

I figured I had a dairy allergy and avoided it, but found myself caving in when cheese was put in front of me. I then noticed how I reacted and thought, “This doesn’t seem like an allergic reaction.”

I went to my doctor one day in January and talked with him about my reactions to dairy. He nodded and told me I probably was lactose intolerant and told me it was perfectly normal, just try to consume less than 10g of lactose in a week.

By that point, I acknowledged my problems with dairy in my writing, saying this in a review of a coffee shop when discussing me drinking a cortado:

Against our better judgment and the knowledge we would spend the bus ride home curled up in a ball feeling like someone punched us in the stomach, our next drink was a cortado with whole milk ($3).

I would make off-handed comments to people, but would occasionally cave for pizza or cheese. (I love cheese.) I found myself, usually during dinner, missing milk. Sure, I tend to drink tea, wine, beer or water during a meal, but I missed the creaminess of milk going down my throat. There was also the great benefit of milk helping calm my acid reflux disease and even soy, almond and coconut milk can’t help with that. I still decided to go about my life trying to do things like enjoy cookies and milk by having cookies with coconut milk. (It doesn’t cut it.)

During the WMSE Rockabilly Chili fundraiser, a friend turned to me and told me he was getting some milk from the milk bar to calm his tongue. He offered to grab some for me, but I declined, reminding him I’m lactose intolerant. He came back with two cups of milk and I decided to drink it instead of tell him, “I told you, I’m lactose intolerant. I’m going to spend the rest of the day bloated and having cramps.” I took a sip of milk and it felt like my eyes brightened.

It wasn’t because the heat on my tongue was finally going away, but because that creamy smooth milk was hitting my tongue for the first time in more than a year. There it was, the drink that accompanied a majority of my meals as a kid and young adult, comforting me after consuming gratuitous amounts of chili.

But as expected, I felt miserable for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, deciding to curl up on the couch with my cat, some tea with ginger in it and a book. I didn’t think much about drinking milk until I was at Trader Joe’s to buy groceries. I walked through the store as I usually did, going through the produce section, up the aisle of bread, down the aisle of canned goods and pasta where I always grab a can of dolmas before putting them back on the shelf; walk up the frozen food aisle, look at the cheese section and then go down the aisle with the dried fruit.

(I’m a creature of habit.)

While in the aisle with the nuts and dried fruit, I saw a woman walk past me with a carton of Lactaid in her basket. I suddenly felt the lightbulb go off in my head and the voice of reason say, “You know, Monica, lactose-free milk is an option.”

“I know, Monica.”

“Go grab a carton and see how you feel.”

“Sounds good, Monica.”

I walked back to the dairy section, eyed the cartons carefully before grabbing one and dropping it into my basket. I got home, sat down at my table after unloading the groceries and opened the carton, pouring a glass of milk. I lifted the cup and sipped, a smile appearing on my face. I continued drinking the milk, fixing my dinner before heading to a rehearsal. I went about my evening, feeling perfectly normal, save for the overwhelming anxiety I was feeling regarding having to stand on a stage in front of dozens of people.

I was elated over being able to drink milk again and started frantically texting every person I could think of. I could drink milk, the thing I would heat up to help me calm down at night, once again.

The next day, as I was out running errands, I found myself having a craving for milk, not unlike the one I had before the start of AP English Language and Composition. But this time I smiled and thought, “You can have a glass when you get home.”

 

 

After going five months without writing anything for a publication–although I did write blog posts, an intentionally bad play with a NSFW title and a frantic emotional tweet after seeing “Fun Home”–I am writing again as a freelance journalist.

I have an essay in the December issue of Riverwest Currents about receiving a copy of the New York Times at the age of 12, further cementing the fact I was a weird kid. If you live in Milwaukee, I recommend picking up a copy of the issue. If you do not live in Milwaukee, you can read the issue online and there’s a lot of fantastic writing in there. (Huge thanks to Vince Bushell, the paper’s publisher, for asking me to write about a Christmas gift.)

I promise I’m writing about other things, which I will try to post about more regularly.

 

One of the fun things that comes with having a full-time job is time off. Instead of staying at home, reading, curling up with my cat and crying while listening to indie folk records, I decided to actually travel.

I finally had the means to do so and after years of being the person who went home for break in college or stayed home in junior high and high school–which really isn’t fair because my family did visit Chicago and New York when I was in ninth and tenth grade, respectively. (Also, I went to New York with my family instead of going on the orchestra’s cruise. More on my feelings on cruises later.) Compared to a lot of people, it felt like I did significantly less traveling.

I decided to use my first grouping of vacation days to just pick somewhere and visit. I decided on a place that struck a lot of people as odd: St. Louis.

Hear me out on St. Louis, because I did live there: It has a lot of gorgeous historical buildings, features a brewery tour, has the freaking Gateway Arch and has what I’ve heard is a world class zoo that has free admission. I was also going to visit in June, which would also mean The Muny would begin its season. Plus, traveling to St. Louis would be relatively inexpensive between Amtrak fares and hotel rates.

I requested a tourism guide and began marking all of the places I wanted to visit. The City Museum, the Budweiser brewery, a farmer’s market, the St. Louis Zoo, a museum of religious iconography. I was becoming incredibly excited as I kept hearing from people, “St. Louis? Why? Do you know anyone there? What’s there to do in St. Louis?” as well as various racist and off-color comments about Ferguson.

Then, while I was still hard at work on a Friday, I found out Amtrak cancelled my train, so I had the option of taking a train to Urbana, Illinois and then taking a bus to St. Louis. I would arrive much later than I initially would and having taken Amtrak loads of times, I know the arrival time posted is when you should arrive, but rarely is when you do. I made the decision to call off the trip and find somewhere else to go.

I made this decision two weeks before I was supposed to travel.

After searching every travel website I could, I decided on New York City because plane fares to New York from Milwaukee are at least less than I would have expected. I booked my plane, found a hotel in the Flatiron District, bought a ticket for “The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time” and then embarked on a whirlwind adventure to New York.

This was of course met with some questions from people. “New York City? By yourself? Aren’t you scared?” “Do you know people there?” “Isn’t that expensive?” The answers to these questions were yes, yes, no, yes, and depends on what you do.

I loved being in New York and after years of hating flying, I felt relaxed while thousands of feet in the air. The only problem with being in New York for about 36 hours is you can pack a lot in during that time, but leave not feeling fulfilled. Still, I felt happy to get away and just explore somewhere.

I returned to New York City in September and decided to do my previous idea of just doing as few things set in stone and the rest I was going to just do by wandering around. Again, I was asked the same questions and managed to do New York City fairly cheaply, even if I was prone to popping into Pret a Manger to grab a fruit cup to keep me going through the day. I found a bagel shop in Brooklyn with cheap bagels not far from where I was staying, wandered into as many parks as I could manage and still squeezed in meeting with friends.

This brings in the part about the joy of traveling alone: I can do whatever I want. If I want to wander into a shop in Greenwich Village, I can do just that. There’s no itinerary, no limits, other than my bank account. I can spend as much time in a place as I want. If I feel like getting off a subway station and walking around Williamsburg, I just have to follow my feet.

Traveling, especially alone, is liberating in its own ways. Sure, I was frequently texting my parents and even called my dad a couple of times while on vacation, but that’s different from being with a group or with another person. Want to take the subway back to where you’re staying instead of paying for a cab fare? Go right ahead. (Also, take the express bus from Harlem instead of cabbing it to LaGuardia. You’ll thank me later.)

I’ve been revisiting my thoughts on traveling alone as I’m planning a road trip. I keep thinking I may want someone with me as I’m driving all the way to Michigan. But ultimately I’m going there for hockey and to catch up with friends from college. I don’t want to make someone feel like a third wheel or be dragged to a hockey game. I also realized driving alone means I can sing showtunes at the top of my lungs and not be asked, “We’re going to listen to “Hamilton” again?”

Besides, I have made the drive from Michigan to Milwaukee possibly a dozen times and have the routine down pat. Make sure you start off with “Dennehy” by Serengeti because you can’t be sad while listening to that song. Stop at the Portage McDonald’s, because it’s a really nice McDonald’s. If you have the extra money and want to save time, feel free to take the Chicago Skyway.

And above all, enjoy the trip.

Iris

Iris Apfel became a fashion icon basically by doing her own thing and not caring what other people wanted. As she states in Albert Maysles’ documentary, “It’s better to be happy than well-dressed.” With her legendary over-sized glasses, chunky necklaces and bracelets and unique pieces of clothing, Apfel has become an artist in her own right.

Maysles’ has a unique knack for portraits of interesting individuals–If you haven’t seen Grey Gardens, which he directed with his brother, you should–as this film shows Apfel interacting with her husband and members of the fashion industry in New York.

The documentary manages to be breezy while giving us a good idea of who Apfel is and her rise to being someone beloved enough to receive a tribute in the form of windows at Bergdorf Goodman. (Really, that’s when you’ve made it.) The documentary doesn’t have any real heft to it compared to other films at the Milwaukee Film Festival about individuals who did their own thing, but this doesn’t require that. It suffers from the lack of a structure or a sense as to the timeline of when events occur for Apfel–even if you read a lot of fashion coverage you may feel lost as we bounce around from one thing to the other–but it manages to be a good portrait of someone who truly is 93 years young.

4 out of 5 stars

30 Seconds Away: Breaking the Cycle

Milwaukee, like many major cities, has a sizable homeless population, many of whom face problems including mental illness and drug addiction. Former federal agent Faith Kohler makes her directing debut with this documentary, filmed over the course of five years.

In an attempt to make a documentary looking at this issue from multiple perspectives–those on the streets, the Milwaukee Police Department, and Milwaukee County judges–Kohler ends up making a film that is scattered-brained. What could have been a good focus point, the attempts of Harold Sloan to stay sober, have a place to live and a steady job, is diluted with other examinations of homeless individuals in Milwaukee whose stories are discussed, but then dropped until the text epilogue. Sloan is someone audiences can empathize with as we see his efforts to improve his life and stay off the streets and as we see him in court, Kohler could have easily woven in the other aspect of the story from the criminal justice system and the struggle to balance trying to enforce laws while trying to truly help the homeless in the city.

Instead we are given a film that goes on for too long and features poor production, such as jerky camera work and muddled audio, making it often difficult to understand what interview subjects are saying. What could have been a moving examination of something Milwaukeeans possibly don’t think much about ends up being a frustrating film, making you wish a better movie had been made about this important issue.

1.5 out of 5 stars

“Fun Home,” Alison Bechdel’s graphic memoir about her relationship with her closeted father and her coming to terms with her sexuality, was a book I found heartbreaking and brilliant when I read it as a freshman at DePaul University. Bechdel, whose work I was familiar with having read “Dykes to Watch Out For” in the gay newspaper in Iowa, managed to use a medium usually viewed as trivial and tell a very cerebral story without coming off as pretentious. Naturally I was curious to see how the musical adaptation turned out simply because it seemed like the least likely source material for a musical, but there’s currently a hip-hop musical about Alexander Hamilton, so 2015 is the year of Daring Concepts on Broadway Actually Being Successful at the Box Office. (“Fun Home,” although not grossing nearly as much as “Hamilton,” is consistently selling out.)

The musical “Fun Home,” written by Jeanine Tesori and Lisa Kron, manages to be an incredibly smart show without taking line-for-line what Bechdel wrote in her memoir. Discussions are had about “Collette,” kids sing lyrics about aneurysm hooks and the lyrics have motifs that work well to convey the pain of the Bechdel women living in the stifling facade of Bruce (Michael Cerveris). In one scene where Bruce seduces Roy (Joel Perez), the handyman, Helen (Judy Kuhn) sings “Maybe not right now. Maybe not right now” while in another room, aware of what is happening. A few scenes later, those lyrics and music pops up when Small Alison (Gabriella Pizzolo at the performance I attended) wants to wear sneakers and a shirt instead of a party dress, but is told no by her father before he tells her she can dress how she wants if she’s okay with everyone judging her. Somehow the show manages to still feel accessible even when book titles and discussions are being tossed around.

Kron and Tesori manage to avoid having any numbers that feel unnecessary. Out of context, “Come to the Fun Home” and “Raincoat of Love” could give an impression of being numbers where the show grinds to a halt, but both of them serve important narrative functions. “Come to the Fun Home” shows how the Bechdel children tried to have a normal childhood while also helping in the family funeral home, which then leads in very well to Small Alison being shown a dead body by her father. “Raincoat of Love” is a fantasy sequence where Small Alison imagines her family happy and Partridge Family-esque, not torn apart by her father’s secrets.

The production also manages to succeed because it’s staged in the round–I don’t know how this show can be taken on tour–and since it’s a memory musical, we see Alison (Beth Malone) interloping in her memories, cringing at the awkwardness of her as a first-year student at Oberlin College. It also makes it incredibly easy to watch everything happening on stage. There are also brilliant flourishes such as the items in the Bechdel family house disappearing through the trap doors, leaving large holes in the stage as Bruce sings right before committing suicide.

The only potential problem I could see people having with the show is Bruce is viewed as being gay by Alison, but Helen simply explains he’s had affairs with other men. In Bechdel’s novel, she writes the reason she refers to her father as gay instead of bisexual is possibly because it then gives them a connection. I didn’t have an issue with it since sexuality is complicated and I feel like the show dealt more with the very complex relationship Alison had with her father.

Sam Gold has done a fantastic job directing a terrific cast, with standout performances from Cerveris, Malone and Kuhn. (I was silently sobbing during “Days and Days,” Helen’s big number. The 2014-15 season on Broadway was a good season for supporting actors giving fantastic performances.) I have been incredibly lucky to see three productions this season where it felt like every element of the production was perfect. It really feels like a bold new musical and theater is better with it in existence.

Thanks to Meghan-Annette for suggesting this film for “I Can’t Believe I Just Watched This!”

I have a confession to make: I’ve never watched “Mystic Pizza” before now. It’s one of those girl things I hadn’t partaken in like manicures with your BFF or synchronized periods. My main point of reference for this movie was an episode of “30 Rock” where Jenna Maroney is in “Mystic Pizza: The Musical.” I knew Julia Roberts was in it and there was some pizza involved, but that was about it. To be honest, for the longest time I thought it was a movie about an interstellar pizzeria, which would be a pretty great movie.

“Mystic Pizza” is about three friends–Kat Arujo (Annabeth Gish), Daisy Arujo (Julia Roberts) and Jojo Barbosa (Lili Taylor)–who work at Mystic Pizza in the small town of Mystic, Connecticut. The film follows the three of them as they navigate romance and balance it with tensions arising between them, their lovers, family and friends. Kat babysits for Tim (William R. Moses), a married older man she finds herself falling for before heading off to Yale to become an astronomer. Daisy meets Charles Gordon Windsor, Jr. at a bar and they hit it off instantly, but the class difference could pose a problem. Meanwhile, Jojo has been dating Bill (Vincent D’Onofrio? Vincent D’Onofrio.) for a while and wants to have sex with him, but Bill wants to get married before they have sex.

It’s clear to me having watched this movie why it’s kind of a beloved film from the ’80s. It’s a nice cozy film about three young women on the verge of really starting their lives, fighting over relationships and being there to console each other when things go wrong and they feel betrayed. It’s the type of movie focusing on things many women have been through and seems like the type of movie many women would watch as a double feature with “Dirty Dancing”*.

The thing about “Mystic Pizza” is it’s a nice movie that feels like comfort food, but there’s nothing stunning or horrible about the film. The only thing I can fault the film for is that I only really care for Daisy, because Kat’s affair with Tim is doomed from the start and Jojo has serious boundary issues. Yes, it is kind of dickish that Bill renamed the fishing boat he works on the Nympho after you, but you are sex crazed and really need a good lesson on consent because Bill really doesn’t want to have sex, so stop it. Everything in the scene where Bill is telling Jojo he doesn’t want to have sex, but she has his pants pulled down around his ankles is so horribly gross and it’s deeply unfortunate the scene is played for laughs, but unfortunately this is the least harmful sexual assault to occur in any film for “I Can’t Believe I Just Watched This!”

The film features a terrific, nuanced performance from Julia Roberts that feels like a star-in-the-making performance, as well as a restrained performance from Vincent D’Onofrio. The movie also tackles class issues, which largely works well except in a scene where the audience is clobbered by the concept when Daisy has dinner with Charles’ family. The movie excels for being a movie about characters and exploring their problems instead of making it a problem about concepts, which some filmmakers and writers could do since it’s largely about working-class Portuguese-Americans.

Although “Mystic Pizza” isn’t a movie I would normally watch, it’s a movie that is well-made and one I can see many people being able to watch over and over. In the realm of “I Can’t Believe I Just Watched This!” it’s certainly the best film I’ve watched so far, it’s just not a film I can enthusiastically recommend. But it would at least be a good movie to curl up on the couch with a friend and watch.

*I don’t know why people treat “Dirty Dancing” as a feel-good movie. It’s kind of sad and a huge plot point is someone needing an abortion. But Jerry Orbach is there and I remember that being a big draw for me when I was a kid.