As a young girl, I remember sitting in a dark theater watching Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade. I wanted to be just like Indy. I was captivated by the sight of Petra, a city carved into the mountainside; enchanted by the canals and footbridges of Venice. I wanted to explore ancient catacombs, ride a motorcycle through the countryside. I also hate Nazis (but I'm not afraid of snakes).
Most everyone, even those who haven't been to a beach, understand that it's a good thing. Even as a child living next to Lake Erie, I would leap at the chance to go to Huntington Beach, or even Rocky River Park, just to be on the sand and hear the waves. While I am certainly no expert, having only recently upped my ocean count by one, the Southern California coast was a truly luxurious experience. Being able to take advantage of an October heatwave and play in the Pacific Ocean is something that would make a younger J's head explode. The impossible made possible by the mere passage of time.
This article is more on the philosophy behind syrups than actual recipes, because once you have the fundamentals down, it allows you to cater to your own personal taste.
The first post in the A Traveler's Home Bar on a Budget series shows how to utilize cheap, widely available, neutral spirits to create cocktail-worthy infused liquors.
On our way to our room we walked past some of the motel's other guests, who were quietly smoking or finding privacy outside on their phones. Once inside the room, I looked at J, "People definitely live here." I dropped onto the bed. "Oh fuck yeah they do."
After lunch, we drove down the mountain into downtown to see the guided tour at the Fordyce Bathhouse, the National Park's headquarters. The tour, as with all our experiences with the National Park System, was humorous, illuminating and entertaining as hell. The history at play vis-a-vis the bathhouses and the foundation of Hot Springs itself dovetailed beautifully into the knowledge bombs from the day before at the Gangster Museum.
Though we were done courting weirdness for the day, it wasn't done with us. West Memphis, as it turns out, is not in Tennessee at all, but rather a piss stop of a town just on the Arkansas side of the Mississippi. Understandings were reached regarding budget on this trip, and J and I had no illusions about the quality of the establishments we would be staying in, but having to slide your identification under bullet-proof glass to check-in is never a good omen. The floors were sticky, every surface chipped. The door had obviously been kicked in at some point. We had both gotten little sleep the night before, and were careful to be kind, tip-toeing around the lack of accommodations and utter despair that hung heavy in the room. After running the air conditioner for a little while, we were able to ignore the antiseptic smell. Overheated and exhausted, we laid on the bed, not wanting to pierce the silence with our hot breath. J picked up his phone then looked over. Shattering our polite pretense, he mused, "They have wifi, but I don't want any of my devices to get VD."