Ecuadorians’ adoration of fairs and festivals is only surpassed by their devotion to Catholicism. Subscribing to the Catholic credo that there ain’t no party like a Jesús birthday party, these passions intersect in a three-month celebration around the Christmas holiday that exceeds the birthday week excesses of the most self-indulgent sorority girl. Cuenca is the heart of these festivities, upstaging the larger cities of Quito and Guayaquil to draw people from all across the Andes.
The kitchen is a no-fly zone, where space to craft a punch or charcuterie spread has to be carefully usurped at the margins of the vast empire. The best time to sneak in is when my father is updating his tabulation of butter used thus far. A true student of the tradition of Julia Child, he delights in giving us a painfully honest breakdown of precisely how the sausage was made, as waistlines strain against belts. The only time I had ever missed my family’s Thanksgiving before was to share a Turducken with a friend who was stranded and alone under house arrest. Now, thousands of miles from Cleveland in Ecuador, the reality of the glamorous traveler’s life came with a complimentary jar of maraschino cherries.
For some, the Great American Road Trip is exotic, big game, to be hunted and bested, mounted like a trophy. For us, it was the beginning, the prototype of the life we want to lead. It was something we wanted to befriend, to find the secret scratching spots behind its ears. The US is its own ecosystem, and every line on a map a different species. The vast stretches of the upper Midwest, the endless forests of the Northeast, the towns that dot the Gulf Coast; all are beasts we would love to study. Not to capture, not to claim as a spoil-of-war, but to reveal more of the tapestry of humanity. There is no upper limit on the knowledge and experience to be had, and our aim to see just how far we can stretch our own. One of my favorite parts of the trip was discovering the myriad threads that tie humanity together, whether it was the creation myths of the Pueblo nations or commiserating with the bartenders we met along the way.
We don’t aim to waste your time with grammatically questionable negativity; we’ll leave that to the “Elite” Yelper, that paragon of oxymorons. These spots all have the Two by Tour seal of approval. We hope this list encourages you to take your own trip, try something new, or just support hard-working businesses that are doing everything right.
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.
The Fremont Experience is a walkway connecting casinos, gift shops, and free-standing pagodas in a covered outdoor mall. A Michael Jackson impersonator and a man in a banana hamock had claimed corners on which to busk. Situated between them was a woman in a habit and pasties, intensely focused on her phone in seeming ignorance of her nudity. Heavy equipment could be seen demolishing a building from behind scaffolding touting a forthcoming new Vegas. Zip-liners whizzed past, over it all.
The South Rim of the Grand Canyon is the Disney Theme Park of the National Parks System. The village boasts a rail line, airport, entire fleet of buses, kennel, mule stable, hotels, restaurants, art, geology, and cultural museums, campgrounds, three visitor’s centers, two entrances, and a partridge in a pear tree. Much like Disney, it is also perpetually mobbed. In an act of providence, we were able to secure the last site available at the Desert View Campsite the day before it was to be shut down for the winter. We pitched our tent below an exquisite, craggy juniper and made our way to the Desert Watchtower.
One of our least favorite things about the restaurant industry, even after we’ve largely left it, is the prevalence of shoddy journalism. Beyond the dime-store food critics that thrive on creating drama without checking facts, possibly the most offensive articles, are the lists of drinks (imaginary) bartenders hate, or 10 drinks not to order, or any permutation of this lowest form of jaundiced journalism. Since the internet and various outlets can’t seem to get their shit together and offer something more than clickbait that diminishes and disrespects an entire industry, here’s a real article, from a real bartender.