A Bouchon is a Bouchon!

Two full days of sun, wine, and mother-daughter bonding time found us at our last dinner, and though it was hard to pull away from our routine at Hurley’s Restaurant, we decided to branch out and try a French restaurant that allegedly served good cosmos in deep glasses. So Sex and the City of us, right Brüno? Leave it to us not to learn our lessons though- Lori forgot her ID and was grilled by the bartender, forcing her to run back to the room to prove, yet again, that she was legally allowed to drink. Once served, however, the drinks let us down. They were pretty, but not very strong. As Lizzy aptly put it, someone thought they could trick us and serve the contents of a kid’s juice box in a martini glass and get away with it. We like our Cosmos leaving us cross-eyed, not pre-diabetic.

The night was saved, however, when we discovered the mantra that we would adopt for the rest of the evening and that we will probably never really move beyond, though no sane human will ever really understand why. We were served our menus once we were seated which were printed with the restaurant’s name, Bouchon, on the cover. “What is a Bouchon?” Eileen was prompted to ask. Lizzy sagely replied, “A bouchon is a bouchon.”

Obviously John (who was our wine guide at Rombauer, the second, and may we add, better vineyard who taught us to taste wine based on personal olfactory memories and held, we strongly believe, the keys to the universe and it’s secrets), his wisdom and the wine had rubbed off on us. It’s also just a really fun and expressive word to say (try it!) which meant that we decided to substitute it into every saying and expression we’d ever heard. “That is the bouchon’s pajamas” or “Bouchon unto others as you would have them bouchon unto you” and, “I am so bouchoned” or “Wow, she is such a bouchon!”

Needless to say, whether anyone but us gets that joke and the universal usage and brilliance of the bouchon, which, in French, technically means “cork” (but if you believe in the power of wine then the bouchon, door to a bottle’s contents, truly is the gateway to the universe) we had a blast of a night, and another excellent champagne brunch for a third morning in a row before heading off to San Francisco where we dropped off our mothers, leaving them to fly home in what looked like a white pleather party plane courtesy of Virgin America as we hit the city for a weekend on the town with Linnea.

Welcome to Napa!

We have often written about how words are not enough to describe the natural beauty we’ve encountered along our way from east to west coast- the Badlands, Grand Teton, and Yellowstone are just a few of the places that have left us lost for words. This past week we also learned that words also don’t do justice to the hills around Napa, and they really aren’t enough when it comes to our mothers, who flew out to visit us for our three day stay.

Eileen and Betsy arrived in Napa several hours before we did. By now you’ve learned, as we have, to estimate our arrival time at least two hours past what it should be. After taking a very worthwhile detour through the Redwood National Park where we hugged trees, hid in their hollows, ran around their trunks, stared at the utterly beautiful quality of light that falls softly through the air and branches to the forest floor, and took turns doing our best impressions of Gollum among the trees, we headed to Napa, allowing our mothers plenty of time to catch up and relax over a “glass” (realistically half a barrel was tackled that afternoon) of wine by the pool. We had the pleasure of getting to the valley on our way to Yountville at sunset, affording us the chance to see vineyards lit up with that unique California hazy glow.

Pulling into the Villagio Inn and Spa (now, it’s no Grand Gateway in South Dakota, but it will do) blasting “Hey Mama” in honor of the two lovely ladies who came out to see us, we reunited with our wonderful mothers and got down to business- showering, dressing up for real, and hitting the town for dinner and drinking. One three-hour dinner over seafood, salad, and bottles of white wine later, we were immersed in good conversation, laughing so hard our stomachs hurt the next day. It is cool to get to the point where you kind of become a fellow “big girl” and your mother can treat you not just as her charge but as a friend. That and the fact that we made a point of getting enough wine in all of our systems that it seemed acceptable to ask about dirt from when they were in their twenties. Being our mothers, of course, they didn’t disappoint, and we had a great night acting like we were all young, crazy, and ready for a three day party in California wine country.

Portland - False Identities, Fake Accents, Financial Stability, and Fun

We rolled into Portland after driving all day and were more than ready for a shower (which we skipped and decided to instead change our clothes and put on some mascara), a drink, and a taste of the city itself.

We were staying at the Ace Hotel and decided to hit up their bar, the Clyde Common. We were warmly welcomed by our bartender, Ansel, who bellowed "Hello mateys ! What can I get you to drink tonight gals?" in a very Aussie type accent. We had fun and giggled at Ansel's accent and his supposed 'foreign' charm as he made our drinks, some sort of house special made of gin, bourbon, and god knows what else (Lizzy also couldn't get his name and called him both Antel and Antler before getting it right).
When Ansel came around to ask us for our next round, his accent had mysteriously disappeared. Further conversation led us to finding out that he was not in any way foreign and had grown up in Pittsburg before moving to Portland. Really Ansel, really? Fakeness aside, he was an absolute doll.

That was round one of false identities we encountered.

Following Clyde Common and Ansel's contrived Aussie charm (we're willing to bet he was trying to get lucky), we headed to Kells, an Irish Pub in town. It was 10 PM on a Sunday night, and we were two of the few people who were out. Our bartender, Jake, turned out to be yet another fraud. After carding us for drinks, serving us his favorite local on tap, chatting it up and giving us his number on a place mat, it became quite apparent that he was not only younger than us (which he initially denied) but was also not Irish (which he had originally claimed). However, the lack of foreign appeal and underage status didn't change the fact that we loved the man.

Now based on these two encounters it may seem like we are in some way hating on Portland and we want to make sure to point out that this is not the case AT ALL. We came home after our first night doubled over in fits of laughter and proceeded to then spend two awesome days exploring the city.

Looking back on Portland, we find the accents and false identities both hilarious and endearing and quite honestly, if copping an accent and lying about your age like that has led both Ansel and Jake to some sort of employment and financial stability, then we had better start working on our accents and pick up lines.

Seriously.

The Not so Smooth Exit

We got up early Sunday morning in Seattle, having slept on the downstairs couches in our sleeping bags in an attempt to be polite and discreet. Polite? After having made ourselves comfortable in not one but two beds belonging to our hosts, who we'd known now for less than a grand total of 48 hours, and having drank their alcohol, ate their food, accompanied them to concerts and sporting events, and to top it off then nearly burned their home down after forgetting to turn off our hair straightener we were trying to be less noticeable guests. Yes, sleeping downstairs may have, on top of all that, been a polite attempt to pay them back or at least stay out of their hair for the last night that we were in their care. Polite we may have been at the eleventh hour. But discreet? No, discreet we were not.

Lizzy had set her alarm for 8am so that we could be on our way by 9. Unfortunately, though we had packed our things the night before, we did not think to move them downstairs with us so that we could make a quick and quiet exit. No, we had to return to our kind host's room, risking waking him up in the process of moving out. Too late.

Lori had long given up on her finicky alarm which would sometimes forget to go off or simply go on silent, therefore being no help. However, as we crept up the stairs, we heard the all too familiar sound of a Blackberry alarm that had chosen, on this of all mornings, not to be silent. Lori, mortified that her phone was disrupting the sleep of our already too generous and tolerant hosts, ran to open the door behind which her phone lay until- the angry voice of a girl came from behind it. She was, understandably, sounding very peeved and upset that a phone she couldn't find was waking her far too early after what we had to assume had to have been a late night. But what are you going to do, right? We looked at each other, took a deep breath, and ran in- however, Lori, in her desperate attempt to turn off her phone, forgot completely to get anything but the bag containing the phone. Which meant that when we'd composed ourselves downstairs, Lizzy had all of her bags and Lori had a cell phone and wallet. Her clothes, laptop, and dignity remained scattered in the room upstairs...

After a five minute pump up from Lizzy, Lori crept back upstairs, ready to knock, enter the room, grab everything, make no eye contact, mumble a thank you, and run. Fast.

All things considered, both members of the rightfully offended party took Lori's re-entrance well, joking, passing it off as no big deal, even cracking a joke about the pink butterfly pajama set her mom had sent her for Valentine's Day that she was wearing, the color of which was blending with the her rapidly reddening cheeks. Needless to say, between the fuchsia cover of her phone and the raspberry color of her pj's, Lori will never look at pink quite the same again.

Because we hadn't already made a stellar enough impression on boys we'd barely known for more than a day, we dragged and ran and generally made a ruckus as we exited, then, still in pajamas, ran through the neighborhood until we found our car, changed in the backseats, and grabbed coffees down the road, hightailing it for more rural, anonymous ground.

Dazzled by Twilight: A Trip to Forks, WA

We had to do it. Given that we had already planned the detour through Olympic National Forest on our way down to Portland after a very eventful weekend in Seattle, it was hard to resist the allure of dazzling vampires on the way. But before we felt the full impact of Edward Cullen in all his sparkling glory in his hometown of Forks, WA, we had to get out of Seattle...

Homeless in Seattle: Hospitality, Huskies, and Hangovers

Quite honestly, we didn't know exactly what to expect as we headed toward Seattle after leaving Bozeman but I think it's fair to say that we had quite the weekend..and for a variety of reasons...

After spending Friday being total tourists - wandering the city, exploring the Sculpture Gardens, searching for the best coffee shop in town, hitting up Pike Place Market, spending money on things that we really didn't need at all, getting tipsy at lunch off of one glass of wine and marveling at Mount Rainier and the overall beauty of where we were - we found ourselves at 5:30 PM, lost and wandering homeless around Seattle...

We decided to forget about our dignity (which was, quite honestly, long gone), acknowledge the fact that we would not be able to get a hotel for under $200 a night, and shamelessly text a friend of a friend (who we had been in contact with via Dick Dickey) asking for a spot to crash on a couch, floor, backyard, or sidewalk curb (as long as it was in a semi-safe area...preferably where we would not be risking attack by bear or vagrant). We were ever so kindly taken in by a group of four guys who opened up their home to our shameless and filthy selves, let us know the word on the street regarding where to go in Seattle, and showed us an all around awesome time. 

We headed to a Girltalk concert Friday night and it turned out to be an absolute blast thanks to our wonderful hosts. Despite an attack on Lori from an angry, bitter, and all-around bitchy blonde who had bird-like qualities and was generally angry at the world, the concert was four hours of bliss - dancing, singing, and acting like our usual idiotic selves. There was (and we mean this in the best sense) a midget scare as well... 

For whatever reason, Lizzy is deathly afraid of midgets and of course, of all places, there happened to be one dancing above her on a set of stairs for the second half of the concert. Trying to be a good sport, she tolerated, but it was painful. Fortunately, when Lori was affronted by the god-awful blond, Lizzy was able to forget about her fears of a small person looming on her horizons and dealt with the bimbo instead.

So after Friday, a day of homelessness and a night of hospitality, Saturday rolled around and turned out to be a day of hangovers, Huskies (we're talking the Washington v. USC football game), more hangovers and (not surprisingly) further hospitality. 

After waking up a bit drunk, semi-coherent, and with a general sense of confusion regarding life (as per usual), we were both greeted by our lovely housemates who were all full of energy, excitement for the game, and more booze. Barely 20 minutes later, we were wandering toward the nearest coffee shop for a bit of caffeinated revival thanks to Seattle's Best as well a liquor store for the best drunk in town - a few bottles of $6 Champagne paired with OJ to start out our morning right.

Walking from 215 E. Boston Street (in Eastlake where we were shacking up) to the game was an adventure in itself that involved a brief monsoon, endless laughter, insanely enthusiastic fans, nasty blisters, and an all around sense of fun. Once we arrived at the stadium, the tailgate was an event all its own. We were bombarded by throngs of people dressed in purple and gold, dogs rocking football jerseys, screaming fans, laughter, purple drink (that we somehow stole but still are unsure as to what was in it), and as you might expect, further hospitality.

The game was nothing short of incredible and after the upset of the year (we like to say of the century since we were there and all), we rushed the field with the crowd (again, an unreal experience), cheered with our fellow fans (acting as if we were totally from Washington), and then made our way back to Eastlake where we were staying (rather mooching/crashing/being tolerated). 

In our typical fashion, we had taken to our new friends very quickly. After returning to Eastlake, changing into sweats, chugging water and feigning some sense of being respectable human beings, we ended up cuddled in one of our new friends' beds watching Lord of the Rings and taking a long evening nap. After coming to (with yet another hangover) we pulled ourselves together (at least pretended to), got dressed in whatever clean or semi-clean clothes that remained after 2 weeks on the road, and headed out to meet further strangers. We were again met with welcoming and kind hosts (no bitchy blondes or midgets) and had great a night centered around Husky pride, celebration, partying, and general debauchery.

Sunday morning came all too soon and as we (again, hungover) wandered out of our dear friends house and back to our car, we both had an unspoken moment of realization as to how lucky we have been both in Seattle and during our whole trip to be serendipitously connected with so many awesomely open, kind, fun, and tolerant people across the country.

Seattle had provided not only wonderfully fun and hospitable hosts, but also a unique sense of the city itself that could only be experienced through something as unique as a hometown sporting event (that was the precursor to and later led to one of our many consecutive hangovers). From the natural beauty to the open-hearted people to the overall lifestyle, Seattle left us with a true sense of wonder. 

One of our new friends we met along the way gave us the greatest compliment of all - "You two are East coast girls with West coast hearts".

Could we honestly ask for anything more?

Hooked on Fishing

On Wednesday morning we decided to take advantage of the amazing scenery and beautiful mountain men in Bozeman. Combining the two, we hired a private fishing guide to take us wading into the creeks around Gallatin National Preserve where we tried our hands at fly fishing. Our guide Colter, a fellow free spirit and all around good guy was great to us and a patient teacher, even when we hooked ourselves and him.

One massive crush on our guide and several trout later, we'd had an awesome morning. We each caught fish, got to take in the amazing natural beauty from a new angle in the streams, and, whether it was because of Colter, the fresh air, or the thrill of wrangling rainbow trout, we found ourselves hooked on fishing.

Week One

As it is Wednesday the 16th, we are happy to report that we survived our first week out on the open American road!

How Not to be Charged By a Buffalo

After an awesome night thanks to the kindness and hospitality of our new favorite quartet of guys, we left Jackson on Monday morning with plans to drive through Yellowstone and stay at the west entrance to the park just over the border in Montana.

Having learned our lessons on lodging the weekend prior in Jackson, we made plans early to stay in West Yellowstone, which turned out to have the nicest people, great coffee, and an array of painted buffalo statues to play on and around.

As we drove through the park happy with our early start, we saw amazing natural beauty. The forests, valleys, falls, lakes and gorges were remarkable, and we soon began to hope for various kinds of wildlife to show up as well. Our first sighting was a buffalo, grazing at the side of the road. Yellowstone is really cool because people stop to just, you know, let a family of elk or passing bison cross the road, have a nonchalant picnic on a hill above moose or be so close to a grazing buffalo that if you felt inclined you could reach out and french braid the crazy hair on its back. The animals, while dangerous, don't mind the cars so as long as you keep your distance and if your limbs stay safely behind metal car doors, you're good. It should also be noted that we picked up a bear, and by bear we do not mean a wild and rabid grizzly intent on hunting us down like the one we'd find mere days later, but rather a sweet stuffed animal named Mo (short for Moses.) In what was clearly a sign of a disturbed and deprived childhood, Lizzy admitted she had never developed an attachment to a stuffed animal of her own. Clearly jealous of the deep (though embarrassing, at age 22) attachment Lori felt to her own stuffed duck Willy who had joined the ride cross country, we set out to right the wrongs done to Lizzy in her youth. As elk migrated and Old Faithful erupted behind us, we pored over the many souvenir shops until Lizzy locked eyes with "the one," a small, chocolate brown bear we later named Mo. (We were as of yet unaware of the ironic twist this would all take up in Bozeman when the very same kind of animal Lizzy sought comfort in would later be her very near end on a mountainside.)

Mo in hand, we continued our drive, meeting more bison. We also had an amazing elk cross our path, and we spotted a moose. Towards the end we pulled up to a beautiful valley and walked down to a bluff to watch a family of elk below in the stream. It quite honestly blew our minds that a place existed where, as we said, you could drive beside bison, picnic with elk, and spend the day coexisting feet away from moose.

We passed into Yellowstone early in the day and after surviving an outhouse (aka hole in the ground) more upsetting than the possibility of being charged by a bison, we started our drive through the park. The scenery is incredible and much like Grand Teton, it left us in love and in awe of the beauty of the American west. Forgive us for waxing poetic, but seeing the scale and scope of the trees, mountains, valleys and rivers makes you feel small in the most comforting of ways. For all we try to control our lives and to order the chaos, when you look out over Yellowstone Falls, the Hayden Valley or Mount Washburn you realize that many things are already taken care of, that some of the most incredible parts of this world have already been done and have existed far beyond our years and without our help.

Practicing Interviewing Skills in Jackson Bars (Or the Art of BS)

Typically, right around our age and time in life you hear a lot about how to “sell yourself” or “highlight your talents” and “market your skills” when writing your resume and/or interviewing for a job. Aka, you learn how to best subtly and gracefully walk the lines between telling the truth, stretching it, and just plain bullshitting your way to your very own cubicle and sense of place in your post-grad world.

We did not master this art, as evidenced by the fact that we are rapidly gaining ground between ourselves and the offices we interviewed at across the east coast. This doesn’t mean we aren't still looking. Having cut our losses in NYC and not letting our dashed dreams of meeting Warren Buffett in Omaha get us down, we headed to the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar in Jackson, WY for drinks, atmosphere, and a good look at line dancing with renewed hopes that we might find employment, this time as waitresses, bartenders, or heck, even backup dancers for the country band.

We forgot our resumes this time, too overwhelmed by the fact that we'd finally found a place to shower, store our bags and lay our heads for the night. And after realizing that line dancing was more involved than we'd expected, we headed to the bar to try our luck making friends with the bartenders and see if they were in need of any extra help.

The Million Dollar Cowboy Bar is a great spot- there is live music, the bar is made out of wood from Grand Teton and instead of bar stools you sit on saddles and everyone wears cowboy boots and hats and looks cool doing it. Awesome, right?

After ordering our cowgirl drinks and feeling really cool astride our saddles, we set in to observe the scene and make friends with the bartender who, might we add, wore his tight jeans quite well. However, we were soon approached by an older man, who, though nice, did not fit our idea of people we wanted to talk to- he was not sporting a cowboy hat, he was not wearing tight cowboy jeans well, and he was not going to be offering us any job prospects.

Again our mother's voices of warning came into our minds- do not talk to strangers, use the buddy system when out, go nowhere alone. We didn't know who our new suitor was or where he came from, but rather than flee, we crafted a story. To make the long, sixty minute lie we told short, essentially we ran with Lizzy's initial lie that Lori was a math major from Princeton and Lizzy wanted to pursue her passion for pottery. Many an elaborately woven lie later we had crafted a great story of ours youths and college years where Lizzy was an art major from Skidmore, Lori wanted to teach math and was engaged to a law student, and we were both on our last hurrah before Lori settled down and Lizzy's long term boyfriend inevitably popped the question. (This was both funny and kept us looking unavailable.) We entertained ourselves and our new friend for an hour, and while we won't name names, we must thank the many friends and family we drew on to make the fabricated story run smoothly.

One elaborate lie and two drinks later, we were still not to be daunted that we left another spot sans jobs. We were, after all, newly outfitted with with t-shirts and cowboy thongs bought from the souvenir shop, and we got the chance to practice an important skill for one day actually getting a job- the art of stretching the truth about ourselves (or just plain bullshitting.)

*An addendum: We thank you, Eileen and Betsy for reminding us to be safe and leading us to create stories that provided good interview practice and entertained us endlessly. However, though you may have protected us from the many human dangers we might encounter, in your ignorance you forgot to tell us that wildlife poses a fatal threat. We hiked Phelps Lake the morning after the Cowboy Bar, blissfully unaware that we were in danger of being killed or brutally maimed by local animals. It was only until that evening when our more informed friends told us that bears roamed Jackson and that no safe hiker went anywhere near forested places without bear spray that we realized it was only by the grace of our guardian angels that we made it out alive. Just something to think about when you do decide to let, say, Sam or Taylor go on a post-grad road trip.

PS

We are writing this from a steakhouse, interestingly enough the only place in Jackson where we could find wireless. If you ever happen to be at the Teton Steakhouse, we recommend the elk burger.

Jackson and Grand Teton

After a good night's sleep, a shower, and some time to just sit process the past few days spent in Wyoming, we realized that we definitely owe it to Jackson and Grand Teton to offer our words of praise, reflection, and wonder, however corny they may be. 

As seen in the picture below from an earlier post, sunset over Grand Teton is magical and impossible to adequately put into words. This being said, we'll give it a go...

After much pondering, we have realized that driving through this spectacular sunset as the sky changed from shades of blue and purple to pink and orange, the mountains essentially defined for us the sense of wonder that we feel and never want to lose. It is extremely humbling to experience something so vast and at the same time, the way in which something so grand makes you feel so small is an extremely comforting feeling. Simply being in the presence of natural beauty so grand, stoic, and timeless offers a true sense of perspective. Both welcoming and humbling, as we drove into Jackson, the never ending mountains really just seemed to say "Chill out, everything's fine".

We Are the People Our Mothers Warned Us About

Vagrants, hippies and hitchhikers, oh my! To put it lightly, we were terrorized by our mothers before we left on this trip with horror stories of the many ways we could meet a, and again, to put it lightly, brutal end. 

The road to Jackson, albeit a long one, was beautiful and, at the end of the day, worth the trek out, if only to see the stunning Teton Park at sunset. In typical fashion, we underestimated the length of our trip from Rapid City to Jackson by roughly five hours. Literally.

But that's a story you've already heard.

 

We pulled into Jackson around 8:30, five hours after we two had anticipated but just on schedule with our Mapquest directions. "Mapquest says it will take nine hours to get there?" we thought incredulously and laughed it off as we toured Mount Rushmore, Crazy Horse, and various rest stops throughout Wyoming. "It doesn't look that far on the map, we will be in by 3pm!" we thought. Wrong.

We also didn't anticipate having planned our stay in Jackson the same weekend of the year that a big bike race occurs. When you get into a popular town all the more populated by hundreds of bikers and their gear, it isn't easy finding a place to stay. We passed "No Vacancy" after "No Vacancy" sign, begged receptionist after receptionist to let us into a room, a lobby, even an attic. No dice.

As we aimlessly wandered around Jackson homeless, in need of a shower, generally confused and willing to lie to strangers to get what we wanted, we had a revelation- we have become the people our mothers warned us about.

 

A Fresh Start We Were Proud Of...

After waking up at 6 AM in Rapid City with high hopes of 'seizing the day', it's fair to say we were pretty damn proud of ourselves. Not even the monsoon outside could put a damper on our excitement of seeing two major national monuments and getting out to cowboy country in the same day. 

After experiencing both Mount Rushmore and Crazy Horse before 10 AM, we were on a high and could not wait to hit the road and make our way into Wyoming. Naturally, stopping for gas before hitting the open road seemed like the next 'logical' step in our nearly perfect morning so we stopped at 'Fresh Stop' (you no longer 'Kum and Go' at gas stations, you get a 'Fresh Start') to fill up. Lizzy left the gas station with water, Red Bull, Tootsie pops, and no recollection of the fact that we were actually getting gas. Pulling away from the gas pump, Lori was busy assuring Eileen Griffin that all was well and under control when all of the sudden we heard a huge crack behind us. Fearing we'd run something over, or part of the car had fallen off, we looked back to see the gas chord hanging behind us. Eileen knew something was up but we did a halfway decent job of saying goodbye and getting off the phone while masking our fits of laughter that left us literally crying. So much for our "fresh start" at "Fresh Stop."

Turns out we shouldn't have been quite so self-congratulatory.

This was only the first of many similar events on our imperfectly perfect trek to Jackson...

A run in with a bird while driving at 80 MPH on Route 90 left us with a skidmark and feathers on our windshield that left both of us in tears (and didn't come off until a massive rainstorm somewhere near Gillette, Wyoming). 

As if the murder on the windshield wasn't enough, after popping an Adderall and downing a Diet Coke and a large coffee, Lizzy was feeling like Jeff Gordon behind the wheel and left poor Lori huddled in the fetal position in the passenger seat. A fear of heights (the road was frighteningly close to cliffs that dropped hundreds and hundreds of feet of the side of a mountain) paired with her general sense of safety (that Lizzy lacks) left her carsick and scared for her life. 

After safely making it up and down a number of precarious mountains and bombing across hundreds and hundreds of miles on the open road of Wyoming, we spotted the Teton Range from a distance just as the sun was beginning to set. Yes, we had left Rapid City 14 hours earlier an yes, our asses had been numb for hours on end from sitting for so long, but nothing else really mattered compared with this: 

Sunset Over Grand Teton

THE BADLANDS

A picture is worth AT LEAST 10,000 words in the case of THE BADLANDS...

The "Steak" Out (A Night with Warren Buffett)

We arrived in Omaha, Nebraska Thursday night after cruising through hundreds of miles of corn fields. In the Midwest's defense- don't knock it till you try it. For example, Lizzy's road journal includes observations like "not too many creepers, fields of Black-eyed Susans, and relatively clean rest stops and interesting trees." We heard a lot about the monotony of flat lands, had seen Children of the Corn, and were wary of characters we might encounter. However, as our experience unfolded, both of us developed a little bit of a crush on Ohio, Indiana, Illinois and Iowa.

Eleven hours later, wearing Mardi Gras beads and a Hawaiian lei respectively, we made it to our second home away from home, the Best Western Kelly Inn. Once unpacked, it was time to get down to fulfilling a dream and maybe getting a job in the process. Originally, Omaha was just going to be a place to spend the night, until Peter Griffin pointed out that it was hometown to the famous, brilliant, (and loaded) Warren Buffett. Might the Sage of Omaha not have a little advice for two east coast college graduates on the road west?

Having heard that Mr. Buffett was a "regular guy" who liked regular things, we Googled his favorite restaurant in town. Despite a discrepancy between Piccolo's Steak and Cocktails and Gorat's that our search produced, we opted for Piccolo's, mostly because of the name and the giant disco ball in the dining room, keeping our fingers crossed that a regular guy might be looking to employ/talk with/pay for the dinner of two regular girls.

With resumes in hand, we were seated in the dining room just next to the disco ball, which did not disappoint. And, over a glass of red wine and a filet mignon we began the Warren Buffett "steak out."

Unfortunately, Warren didn't show. Embarrassed, we sheepishly decided not to leave our resumes with the hostess.

However, Piccolo's delivered- despite the absence of the person we came to Omaha for in the first place, the classic music, family dining room, delicious food and above all our adorable waitress and the disco ball made the night.

You Know You're in Iowa When...

The gas stations are named "Kum and Go" and the most popular fast food chain is "Taco Johns".

Needless to say, between Greenwich, CT and Omaha, Nebraska a lot changes.

Day #1 consisted of a mad dash out of Connecticut (with a ridiculously overloaded car - apparently we "pack like girls"), a brief glimpse of New York, a sniff of the dirty Jerz, hundreds upon hundreds of miles of Pennsylvania corn fields (which were beautiful, just the slightest bit superfluous), and our arrival in Toledo, Ohio where we were kindly taken in by the George family.

Waking up on Thursday morning feeling well-fed, well-rested, and ready to sit on our asses for another 10 hour trek, we left Toledo with high hopes of seeing the country and getting THAT much farther away from home. With a 70 MPH speed limit, which in the Midwest means you can comfortably cruise at 80/85, we hit the pavement (and our fathers credit card for more gas money). If time is money and money is time then speeding across the country on your parents dime is totally logical, right?

Girls Gone West

Sometime in August, as we realized September was rapidly approaching and our summer jobs would soon be over, we decided to take action. We began the process of coming to terms with the fact that we were no longer college students and without definitive plans or full time jobs, the coming fall was looking bleak. Therefore, in lieu of grabbing life by the horns and finding employment, we grabbed it by the balls instead and decided to embark on a monthlong tour of our grand country. 

With our parent's generosity and our own sense of adventure paired with undertones of extreme panic and the fear that we were on a fast road to being wash ups (if it wasn't already too late) we mapped a route across the United States and back. Armed with restlessness, music mixes we made when we should have been packing, pepper spray our fathers insisted we buy but that we still can't get out of its plastic casing, debilitating fears of vagrants, hippies and hitchhikers thanks to our mothers, but an overall excitement and hope that with adventure will come a grain or two of wisdom, our parents and siblings held their breath as we tore out of Greenwich ready to take the country by storm. 

America, get ready... we might not be wiser, more employed, or any closer to moving out of our parent's houses by the end of this, but we have high hopes that we will at least have figured out how to get the pepper spray out of it's plastic casing. A little too ambitious? Only time and the American roadways will tell.

~Lizzy and Lori