1. Buy the right dirt.

Succulents and cacti need dirt that’s classified as “fast drain” because they have roots that are not fans of being kept in moist soil. You can find it at your local garden store, just make sure it’s marked “cactus dirt” and you should be good to go.  Or, if you’re particularly ambitious, you can make your own cactus dirt – there’s a how-to video with a recipe here.

2. Find the perfect pot.

Not only do you want to find a pot that’s nice to look at (it is, after all, a big part of your garden) but make sure it has a big hole in the bottom so it will drain when you water your garden, instead of pooling at the bottom. Excess water that gets stuck in the bottom of a pot can cause the roots of your plants to rot, so this point is extra important.

3. 

   This Christmas Cactus displays beautiful blooms!

   Select a big variety!

Now, the fun part: plant shopping! The interesting thing about succulents is they’re found in all areas of the world, and so you can mix and match. In my latest succulent pot, I have plants from Morocco, Tanzania, and Australia, all mixed together – it’s like a botanical world tour! What makes an interesting succulent container garden, in my opinion, is a variety of heights, leaf shapes, and colors, so don’t be afraid to get picky (even if it takes so long that not just one, but THREE, Home Depot Garden Center employees come up to you over the course of your shopping trip to ask, “Do you need any help, miss?” like, uh, the author of this article..).

4. Give them room to grow.

Now that you have picked out your plants, make sure they have lots of room to spread out and leaf out. I suggest at least an inch width around each of your small plants when you first plant in order to give them plenty of space to grow and fill out your container garden…or, if you got overly ambitious, container gardens.

5. Put them on a good plant diet.

Yep, even cacti like a good drink! Don’t forget to water your succulents about 1-2 times a week. Depending on the size of your garden, you can simply put the whole container under a tap and let the water flow over the garden until it begins to drain out the bottom of the pot (for about fifteen seconds). As long as you have the right soil and pot, your plants will thank you for remembering them (but probably forgive you if you forget them every once and a while. That’s the nice part about these guys.). And worry not, those of you in colder climates: as long as your little succulent garden is placed in a sunny window (but not too near the cold windowpane), they can easily be wintered over indoors and enjoyed all year round. Finally, fertilize your garden at least a few times a year with a ¼ diluted garden fertilizer (especially during the summer, when your garden gets the most light). This will help your plants thrive for years to come. Good luck and happy growing!

~Megan~

                              Photo from LA Traffic Cam

Los Angeles is known, no—fabled, no—downright notorious for its horrible, mind-numbing traffic. In fact, it’s estimated that Los Angeles County residents spend about 4 days a year (or, oof, 96 hours) in their cars.

So what’s an Angelino to do with all that time? Here are some ways I’ve come up to pass the hours you spend getting from here to there in L.A.:

1.  Rock out to KCRW. KCRW is Los Angeles’ public radio, indy rock station, with a heavy dose of NPR-sponsored news and programming. Turn that dial to 89.9 FM and enjoy new bands, the latest news, and helpful traffic updates. Plus, with frequent free giveaways for members in venues all around the city, it’s a great introduction to some interesting music hotspots around town. Bonus: For you smartphone users, they have a great app, too!

2.  Roll down your windows and let the sunshine in. Hey, you’re in California, remember? Chances are the weather is a balmy 82 degrees and sunny, so breathe in those exhaust fumes and enjoy that sunshine. Just don’t forget to sunscreen up or you’ll soon be sporting a super attractive, left-armed trucker’s tan.

Hitting some of that famous L.A. traffic

This image from PD Photo.org has been released into the public domain by its author and copyright holder, Jon Sullivan

3.  Count out-of-state license plates. One of the first things anyone will ask you at a party in L.A. is “So, where are you from?” It’s a widely known fact that no one is from Los Angeles, we all just move here trying to make it big (or cry trying). In particular, you’ll see a large number of out-of-state plates driven by young dreamers like myself. And just so you know, a thumbs-up of encouragement is always appreciated, even after we’ve accidentally cut you off in a left-turn-only lane—quit honking, we’re from outta town, after all!

4.  Eat. I’ve become a huge proponent of stocking my car with snacks, like cereal bars, trail mix, that sort of thing, since you never know if you’ll get stuck in a jam on the freeway. Bonus points if you’re wise enough to stop at In ‘N’ Out for a burger animal-style before you head out into the rush.

5.  Practice defensive driving. Check your blind spot, increase your following distance, signal excessively…and be prepared to get hit despite it all. You’re in traffic for an entire four days a year; chances are you’ll be involved in a fender-bender at some point down the line. On that note, you may want to consider dropping a bit more on insurance than you might in another city; it might be worth it.

6.  Learn a new language. Check out an audiobook at the library and practice your nouns while you stop and go (that’s “parada” and “ir” in Spanish, folks). Look for an audiobook that emphasizes conversational language skills, so there’s not too much book work that goes along with it.

7.  Be a trailblazer: Take public transit. Despite its reputation to the contrary, L.A. does have a growing public transportation system (with a subway! Who knew!). It’s particularly useful if you’re heading to Hollywood or downtown. And for those of you out late at night, all trains and the Orange Line are now running until 2 a.m. on Fridays and Saturdays!

Final note: Believe it or not – and despite what you may see to the contrary, one thing you shouldn’t be doing while driving is talking on your cell phone – unless it’s on speakerphone or you have a headset or Bluetooth. California has a strictly enforced cell phone law and cops will pull you over and slap you with a hefty fine (well – hefty for someone like me who’s on a budget!). Texting is also illegal, so when you desperately need to tweet about having just seen Justin Bieber coming out of a Starbucks in West Hollywood, just pull over okay?

Self-portraits: Only a good idea as a passenger

~Megan~

Part 2 of 2 by Megan Ritchie

(continued from Part 1 of 2)   After an hour on the water sea kayaking, I was all calm now, a real ocean woman. Sure, I come from the middle of an enormous continent, and have lived in landlocked cities my whole life, but here I was, at my true roots.  I was an ocean conqueror! A Californian!!   Suddenly the waves lurched in front of me, taking my boat with them. An enormous wave  overtook my boat and spun it parallel to the shore, like a crazed giant with a toy top, before flipping me over into the waves. There was a flash of panic as I tumbled out, and the waves ripped away my sunglasses, ponytail binder, and the sassy bandana I’d tied into my hair that morning, and carried them to somewhere far away.  I kicked hard away from my boat, all the while thinking “Don’t let it hit my head. Please don’t let it hit my head.”

Wave after mighty wave ground me into the sand. I struggled to stand against them – I was only a dozen feet off the shore by then and the water wasn’t deep – and finally, gained my footing. I plodded up to shore.

On shore, Sarah was doubled over with laughter. “That was….gasp….the biggest wave….gasp…I have ever seen,” she said as she scrambled to grab my paddle out of the still pummeling waves. Adrianna, the wench, had made a successful landing on shore unscathed, and helped me pull my boat up onto drier ground, before we all collapsed into laughter.

“That was amazing,” Sarah said, once we’d all caught our breaths. Sarah pointed up to the pier. “There were even guys up there at the restaurant who were yelling suggestions to you, but once that wave came up, you didn’t have a chance.”

I tapped my head, trying to get some water out of my ear. “I’ve always known I’m really gracefully,” I said dryly. “But I think I may have outdone myself on that one.”

We decided to eat our lunch on the beach before heading back out for another round of kayaking. We scurried up to the parking lot and I reached into my running shorts to grab the key – we’d locked our lunches in the trunk. But the key wasn’t there.

“Oh. No.” I said.

“What is it?” asked Adrianna.

“The key. I put it right here,” I said, motioning to the little pocket stitched into my running shorts, “But when I fell, it must’ve…it must’ve gotten pulled out.” We all looked out onto the waves.

“Oh shit,” said Sarah.

“Yeah.”

We ran down the stairs again, looking around in the sand. But, like my sunglasses and bandana, there was no sign of the car key. I’d taken it off from my lanyard, so it was easier to tuck into my running shorts; our hunt was literally looking for a needle in a haystack…or a car key in an ocean. Sarah said she’d keep looking along the beach while Adrianna and I clambered back up to the parking lot. We debated what to do for a moment, before appealing to the parking attendant to use his phone. After explaining what had happened, he said matter-of-factly, “Oh, you should never take your keys out with you. Everyone just checks them here with me or at the Surf Shack. That way, you’ll never lose them if you hit a wave.” I looked at him. Paused.

“That’s good advice, I’ll be sure to do that next time,” I said through clenched teeth. It wasn’t anyone’s fault but my own (and maybe that big wave’s) that we were in the situation, but it wasn’t particularly helpful to be reminded of a wiser alternative.

Adrianna and I came up with a plan: I had a Triple A membership and could get them to unlock the trunk, which had my purse and phone. Then, I’d call one of my roommates, all of whom I’d met only six weeks earlier, and convince them, beg them really, to drive across the entire Los Angeles metropolitan area on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon with my spare car key, only to turn around and drive home. I sighed. There went the afternoon, and a nice chunk of my dignity.

Triple A said they’d be there in 45 minutes. I handed the parking attendant back his phone and thanked him for his help. He shrugged and gave me a “You sure are dumb” look. Helpful. Adrianna went to go check in with Sarah, and came back saying there was still no sign of the key along the beach. Just then, the surfer dude from the Shack, the guy who’d helped us carry the kayaks down to the beach what seemed like days ago, passed by, helping another couple with their boats.

“How’d it go?” he asked. “You didn’t die, I see.”

“Oh, it was really fun,” I said, trying to reassure his latest victims. “Except, well, I managed to horribly flip my kayak and lose my car key in the ocean.”

The couple, still fresh, looked a little alarmed. “Oh God, that’s horrible,” said the surfer dude. He shot me a sympathetic look as he kept walking past. Adrianna sighed unhappily.

“Are you sure it’s not in your shorts?” she asked.

I shook my head as I poked around in them again, adding “groping myself” to my long list of how uncool I looked/felt at that moment. They were the type of shorts that had built-in underwear, the better to run in, I suppose, and I fiddled around with the liner.

“No, I don’t see—“ And then there, at the very bottom of the shorts, at the very bottom of the liner, I felt something: The key.

I pulled it out, looking very much like a proud hen that had just laid an egg, or, in this case, a Ford Focus key. “I found it! I found it!”

After high-fives all around and a quick phone call to cancel the Triple A locksmith,  we settled along some rocks for a victory lunch. Maybe I wasn’t a Californian just yet, maybe I hadn’t yet mastered sea kayaking or waves or heck, checking my car key with the parking lot attendant, but one thing is for sure: I am really good at storing stuff in my underwear.

 ~Megan~

By Megan Ritchie

About a month after I moved to Los Angeles, a friend and her girlfriend, Adrianna, invited me to go sea kayaking with them in Malibu. I’d been kayaking a handful of times, most recently on a family vacation to Lake Superior last summer, and was really excited to try it in the ocean.

On a Sunday afternoon, we drove the twenty or so miles from my house on the east side of Los Angeles, across the city and up the coast along the Pacific Coast Highway (or PCH, to us “locals”). Parking on the PCH, which runs right alongside the ocean, is impossible, but we eventually found a parking lot right next to the beach and dropped the ten bucks to park there. After locking all of our possessions in the trunk, I tucked my car key in a little pouch in my running shorts (pay attention to that detail – it comes in later), and set off. We scampered across the highway to the Malibu Surf Shack, which rents surf boards, paddleboards and, you got it, sea kayaks. After we ducked in to the little shop and our eyes adjusted to the dim light, the guy behind the counter asked if we’d been sea kayaking before. Sarah and Adrianna both nodded, yep, they’d been once before at the Surf Shack a handful of months earlier. I hesitated, and then said, “Sure, I’ve kayaked before.” Technically not on the ocean, but so be it.

“Well, good,” said the guy, who was every bit a surfer dude. “Wouldn’t want an inexperienced kayaker out on those waves today….they’re reaaaal rough, even for someone who knows what they’re doing.”

My heart began to pound as we signed off the waivers and put down the deposit.  Sarah, clearly the brains behind the operation—or at least the bravest of us all—led us out of the little shop. Adrianna and I both began talking about how we weren’t exactly “experienced kayakers.”

“Oh, we’ll be fine.” Sarah said, brushing us off.

Feeling that familiar rush of adrenaline and fear I always get from any rule-breaking or risk-taking because I am a coward and a square, I followed her around the side of the shop. We grabbed paddles and damp lifejackets and then waited for a lull in the traffic before running across the highway and back to the beach. The sea kayaks in bright citrus colors were stacked high in a trailer parked alongside the road. Another surfer dude from the Surf Shack helped us carry three down to the sand.

The waves were pounding along the beach. Adrianna and I gulped. Sarah, all confidence, tried to reassure us. I turned to the Surf Shack dude.

“Tell us, honestly,” I said. “Are we going to die?”

“What? No. You guys will be fine.”

“But we are not experienced sea kayakers, man.” I added the “man” there to let him know that even if we weren’t regular wave-paddlers, we were far from dorks. He seemed to pick up on how cool we were, because he said next in particularly soothing tones:

“Look, you’ll be fine. I promise.”

Sarah rolled her eyes, but Adrianna and I were willing to be reassured by anyone, dude or otherwise.

The guy continued, “All you have to do is wait for a lull in the waves and then run out as fast and as hard as you can and hop in the boat when you can’t run any farther. The waves here in Malibu come in bursts—they’ll be a couple minutes of hard waves and then they’ll die down.”

We all paused to look out on the waves. They did seem to be dying down. Sarah took the moment to leap into the water and run out with her boat. When she reached waist-height, she leapt into her boat and paddled out. She looked cool.

I’d missed my window at that point, and had to wait for another round of boat-crushing waves before I too took the plunge. Once the water calmed again, I pushed my boat into the water and high-stepped as far as I could. I leapt into my boat not as gracefully as Sarah but I got in all the same, and paddled quickly past the waves’ breaking point. Alright, maybe I wasn’t going to die. Maybe I was all drama, it was all in my head. There is no spoon. Adrianna and I exchanged a nervous laugh – we were just being silly, everything was fine.

I should note that this was only the second or third time I’d even seen the ocean, let alone been on the water. I’m from Minnesota originally and so “the beach” to me means a day near a lake where the biggest waves we get are from a passing speedboat pulling a couple kids on an inner tube behind it. So my cowardice, while a little pathetic, wasn’t entirely ungrounded.

We paddled our boats out past the wooden pier. There were fishermen with long poles standing at the end of  it, and a few of them waved at us as we passed. It was a gorgeous afternoon, with barely a breeze and a cloudless sky. I looked around at the gentle waves and the rocky coastline, and kept having to tell myself “I live here now. This is my home now.” Sometimes, I find it amazing how huge the United States really are. I marveled how the beautiful coastline I was kayaking along was part of the same country as the rolling hills of prairie grass and wildflowers I’d ridden past only a few months earlier on bike rides in Minnesota.

As we made our way up the shore, we saw surfers up ahead; there was some kind of surfing competition going on up the beach. We paddled out farther to avoid them, and because (understandably) the waves looked even bigger there. We paddled for an hour or so before deciding to come back in and have lunch along the shore.

For the approach back to the beach, we were to do the same strategy as our way out: wait for the waves to calm before paddling. Sarah turned to us. “All you have to remember,” she said, “is to keep your boat at a 90 degree angle to the beach. Just head straight in. See, watch me.”

Sarah paddled forward hard for thirty or forty feet before sliding her boat gracefully onto the sand. Easy. Adrianna and I hesitated. She looked at me nervously. “I’m sure we’ll be fine,” I said, thrusting my chin forward bravely. I looked behind me to try to gauge if the waves had died down. Things looked fairly calm so I paddled toward the shore, making sure to stay perpendicular to the shoreline, as Sarah had instructed.

Adrianna followed suit, looking anxious. After my hour on the water, I was all calm now, a real ocean woman. Sure, I come from the middle of an enormous continent, and have lived in landlocked cities my whole life, but here I was, at my true roots. Humans emerged from the ocean thousands of years ago, shook off their gills and claimed their spot on land. And now, here I was, returning to my ocean homeland, victorious. The forces bigger than me were to be conquered, to bow before me. Yeah, I was an ocean conqueror! A Californian!!

I paddled harder for shore. Suddenly the waves lurched in front of me, taking my boat with them. I glanced over at Adrianna, who was struggling to keep her boat’s bow heading straight for shore. Her kayak pushed toward mine, and I paddled even harder away from her, trying to avoid a collision.

The waves were now coming in even harder, rolling us closer and closer to shore. Suddenly, an enormous wave overtook us, and took my boat and spun it parallel to the shore, like a crazed giant with a toy top, before flipping me over into the waves. There was a flash of panic as I tumbled out, and the waves ripped away my sunglasses, ponytail binder, and the sassy bandana I’d tied into my hair that morning, and carried them to somewhere far away.  I kicked hard away from my boat, all the while thinking “Don’t let it hit my head. Please don’t let it hit my head…”

…to be continued  

WILDFIRE!!!

By Megan Ritchie

…continuing on our journey out of  the Grand Canyon…we crossed the border into California just as the sun set.

The next day dawned bright and clear as I stepped out into the parking lot for my first view of California in the daylight.

There was desert. Everywhere. Palm trees, desert, and—there she was—the good old Ford Focus with the trusty U-haul trailer still attached. We packed up our bags and hit the road for our final day in the car.

At about 1 o’clock that afternoon, Chris and I pulled off for what was to be our final gas stop. He’d driven the whole morning, in preparation for our last few hours, when I would take the wheel in order to brave the big bad Los Angeles freeway system with a slow-moving trailer.

The saddest room in a gas station in CA

We fueled up, and then I swung into the driver’s seat and pulled out onto I-45.  About 45 minutes later we started to see smoke. As we got closer, we began making guesses at what it could be.  A house? Eh, who could say; it was too far away to tell. Bored, Chris went back to his book and I fiddled with the radio.

Then we hit traffic. Now, according to my handy-dandy smartphone (that I made Chris check, responsible driver that I am) we were about an hour, hour and a half outside of L.A., and part of me (the scared, “What if I hate this city? Can I actually do this?” part of me) was afraid that this was the edge of the fabled Los Angeles traffic. What if we were in this for the next couple hours? What if, for the rest of my existence, I find myself sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic? What if–Alright, alright, calm down, it’s stop-and-go, at least we’re moving.

And then we stopped moving entirely. The smoke was right near us now, billowing in big brown plumes.  Hauling that trailer, we were in the far right lane, the truck and trailer lane, and we weren’t moving at all. Suddenly, we heard sirens. Out my side mirror I saw them: fire truck upon fire truck upon fire truck, racing past us on the shoulder. There were your standard red engines, but also larger ones, with “Wildfire Control” printed on the side.

“Uh, Chris?” I said.

He looked up from his book.

“What?”

“I think this fire is sort of big.”

“Yeah, seems like it.”

Back down to the page.

Then, above: thwup-thwup-thwup-thwup….! I ducked down to see the sky through the windshield. Above us was a helicopter, dumping liquid on the fire.

We still weren’t moving. The smoke was getting thicker and thicker. While it had started on the right of the car, suddenly there was smoke billowing on both sides. I looked around. On the opposite side of the highway, four lanes across, cars were starting to turn around, using the shoulder to drive the wrong way down the freeway, away from the fire.

“Chris? It looks, um, really big.”

He finally looked up from his book. To our right was an entrance ramp. We looked to see cars driving the wrong way up the ramp, fleeing the flames ahead of us. There was a huge semi in front of us; our view was blocked from how close we were to the fire and then suddenly: to our left, it breached the hill.

We watched in horror as a shed not a half a mile away from us was consumed by flames in milliseconds. The fire enveloped a flagpole and burned through an American flag as fast as we registered what it was doing.

“Oh. My. God,” I breathed. “What do I do? What do I do??”

I struggled not to panic. The flames were close, much closer than anyone would like, but I couldn’t see any fire trucks nearby… I kept looking for a cop or a firefighter or some kind of authority figure to tell us what to do and where to go. But there was no one. Everyone was too busy fighting the fire, and no one was there thinking about the bystanders just trying to get out of the way. No one.

But there was Chris sitting in the passenger seat, his book long abandoned, telling me in the calmest tones possible, “Megan, we have to wait for the truck ahead of us to turn onto the entrance ramp before we can go. We just have to wait for the truck to move and then it’s our turn.” I looked over: there was still a big line of cars driving up the ramp, fleeing the flames.  We had to wait for the truck to move or we could get stuck. The only way around the truck was on the shoulder to our right.  But the truck wasn’t moving at all.

I inched forward, very aware that I had not been at all trained in the art of backing up a car with a trailer attached. I heard my dad’s voice ringing through my head: “You could jackknife that thing, easy. Just make sure you never get into a situation where you need to back it up. Just always pull through.” The truck in front of us wasn’t moving and there was at least a truck’s length in front of it. In fact, the truck in front of us wasn’t even running.

“Oh my god,” I said, as it dawned on me. “The trucker—he abandoned his truck! He just abandoned it. He’s not there anymore! He just left! He left it!”

I couldn’t stop talking. Chris was stunned. In my rising panic, I briefly toyed with the idea of doing the same thing as the trucker, leaving all of my prized and not-so-prized possessions in the car to be consumed by the flames. Everything would be lost: my passport, my books, my clothes and camera and computer; even old love letters, tax returns, photographs. But we’d be safe. We’d run through the tall grass on the side of the road until we weren’t breathing smoke anymore. Then some weatherworn trucker would pick us up and drop us in the parking lot of the nearest hotel or gas station with a “Just be happy you got alive, kids,” before he cruised away. It’d be like straight out of an action movie.

With the smoke getting thicker around us, it felt like straight out of an action movie.

“What do we do? What do we do??” I repeated, feeling my hands start to shake.

At about that moment, we started to see even more cars driving up the shoulder, on both sides of the road now. If we decided to zip out on the right-hand shoulder to get around the abandoned truck, we’d risk a head-on collision with someone coming from farther down the freeway.  In fact, these cars were definitely from the frontlines because they were covered in bright orange anti-flame retardant, the stuff the helicopter–no, now three helicopters–were dumping on the wildfire all around us.

I looked around, and made an executive decision.

“I’m going to try to turn around,” I said. “We can’t go around that truck and so we have to get on the shoulder on the other side of the road.”

“But you can’t back up the trailer.”

“I’m going to turn around,” I repeated. “We have to get out of here. We have to get out of here.”

The smoke was billowing even thicker now, blotting out the sun. It reminded me of a solar eclipse I once watched through a tiny hole in a piece of paper in 3^rd grade. I wondered, briefly, if I should be looking at the smoke through a hole in a piece of paper too.

Gripping the wheel hard, I turned on my signal and put the car in drive. Thankfully, we’d waited so long that the traffic had cleared out more: so many people had already pulled their cars around on the shoulder and fled before us that the lanes were more open.

We must have looked panicked, two kids with very out-of-state plates hauling a little U-haul trailer behind us, flushed in terror, because someone let us in immediately. I craaaaaanked the wheel and we held on as I started the turn. And then, at last, I exhaled: we’d made it, a full U-turn across four lanes of freeway, and clunked out onto the shoulder of I-45, heading the wrong way down the freeway. With traffic, much of it splattered in orange, but going the decidedly wrong direction down the road.

“We’re okay! We’re okay!!” we shouted and pumped our fists, like so many action stars before us.

After we made it off the freeway at last, I’d like to say we found an easy route around the wildfire and made it to L.A. without any further incident. I’d like to say it was the breeziest part of the trip. I’d like to say we spent the rest of our hour to hour-thirty minute trip marveling at the wildfire and our superhero brush with death.

None of this happened, of course. Instead, after we made it off the freeway at last, we pulled out a road atlas and picked out a new route along a nice county road. It seemed like a pleasant enough journey at first, until the mountains starting rising up in front of us in a sheer wall.

“That’s…that’s not our road, right, Chris?” I said, very aware that the car groaned with effort at even the slightest change in incline.

He re-consulted the map.

“Nah…”

We kept driving, heading closer and closer to the mountains.

“Chris…”

“Wait, wait, wait, hold on. Let me look at this…wait. What are these green dots on the road?”

“Green dots? What green dots??”

“Oh. Uhhh…the green dots mean ‘scenic route.’”

“WHAT!” I almost lost it.  “We do not want a scenic route! We want a decidedly UNpretty, UNeventful, UNscenic route! Pick another way! Find us another way!”

Chris held the map closer, squinting at the tiny roads.

“Hold on. Hold on. Uh. Megan? We might be in trouble…”

“Why?”

“Well, we’re trying to get through a national forest and I-45 was kinda are only main way, but that way is obviously, um, burning. But there are other roads!”

“So pick another road!”

“But here’s the thing: They’re…they’re all scenic routes!”

Nearly three hours later, after the car began to bottom out at literally 10 miles per hour, and after an old lady gave us the finger as she passed us in sheer frustration going the wrong way on a blind curve up a mountain, and after I thoroughly sweat through all of my clothes, we made it through the very narrow, very steep and very scenic mountain pass.

And then, after about an hour of that good old L.A. rush hour traffic, we made it to Los Angeles and my new home,  after a full five days of driving and nearly 2200 miles. We were nearly five hours later than we’d anticipated. Exhausted, we piled out of the car. And as we opened up the Uhaul trailer and began unloading my possessions into my new room, I couldn’t help but think, “Well, no matter what happens, no matter if I make it as a screenwriter here in Hollywood or go home crying and defeated, there is 100% no way L.A. can be as intense as that afternoon.”

And you know what, dear reader? On that, at least, I’ve been right.

~Megan~

Part 1 – Road Trip West Introduction

Part 2 – Wigwam Motel

Part 3 – The Grand Canyon

Onward…

By Megan Ritchie

The next day, Day 4 for those counting, Chris and I awoke, sore from our wigwam slumber and hit the road once again. It’s at about this time in a road trip, I think we can all agree, when real life starts to feel like a foreign thing, and all you have is a car, a radio, and, inevitably, an interesting collection of empty fast food containers crammed in various recesses throughout the vehicle. Yep, we were feeling the miles.

Thankfully, we were just in time for a detour of grand proportions. Now, when Chris and I were originally planning the trip’s route we were all, “Rockies! Rockies!” and my dad was all, “You’re insane and will kill yourselves/the car!” so, as I mentioned before, we chose the southern route. As a compromise of sorts we decided we would take a detour of about 100 miles, give or take, to see the Grand Canyon because, after living abroad for a year, all I wanted was some good old American splendor. And Chris and I, Midwesterners that we are, had never been to the Grand Canyon. And it’ the Grand Canyon, you guys. 100 miles ain’t nothin’ for something that awesome.

 So, over the river and through the woods, to the Canyon we went. When we arrived and hoisted our creaking bodies out of the car, the sun was blistering hot. Armed with sunscreen, sunglasses and some stylish hats, we made our way into the park office. After a few hasty conversations with people giving us impressively mismatched directions (“Isn’t this one of the biggest tourist destinations in the country? Shouldn’t this be more straightforward?” we asked ourselves), we managed to find our way onto a shuttle that would take us into the Grand Canyon National Park.

The bus ride was rather pleasant, mostly because we weren’t the ones responsible for driving. I kept craning to see the canyon, but it was shy and kept itself hidden from the road the entire time. In fact, it wasn’t until we were dropped off that I got my very first view of the canyon. We scuttled up a trail and spread out in front of us, stretching as far as we could see in both directions, was the Grand Canyon.

It was utterly breathtaking. For those of you who haven’t seen it, it is truly one of those places that photographs do no justice. In fact, trying to flatten out something so dimensional, so expansive, so rich in color and shadow and texture, seems borderline insulting. Not that I didn’t try. But after a few pictures, including one on my horrible camera phone for the fans back home (“Hi Mom!”), Chris grew a little antsy and so we headed down the trail.

It seemed the deeper and deeper we got in the canyon, the more beautiful it became. I was snapping pictures left and right, some of the canyon itself, but many of us with the canyon: Chris in an arch, me near the edge, Chris gazing out over the canyon; just call me Annie Leibovitz guys, ‘cause it was a regular Vanity Fair cover shoot.

I clicked on and on and–wait a second: Life was (somehow) continuing on the trail beyond our photo-shoot. In fact, the more we tuned in to our fellow National Park trail enthusiasts, the more we realized that everyone seemed to be from out-of-town. And, while we (obviously) were too, everyone around us seemed to be from a bit farther out-of-town…as in, out-of-country. Nearly everyone on the trail around us were speaking various European languages, and striding purposefully up and down the trail. The Americans, large and in charge, were up above on the shuttle buses, breathing heavily behind their digital cameras, while down here, svelte and workin’ it, Europeans were showing us who was boss. Chris and I decided we were done with the photo-shoot—we needed to pick up the pace…for America! We cruised down the trail a handful of miles to our turn-around point, a sturdy-looking outhouse with a water-pump nearby. It seemed to be a popular spot to stop and find some shade, no matter your country of origin.

After a quick bathroom break and a few swigs of water we looked around, glanced at our watches and decided it was probably time to head back up—we still had over 200 miles to drive before our stop for the night in scenic Needles, CA and the road was calling our names. So, up we went.

The hike down was easy-peasy, but the hike up, well, it. was. hot. Chris quickly ditched his shirt, and I just as quickly regretted having brought my stupid, heavy digital camera along (call me Annie Leibovitz, guys, but only if she comes with a camera caddy who carries all of her equipment for her). Cheeks blazing red, we strode along, and in a competitive push, passed a group of German tourists and an elderly French couple with walking sticks in one sweep, before collapsing in a heap on the side of the trail.

The Europeans quickly re-passed us.

Yet, after a few moments, or perhaps more than a few, we dusted ourselves off, took a final sip of water, and climbed back up.

The trail winded far more than I recalled it doing as we’d walked down, let’s put it that way. Finally, mercifully, at last I began to recognize some arches and vistas from our descending photo-shoot from what seemed like so long before (It had really only been about 90 minutes). We paused a moment to “take in the view” (ahem, for a breather) but were brought out of our reverie by voices behind us. Was that Italian? Without looking back, we quickly scrambled up the rest of the way to the edge of the canyon before enjoying a lazy, air-conditioned shuttle bus ride back to the car.

~ Megan~

Part 1 – Road Trip West

Part 2 – Wigwam Motel

Part 4 – The Wildfire

See also:

In Defense of the Family Road Trip

The Wigwam Motel and other Southwest Adventures (Continued from Part 1 – Road Trip West: Introduction)

By Megan Ritchie 

After Americana bliss in Emporia, Kansas, Chris and I continued south for our second day on the road, skirting through Oklahoma along with David Sedaris (Me-Talk-Pretty-One-Day), and resting at last in scenic Amarillo, Texas. Amarillo was, as far as we could tell, simply a freeway lined with chain restaurants, a few strip clubs, and an impressive amount of abandoned fake hair.

Amarillo, TX

We tiredly checked into our hotel, the Super 8, and both quickly realized we’d hit the jackpot: It was, hands-down, the nicest Super 8 either of us had ever had the privilege of staying in. Truly. They gave us a suite for no reason. There was a mini-fridge. There were free cookies. Okay, our standards might be low, but it was still fantastic.

Next on the agenda was dinner. Now, Chris had lived in Texas for a year serving with Americorps and had one requirement for the night: Bar-b-que. We settled on a place a few storefronts down and wandered over. I’d never had real, authentic Texan BBQ before, and went for the pork sandwich. And it was de-licious. Maybe not delicious enough to move to Amarillo, Texas, but darn near close.

The next morning, we regretfully left Super 8 heaven and were up and at ‘em again.

The day passed fairly uneventfully as we made our way across New Mexico…

…and into Arizona.

I’d never been to the Southwest before, or not to that extent, anyway, and fell in love with the blues and reds of the place. Simply gorgeous. That night, we made it to lovely Holbrook, Arizona, where we checked into  what is quite possibly the coolest motel of all time.

Now, when mapping out our route the previous week, we’d booked hotels based on ease and reliability—chains, we decided, would work for our purposes, since they’re generally clean, inexpensive, and just off the freeway. There are, however, some spots where the chain hotels don’t roam—and one such spot is smack dab in the middle of Arizona. Not to be deterred, I poked around for a while online, and stumbled across the historical Wigwam Motel. One look at the pictures, plus the motel’s signature catchphrase (“Have YOU slept in a wigwam lately?”) and Chris and I were on board.

As we pulled in to the Wigwam Motel’s parking lot, we struggled with where to park the Focus and trailer combination.

Each wigwam also features its own vintage car, which, as far as we could tell, didn’t work, didn’t unlock and, generally, didn’t serve any purpose whatsoever. I generally love cars-as-decorations, so I was sold instantly.

We found a spot and, stretching our stiff legs from another eleven hours in the car, trudged into the motel’s office to check in.

The office turned out to be part gift shop (all the t-shirts were double-XL though, much to my sincere disappointment) and part museum. It featured displays on the motel itself (it’s listed in the National Register of Historic Places!), but also on the nearby Petrified Forest.  Since Chris and I hadn’t been able to stop at the national park earlier that day, we found it pretty thoughtful of them to have arranged a private viewing of some of the rocks from there for us. We got our key and made our way to our wigwam, which is perhaps the most fun word to say ever.

Suitcase in hand, I swung open the door to our ‘wam excitedly and saw: Two slightly stained beds, an old TV, a nightstand with a burned-out lamp, some tacky art hanging on one wall. Oh.

Okay, so it might not have been the nicest motel on the inside.  We might have discovered over the course of the night that the air conditioner sounded like it was going to take off,  and that the shower tiles were in need of a good scrub, and that the doorknob jiggled a bit more than we would’ve liked, but it was a wigwam, okay? A circular, cement, stand-alone motel room in the shape of a teepee, with a dead blue vintage car parked out front, and for that night only, it was ours. All ours. It doesn’t get any better than that, you guys.

 ~Megan~

  Ready for More?

  Part 3 – The Grand Canyon

  Part 4 – The Wildfire

]]> http://www.entertainingyourself.com/2012/02/01/road-trip-west-the-wigwam-motel/feed/ 3 http://www.entertainingyourself.com/2012/01/21/road-trip-west-introduction/ http://www.entertainingyourself.com/2012/01/21/road-trip-west-introduction/#comments Sat, 21 Jan 2012 17:28:38 +0000 http://www.entertainingyourself.com/?p=1760 (Part 1 in a 4 part series)

By Megan Ritchie

I recently moved from my hometown of Minneapolis allll the way out to Los Angeles, some 2000-plus miles away. Here are a few tales of the drive across.

First, let’s lay out our cast of characters: We have me, Megan, age 23, and the one theoretically “in charge,” and Chris, my younger brother, newly 21.

We’re driving across the country in a red Ford Focus, character #3, and finally, our star to fill out the quartet, the whiney one, the high maintenance one, the one who weighs us all down: the 5’x8’ U-haul trailer packed full to the ceiling with all of my possessions, being pulled behind the car.

We left on a Monday morning at 6 am. My dad and I had been pouring over Google Maps stuff trying to decide the best route. We’d gotten in an argument, as young adult children are apt to do with their parents at times, especially when they’re being overly protective and you’re super strong and brave (and have lived in a foreign country…okay, Dad? I got this one.). I wanted to take the shortest—and therefore cheapest, as far as hotel stops and gas—route, right through Denver, where I could stay with a friend, and on through the Rockies, Vegas and finally to L.A. This idea nearly gave my dad a heart attack. “Driving through the Rockies? With a trailer behind a Ford Focus? Megan, are you insane?”

I relented, after looking at the elevation map and throwing a fairly unusual money temper tantrum (emotions were running high, okay?). So, our route was decided: Take Interstate 35 down to Oklahoma City, take a right, and take Interstate 40 to Los Angeles. That’s it. One turn. Thrilling, right? It was.

Now, Chris and I quickly discovered that driving a well-packed trailer behind a sedan was an interesting challenge. The U-haul folks in Minneapolis had warned me not to take the trailer above 55 miles per hour. I’d nodded along with them, but secretly scoffed at this at the time, thinking I’d be pushing at least sixty-five the whole way…I mean, I had 2100 miles to cover.But as we quickly discovered on the barely rolling hills of Iowa, the car couldn’t get to sixty-five with the trailer. The car couldn’t even get to sixty. And so we inched along at a (super pathetic) fifty-four miles an hour…for five days straight.  Any change in elevation and the car would scream in protest.

Wind Turbine Blows By Us on the Freeway

As it was, the car was going through gas at an impressive rate. Binge drinking, really. Instead of averaging about 300 miles per tank, we were checking in at around 180. Still, despite the gas and the speed, Chris and I were having a grand old time, mostly because of books on tape…which I guess we call audiobooks now because no one uses tapes anymore…or CDs, for that matter. Okay, fine, I just dated myself.

Time for another drink - Somewhere in Iowa

Anyway, on our first day, we listened to all of Tina Fey’s memoir, Bossypants.  If you haven’t had the privilege of hearing it, I’d highly recommend doing so. Fey herself reads the book and does all sorts of voices for her characters. Plus they use the actual Saturday Night Live clips that she discusses, which was extra fun.

That night, high on giggling along with Tina, we stopped in scenic Emporia, Kansas. We were, I admit, feeling quite proud of ourselves for having made it through three whole states (MN, IA and MO, for those keeping track) in one day.

Sunset in Emporia, Kansas

After checking into the hotel, I was quickly reintroduced to any Americana I may have missed in a dining experience in China by our nearby restaurant selections: Applebee’s, Pizza Hut, Burger King and Wal-Mart (does that count?). We were no fools; we chose Applebee’s and man, did we eat good in the neighborhood. Chris got a burger approximately the size of his head; I went a little less risqué and ordered the Southwest chicken salad because I’m trying to watch my figure. As it was, it was covered in tortilla strips, cheese, and creamy dressing. And was delicious. While we ate, someone across the restaurant had a birthday so the whole restaurant got to sing; I ordered about three Coke refills (for free!); and the waitress tried to get us to sign up for the Applebee’s reward program. Can you get any more American than that? No, no, you can’t. It was glorious.

Megan Richie

I couldn’t wait for the next day…

~Megan~

…And neither can we.  Coming Soon (we hope!)

The Next installments:

Part 2 – The Wigwam Motel

Part 3 – The Grand Canyon

Part 4 – The Wildfire

In the meantime, enjoy a few other stories by Megan Ritchie:

The World Really Is Flat

Running Five Polish Miles

Afterward

Afterward, Agnieska would say it was God’s miracle.

“It was the most beautiful place I had ever seen,” she’d tell her friend, Marta, and in saying so, she’d straighten her head kerchief—she meant it. Then, she would walk the two and a half blocks to church and thank Jesus for creating such beauty and splendor, for allowing her to see this miracle of clean glass, and polished marble, and doors that somehow slid open without any sign of knobs or hinges.

But before she walked into the Galleria Krakowska and blinked in the fluorescent sunshine, Agnieska was afraid.

On the rocking train, she fiddled with her green beaded rosary and consulted her crinkled, damp timetable every few moments. It was not as if she had never been on a train—this was, after all, her third ride—but she had never before traveled alone and never for so long and so far.

Four stops later, after the train had pulled up to the platform in Krakow Glowny, the white-haired porter—a spitting image of her cousin, Edward, who had moved to Belgium just after the war—handed down her patched navy blue suitcase. Then he bid her farewell, touching two fingers to the brim of his hat, and she turned to the matter at hand.

The blue-and-white signs tugged her along in the direction of Rynek Glowny, and out into a large, cement-paved square. Agnieska looked at the smudged face of her wristwatch—a quarter to eleven. At half past, she was to meet Pan Gorecki, a lawyer with Gorecki & Makowski, Ltd.

Agnieska settled herself on a cold marble bench and pulled out the worn letter. She read, the Polish words dancing across the page:

 “Dear Pani Jagoda,

 “It has come to our firm’s attention that you may have claim to several plots of land some 23 km outside of Tarnow. In accordance with current re-privatization laws, if you can produce evidence of your parents having lived and owned such land, you will be its legal owner.

 “If at all possible, we request most cordially that you come to our Krakow branch to discuss this matter. We represent a land development company, R&R Builders. They have expressed interest in your property, and we would like to make you an offer to purchase it.

 “Please feel free to contact me if you should have any questions at (012) 457 328 or by e-mail at gorecki@goreckiltd.pl.

“Sincerely,

Jan Gorecki, Esq.”

Agnieska finished the letter and folded it twice before placing it once again in her front right pocket.

She looked around her, half expecting Pan Gorecki to come up to her, forty-five minutes early, and present her with a large check and keys to a glittering new automobile—it felt as if she had won the lottery, in receiving such a letter.

Instead, what caught her attention was the large, glittering structure to the left of the train station. “Krakowia Galleria” proud letters proclaimed across its front. Glancing at her watch once again, she decided she had time to buy a few souvenirs before meeting up with the lawyer.

So, Agnieska stood up from the cold marble bench and walked toward the mall. The first thing that struck her was the music: a young woman, screaming harshly, her f’s and t’s gyrating in a language that certainly was not Polish. Was that English?

“No matter,” Agnieska decided, as she neared the mall. The doors slid open in front of her without a touch and Agnieska stopped short.

“Boże!”[1] she exclaimed as a young couple stepped past her, eyeing her faded head kerchief and patched suitcase. She stepped forward cautiously. The door did not move. Pausing every few steps, Agnieska inched her way into the mall.

And as she looked around, everywhere was light! Color! Glass! So much glass!

The floors were scrubbed a perfect white, so clean that Agnieska could see a glint of herself when she peered down. There were stairs, many many stairs, but somehow, they were, why, they were moving! Just as the door had.

Agnieska paused, and, without hesitating, crossed herself twice. She then began to explore. The lady, after all, was no stranger to a market place, and she quickly decided that, save the miraculous moving stairs and the glinting lights overhead, this mall was no different than the Saturday antique market back home.

She quickly determined that she would need to purchase something for her friend, Marta.

“Marta will be so impressed,” Agnieska said to herself, fingering the worn handle on her suitcase as she deliberated which store to enter first, “with something for her kitchen—some new invention or another.”

She smiled slightly at the humbled look that was sure to cross her friend’s face and tucked a stray lock of gray hair under her kerchief. So, with that thought of such disbelief, gratitude, and, yes, even a little jealousy, all sketched in Marta’s wrinkled features pushing her along, Agnieska set off for something fit for her friend’s kitchen. She still paused every few moments to take in the three headless mannequins modeling blue jeans to her right and the plush square sofas at the coffee shop on her left.

She came upon “_______,” which, with yellow banners splashing along its windows, screamed of its huge clearance sale. Agnieska was intrigued. She shuffled in, and began poking at the various bowls and stirring spoons she encountered. Finally, there it was: the perfect gift—a multi-purpose, two-toned, eight-speed food processor.

Although Agnieska had seen such gadgets flickering in advertisements across her television set on the evenings as she scrubbed her kitchen stove, she had never before held one in her hands. The TV itself had been enough of an achievement. Eight or nine years earlier, her nephew had brought it down from Warsaw. He had placed it carefully on its fake wooden stand, plugging it in, after a spark or two, to the side of the wall.

But here was something different.

Agnieska stood, her feet unmoving, her hands getting slightly clammy with excitement, reading the features on the back of the box. “Self-cleaning,” “stainless steel,” and “four interchangeable blades” threw themselves off the cardboard in sleek Polish phrases and bold type, and were all greedily consumed by Agnieska’s eyes.

Her breath began to quicken. It was wonderful.

She carefully pulled a white-and-red specimen off the shelf and walked up to the register, eying her watch as she did so: A quarter after eleven.

“Hullo,” said the cashier, a sallow faced youngster with rather bad skin and hair sticking up at peculiar angles.

“Good day,” replied Agnieska. She hesitated a moment at the moving conveyor belt in front of her, before she set down the box, the most impressive food processor clinking slightly within.

She winced slightly at the price. Her bank account would not forgive that many zloty easily, but she rationalized that for a gift that would cause Marta to turn a particularly satisfying shade of pink—How could she, Marta, ever dream of topping such a present for Agnieska’s name day, after all?—was worth it. Besides, after meeting with Pan Gorecki, she was bound to forget the whole matter of money entirely.

She slid the wrinkled bills across to the young man, he popped the box into a crinkling green plastic bag, and the whole matter was done. She headed for the door.

“11:20,” said her watch.

“Nearly time,” said Agnieska.

“Shrieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!” said the door.

Agnieska felt her heart pull at her neatly buttoned shirt. Her eyes squeezed shut and her hands shot to her ears.  In doing so, her suitcase sailed out of her right hand, and the green plastic bag out of her left.

Suddenly, Agnieska was back in her parent’s old farmhouse, destroyed more than half a century earlier. The chickens in the yard hadn’t been cooped up, and the dog was barking something terrible. She and her parents were tucked under their wooden oak table, holding onto each other, as they heard the most atrocious of sounds: gunshots firing over and over; shrieks and wails from so many voices; and always, always, that pervasive siren. Tanks were crashing along the road some 400 meters from their home, pushing their way through decades-old forest. Agnieska sat on the rough hewn floor and shivered, squeezing her eyes shut, and clapping her hands to her ears. It made no difference; she could still hear the sirens through her fingers.

Her father had been shot that night. Three German soldiers, stopping for a drink of water, had thought he looked too Slavic.

Still in the mall, Agnieska did not stop to retrieve suitcase or blender. She knew only that she had to escape that noise.  She began to sprint, her two old legs knocking at the knees, out of the store, and then, barely pausing for the doors to slide open, out of the mall.

There, the train station was there, on her left, still standing, resolute.

Although her breath was coming out in three-tone wheezes, Agnieska hardly lessened her pace. That siren, she could still hear it, somehow, back there, in the mall. She hastily consulted the departure schedule.  Seeing that a train left from platform four for Wroclaw, in a mere two minutes, she galloped, her hips and knees screaming, up the stairs to the platform and onto the train.

* * *

Afterward, Agnieska would write a letter to Pan Gorecki. She would explain that she had not been able to make the trip, that it was too long, and that he should send along the documents, for her and her nephew to consult at home.

But to Marta, she would speak only of the mall.

She would say: “Traveling all that way? Why, to see such a miracle, I would gladly go again,” before leaning back into the creaky oak chair and taking a sip of lemon tea. Marta, for her part, would shake her head—“How is this possible?”—before crossing herself. And both women, tea in hand, would rock quietly away at the fireplace, blinking in the setting sun.

1.  Get off Nanjing Lu.

One of the main drags through downtown Shanghai is Nanjing Lu. It’s a crowded pedestrian-only area packed with international stores and locals hawking their wares (and potentially trying to scam you—see #3). It can be overwhelming, to say the least, but is also a good way to get from the People’s Park to the Bund. Once you’ve had your fill, duck off to a side street and discover the real Shanghai. Yes, it’s grittier and dirtier (as an aside, avoid wearing sandals or open-toed shoes while traveling in China, as your feet well get absolutely filthy) but you can get a feel for what it’s really like to live in Shanghai. Plus, the street food is to die for. As long as it’s cooked nice and hot in front of you, you shouldn’t have any problems eating the pan-fresh fried rice or steamed buns (called baozi. They’re delicious.) you’ll find on every corner. Unless you know Chinese, be prepared to point as it’s most likely no one will speak English. On that note, picking up a phrasebook with a good dictionary as an appendix before your trip will definitely be worth it, especially if you’re a picky or particular eater.

The delicious jien bing

2.  Get up early.

Shanghai is a city that stays up late but gets up early. Morning is another great time to pick up some delicious street food, especially my absolute favorite, the savory large pancakes called jien bing, which the vendor will roll up for you like a burrito. Be sure you don’t miss the early morning markets where you can find locals buying their fruit, vegetables and meat for the day. There will be at least one market in every neighborhood. One quick tip: If you want to pick up some fruit, make sure you can peel it or bring along a peeler to get rid of the skin. Chinese people abide by this rule too, so don’t worry about offending anyone—you’ll horrify them much more if you just bite into that apple, instead of peeling its skin off first.

3. Beware of scam artists.

It often goes like this: You, an excited foreigner in China, stop to snap a few photos along the Bund. Two young, friendly Chinese women come up to you and in pitch-perfect English, ask if they can take a picture with you. Flattered, you say okay. You strike up a conversation. They’re from an inland city, also visiting Shanghai and wow, you’re an American! They love America! And you love China? That’s great! Would you like to go to see a traditional Chinese tea ceremony as we talk about our cultures? Sounds interesting, you say, and away you all go. Then, twenty minutes later, after you’ve tried a few teas, you’re presented with a bill for hundreds upon hundreds of yuan. And that’s when it sets in: You’ve just been scammed. Unfortunately, this happens again and again in any major tourist area of Shanghai and Beijing, and goes virtually unchecked by the government, at least at this time. This means as a visitor, you have to be on your guard, which can make for some unfortunately suspicious interactions with locals. Don’t agree to go anywhere with anyone, no matter how charming they are or how great their English is. If you meet a local you get along with, I’d suggest you pick the place to eat or drink the first time.

Having said all that and as an aside: Shanghai’s violent crime rate is extremely low, especially given the Chinese government’s strict gun restriction laws. Still, it never hurts to use caution, particularly if you’re clearly a foreigner, traveling on your own, as you’ll stick out more in some parts of the city.

4. Be prepared for everything you’ve read on the city to be out-of-date.

Shanghai is constantly changing, and not just in small ways. Restaurants you’ll find reviewed online the year before may be gone. The subway line will suddenly have a half a dozen more stops. Or that museum you were looking forward to from your 2-year old guidebook will have long since closed. It’s part of the feel of the city, but it can get frustrating. One way to combat it is to check on Shanghai’s WikiTravel page before you go out of your way for anything but a major site, as users tend to keep the website up-to-date. Or, when you finally make it to the address of the bike rental shop and it’s now a chocolatier (to use a real-life example), shrug and head on in for a sample; it’s all part of China’s charm.

5. To get to and from the Pudong Airport, take the elevated train.

Called the Maglev, it’ll get you from the airport into the city in fewer than 12 minutes, and is a fun introduction to China’s growing fast train system. It’s a little steep, but worth the money. Yes, the subway’s Line 2 goes all the way out to Pudong these days and rings in at only 2 yuan per ride, but it’s at least a 90-minute journey, which no jet-lagged traveler wants to stomach. Cabs from Pudong into the city can cost over 200 yuan and will take even longer than the Maglev, even if you don’t hit traffic. If you’re concerned about finding your hotel once you’ve made it into the city, grab a cab at the end of line. Just make sure you have the name of your hotel written down in Chinese characters to give to the cab driver (also see #6).

6. Be sure to grab a business card from your hotel.

Any hotel, even smaller ones, should have a business card with their name and address on it both in English and Chinese. Make sure you have a couple of those handy to give to cab drivers. Since virtually no cabbies know English, also have your hotel write down any major locations you want to see that day on a cheat sheet. Otherwise, try out Shanghai’s excellent subway system, but be aware that it shuts down around midnight each night.

7. Check out the Shanghai History Museum.

Located in the base of the famous Oriental Pearl Tower, the Shanghai History Museum is a ton of fun. It’s full of dioramas and mannequins that explain Shanghai’s history from ancient times to now. Plus, the captions provide an interesting, albeit sometimes grammatically clunky, perspective about the Chinese views on western imperialism. Check hours as they may vary, especially on holidays, and lines can get long on weekends. I’d recommend shooting for evenings, as the crowds will thin out after about 6 pm. Plus then you can see the pink Pearl Tower lit up from below as you exit the museum that evening.

Shanghai's Pudong Skyline at night, including the pink Oriental Pearl Tower

8. Set aside at least a few days for brief overnight trips.

Suzhou's Garden of the Master of Nets

Hangzhou, with its gorgeous West Lake, and Suzhou, with its multiple UNESCO World Heritage Site traditional gardens, are not to be missed. Both are accessible by fast train from Shanghai’s main train station. While they’re easy to get to and not too far from Shanghai, I’d still recommend spending at least one night in each city to be able to get yourself oriented. Both cities suffer from a lack of foreign-accessible transportation (the bus systems are tricky at best to figure out if you don’t read Chinese characters, unlike Shanghai’s subway system). Also, during rush hour, cab drivers, who don’t work for tips in China, will avoid foreigners for an easier native speaker fare, so getting around either city can be a challenge. Still, once you’re sitting in one of the ancient pavilions in Suzhou’s Garden of the Master of Nets or enjoying a cup of longjing tea, the local specialty, at a West Lake teahouse in Hangzhou, you’ll be happy you made the trek.

~Megan~