Movie in Montreal

One of the many joys I experienced a couple of weekends ago was flying through turbulent airs in a teeny, propeller plane. Thankfully, I finally had a seat neighbor next to whom I would not have minded dying. I told him so, which I intended to be a compliment but I think just freaked him out. But truly, those little D-planes redefine the horrors of air travel, and even more concerning was the fact that, as my seat neighbor pointed out, the safety information card looked extremely used. Well, after over an hour of white-knuckling the arm rests, I landed alive.

Okay, perhaps the true highlight was attending an event hosted by the Fringe film festival where the audience played a drinking game while watching Jumaji. Now, I was hesitant to attend the screening because as a child, Jumaji topped my list of greatest fears in life. It shared that title with neon Band-Aids (yes, I truly feared those) and the dark (so typical, but so justified). I felt that a second viewing of something that caused me such terror would simply bring those scarring memories back to the forefront of my mind. However, about ten minutes in, I realized how pathetic it would be if anyone over the age of 7, maybe 8, were afraid of that film.

A great source of terror in my childhood

It almost got to the point where participants may as well have hooked up to an alcohol IV. Doing so would have eliminated the need for the physical strain of lifting the red plastic cup to our mouths over and over. Honestly, adhering to every single rule throughout the duration of the film would have quickly caused a mass need for stomach pumps. For anyone who has seen Jumaji, you will know exactly what I mean. The rules I remember were: drink every time there is a different animal on screen, drink whenever a character screams, drink whenever there’s a rhyme, drink whenever they say Parshall, (the last name of Robin William’s character, said about 40 times in the first 10 minutes) and at least ten others that I forgot. 

Needless to say, I stopped actually drinking about ten minutes into the film on account of having a desire to not die of alcohol poisoning. Strange, I know. Some of the gung-ho participants actually adhering to the rules had to leave midway through the movie, including the gentleman behind me.

On another Montreal-related note... 

Not being from Europe, I was not accustomed to driving three hours and being in an entirely foreign country whose inhabitants speak another language. I thought EVERYONE spoke English, come ON! Just kidding, that was my inner ignorant American fighting to break out. I suppressed it again, no worries. At least Canadians are kinder when I attempt to practice my French, unlike the French, who just were not having it. I successfully asked where the toilets were and was answered in French. Woo! 

Overall, it was a good trip. I hate writing conclusions to blogs. 

Flying on Friday the 13th

My day last Friday did not go according to plan. However, it did not go as poorly as a Friday the 13th can go theoretically, at least for one who is superstitious. I am not sure if I consider it a victory or a disaster. I guess we will go with victory to seem optimistic even though I can sometimes be a "glass-half-empty" kind of gal. My plan initially was to fly out to Denver at 10:20 PM and land around 11:45 (love those time changes, except on the way back). However, someone advised me to check on the flight status because of the weather which was causing a number of delays and cancellations. So, as instructed, I called United, and asked the agent in a somewhat frantic voice if there were any earlier flights on which she could put me. She said my only option was the last remaining seat on a flight leaving in about an hour from an airport that takes about 45 minutes to get to. I told her to change my ticket. I had not packed, and had not intended to for at least another two hours, so I threw some random useless belongings into a bag and headed off, only to realize once I arrived at the Denver airport how many important things I forgot.

I got a ride from my cousin who got me there faster than a flying cheetah on meth, if they were to exist. I literally RAN in my wedge shoes because I did not realize how far away everything is in Dulles- security is like 40 minutes away form check-in, if you walked at a leisurely pace. So I ran as fast as humanly possible, attracting awkward look after awkward look. When I arrived at security, I was pleased to find a relatively short line, but was the opposite of pleased when the TSA agent stopped me for a random "hand screening." I pouted like a little kid, informing him that my flight boarded in 10 minutes. He felt guilty and let me go through the TSA Pre check line. Apparently, throwing a fit works sometimes. I wish I had known that as a kid.

So, here is a little side note: the TSA Pre check line is the most magical place after Disneyland, easily. You don't have to take off your shoes or coat, don't have to take out liquids or laptops- all you do is walk through and you're DONE. It makes plane travel almost pleasant again. Key word: almost. So, after my mad dash to the gate, I discovered that my flight was delayed another 30 minutes. Dandy. At least it gave me time to chow down a burrito.

So, now begins the bad luck. After boarding, the captain informed us that the plane was in a massive line of planes waiting to depart, and that we would be waiting at least 20 more minutes. As I groaned about this to my seat neighbor, he reminded me that I was not even supposed to be at the airport for another three hours. Well said, seat neighbor, well said. He ended up being a fantastic seat neighbor. We played this game where we went through every page of Sky Mall and picked which item we would buy. Fun fun fun....

So, I got through the day without a single black cat crossing my path, I didn't walk under a ladder, and the plane didn't crash. Victory, indeed!

No Fault in These Stars

Generally, avid book lovers hate their film counterparts, or at least feel the movie did not do the book justice and properly demonstrate the genius of the author. I am normally one of those people, always counting on a film version of a book to let me down. Just one somewhat recent example is Anna Karenina, which essentially did nothing for me after reading Tolstoy's incredible work. However, there are certain exceptions to the rule. Previously, this included the Lord of the Rings films and some of the Harry Potter films. After viewing The Fault in Our Stars, I can add it as an exception as well.

The amount I enjoyed the film version of John Green's recent literary success astonished me. When merely seeing the actors chosen to portray teenagers Hazel and Augustus, I was immensely skeptical about whether or not they were the right choices. However, it took just a few moments to realize how misplaced this skepticism was. I've always thought Shalene Woodley was an immense talent, especially considering her age. I mean, she isn't Dakota Fanning young or anything, but she hasn't been around that long and has already taken the film industry by storm. 

At first glimpse of the young man they chose to play Augustus, all I could think was "you've got to be kidding me." I mean seriously, he did not match up to what my mind's eye created whatsoever when first reading his description. Actually, the Augustus in the book ticked me off with his pretentious, I-know-more-than-you-do attitude. Hazel rubbed me the wrong way initially in the first pages and then I came around. I never liked the literary Augustus, however. In the movie, he charmed me within minutes. Something about Ansel Elgort's adorable crooked smile, endearing eyes and soothing voice made me adore him instantly. Aside from Morgan Freeman as Nelson Mandela, no actor or actress was ever cast more perfectly for a role than Laura Dern for Mrs. Lancaster, Hazel's mom. I loved the character in the book- Green really brought her to life with his words. Mrs. Lancaster is the loving, dedicated, sometimes in-your-face "cool" mom that every girl wants. Dern's expressive smile is enough to make me want to melt. She was perfect.

Okay, quick summary: Hazel is a teenage girl with terminal cancer put at bay by an invented anti-cancer drug. One day she goes to a cancer support group at the insisting of her mother and meets sexy cancer survivor Augustus Waters. They fall in love, obviously, and their relationship takes them on a passionate and sad journey together. I won't spoil the ending. You can try to guess, go for it.

Basically, if you like melancholy teen romance stories similar to The Perks of Being a Wallflower, you will love The Fault in Our Stars. Actually, though, it is more than melancholy- it is downright depressing, as you realize from their first meeting that the love between Hazel and Augustus is doomed. Their story definitely makes you realize how much we take our health for granted. There are a lot of really powerful quotes in the movie/book as well.

Somehow, I kept my tears at bay while reading the book but was unable to do so during the film. Bring tissues.

Yoga Torture Chamber- The Saga Continues

Just call me Patty Hearst. First I was tortured in the way-too-hot yoga chamber, then I was taken prisoner. I figured, you know what, after that first hellish experience at the Bikram studio for which I bought a Groupon, there is no way things can deteriorate any further. I certainly can't say that last night's class was worse than Tuesday's. The good thing about that scarring experience was that I had rockbottom expectations for last night. After I changed and stepped through the studio doors, my body did not automatically turn into a fountain of sweat- good sign number one. The teacher walked in and seemed substantially less like an evil dictator than the the one on Tuesday- good sign number two.

As class kicked off, I got through the first postures absolutely fine, and the instructor made a significant amount of small suggestions that really benefited the way I think about my alignment in postures. When she told us to hang our heads during our first backward bend, she said "pretend your head is a tomato on a vine." Nice visual. During triangle, she explained that when the instructors tell us to have our "thigh bicep" parallel to the floor, they mean the "bicep of our thigh," and I always thought they meant "thigh and bicep." Yes, lots of truly life-changing tips there.

So, around an hour and 20 minutes into the practice, I admit I just got bored. I wanted to go home and get ready for bed. So, I waited for a posture where everyone has their heads down so they would be less likely to notice me sneak out, grabbed my mat and towel and rushed towards the door. Of course, the teacher noticed and asked if I was okay, and I just said "yeah, fine," and stepped out. Well, just when I thought I was in the clear, the two people at the front desk, the evil instructor from Tuesday and some little twat who helped sign people in, called out and asked if I was okay. Not wanting to admit that I just got sick of being in a 90 minute yoga class that was clearly going to run overtime, I just mumbled "yeah, just a little light headed…" and rushed into the locker room. WELL, twat girl followed me in as I was grabbing my stuff to make a run for it and told me I needed to come out and sit down. I wanted to slap her in the face and run away.

I hesitantly complied and sat awkwardly on a bench in the lobby area while she brought me a cold towel for my forehead. I placed the towel on my forehead like a damsel in distress simply to humor them, but got increasingly annoyed as she began to make conversation with me.

"You know, we can't just have you wandering about feeling light-headed. Have you ever done hot yoga before?"

"Um…yeah for about two years. I guess the humidity just seemed high."

"Yeah, it has been for a few days. Well, are you ready to go in to finish class?"

I gave her my best "you've gotta be f***ing kidding me" face and said "um, no, I think I'm just going to head out."

"Actually, you need to sit for awhile."

So, feeling like a captive or a child in timeout, I sat and stared at the clock, watching the seconds tick by slower than molasses moves in winter. Finally, after about 5 minutes, I decided it was time for a prison break. I stood up and tried to sneak past my captors. I grabbed my stuff, and on the way out was stopped once again by evil dictator instructor from Tuesday.

"Um, can I make a suggestion?" Boy, I love questions that aren't questions.

"Sure."

"You were in my class Tuesday and left, right? Well, you need to try to go to an earlier class. And you need more electrolytes."

I raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, I'll try that."

"I'd highly suggest it." He said, in a monotone.

I made my rush for the for the door and finally escaped, just as class came to an end anyhow. At least I didn't succumb to Stockholm Syndrome. I did learn from this experience, however, that I would not do well as a captive. If I went that stir crazy being forced to stay somewhere against my will for 10 minutes, imagine what days or weeks would do to me…

I'd say "I'm never going back there" but I still have 13 classes left on my Groupon. We will see what horrors I experience the next class on Tuesday….

Yoga Torture Chamber

As I jaunted joyfully to my first Bikram yoga class in many moons, I felt both excited and nervous, but also confident that I would feel amazing after a 90-minute detox in a hot and humid room. My mood worsened slightly from the way the front desk attendant treated me. After affirming her inquiry about whether I had a Groupon or LivingSocial deal or not, she asked me in a monotone drone if I read the fine print about sending my information to the studio in advance. I admitted that I hand't, and she scolded me about not reading the fine print. Seriously? I was there over 45 minutes in advance in order to provide adequate information-providing time. She then thrust a clipboard in front of my face and told me to fill it out, not even trying to mask her annoyance with my lack of fine-print reading.

As I filled out the form, an awkward silence descended upon us like an ominous storm cloud, and I quickly tried to ward it off by making conversation about their studio, etc. She wasn't having it. Note to self: not reading fine print really rubs people the wrong way. My mood still chalk-full of excitement, I left the desk as quickly as possible so she would stop lowering my happiness level.

The beet-red faces of the practitioners exiting the preceding class and the lady sitting on the floor beside the studio door should have been blaring warning signals of what was to come. Yet, naive as I was, I believed that after two years of never having a horrendous Bikram class, it was simply impossible for them to exist. No matter how much I struggle during the course, I always managed to push through and feel an incredible yoga-high afterwards.

I hadn't the slightest idea what I was about to get into. The moment I set foot into that studio, beads of sweat began rolling down my body. That's not supposed to happen until at least five minutes into class. This had me worried, yet by no means panicked. Then class began and things changed. I felt light-headed within the first ten minutes of class. Chalking it up to not being used to such extreme humidity after just moving from a dry climate, I swallowed my pride (almost choking on it) and took a seat on my mat. Yet, my heard rate never subsided from nearing one which would induce cardiac arrest. About 15 to 20 minutes in, a petite blonde from the other side of the room rushed out, her face flushed.

My skin's appearance upon entering the studio 

Another practitioner quickly followed, clutching an empty water bottle. As he passed the instructor, he was met with the snarky suggestion by the teacher that he "bring a bigger water bottle next time." The next time he revealed his inner a$$hole was when the woman next to me did a modification to a posture due to an injury and he pranced over to her and informed her that she was "not allowed to make modifications without notifying the instructor ahead of time." Seriously…? After that, the third or fourth person exited the studio, clearly dying from the seemingly noxious heat bearing down upon us. This infuriated the instructor, and he stopped class to lecture us like a teacher does a class of five-year-olds.

"Um, FAR too many people have left today!" He said sternly. A woman near me retorted that the class was "way too hot" and he simply responded in a matter-of-fact tone that this was his third class in a row (of course, not mentioning that all he has to do is stand there and shout commands) and we should just chill out and "meditate." Wow. That comment made me up and leave instantly. In the locker room, I encountered the first to fall from the torturous heat- the blonde. She asked me how I managed to withstand it for such a long time, and I simply shrugged. At least what shall forever be known as the Bikram Class of Death for me caused me to make a new friend. We commiserated about how we were both stuck in that studio for at least 15 classes because we both bought coupons prepaying for them, so we decided to always attend the same ones.

Her name was Alexis, and she said she literally had to rush out to vomit, and officially labeled it a yoga torture chamber, and noted her concerns because of people dying of hear strokes at that temperature. She then assured me that it is typically not that hot at that studio and that I had just chosen a rough class to be my first. Well, we will see how it goes tonight… 

Love for Game of Thrones

I am in awe by the increasing number of Game of Thrones references weaseling their way into my everyday conversations with everyone. And I mean, EVERYONE. It's no longer "so, anything interesting in the news these days?" but rather "did you see the new episode of GOT last night!?" (people can even abbreviate the title now, that's how popular it has become).

What a lovely show over which to bond. I've delved into in deep conversations with baristas at coffee shops, guests at the hotel, Facebook friends and acquaintances, friends, and friends of friends and even mothers of friends... maybe that is what the world needs to put all of their problems aside. Every single human being should watch Game of Thrones and then we could all have engaging conversations with each other! Boom, just solved the grand issue of world peace. On second thought, the fact that Game of Thrones is a borderline porno may not go over to well with a good portion of the world's inhabitants...

I had to laugh as yesterday was my first day of my internship, and we were waiting for someone to arrive who was coming in late, and so some of the employees decided we should do some of those horrible ice breaker activities to "get to know each other" that every single person passionately hates. Maybe those are appropriate for toddlers to elementary-aged kiddos, but I'd say the cut off for those atrocious activities should be around age 15 at the latest. We all groaned in sync at this suggestion, so just sat in silence for awhile until someone asked if any of us had seen the most recent episode of Game of Thrones. The room erupted instantaneously into boisterous conversation regarding our thoughts on the show. It seems that is the only common ground among us interns.

I mean, I have never watched something on TV that is so engaging, so shocking, so intriguing, and so suspenseful. There are so many characters and you don't know if you should love or hate them. There are some characters that you start out hating and end up loving, and vice versa. The acting is fantastic, and the shock value unparalleled. Waiting a whole week between episodes is torturous.

Well, it's good to know that if nothing else, the other interns and I share a love for Game of Thrones.

John Fullbright's "Songs" Far from Simple

As we watched the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame 2014 induction this week, my cousin and I joked amongst ourselves about how ridiculous the inductees will be in 30 plus years. Justin Bieber, Miley Cyrus....all the over-hyped pop "musicians" who generally don't even write their own songs. They will stand up at the podium, far past their physical prime, and accept the awards eagerly, and everyone will applaud. Well, maybe not EVERYONE. My palms won't even come slightly close to touching.

I'm going to say here and now who SHOULD be inducted after the many years I predict his career will span-John Fullbright. I was honored enough to meet him and request that he sign his first CD after seeing him perform live, and now that I have heard the musical talent streaming forth from every second of every track on his second album, simply titled "Songs," I feel even more humbled. When his fame has truly maximized, I will be so proud to say I liked his music before it became mainstream. No adjective that exists in the English language can truly do justice as a descriptor of his voice. It is husky and honest and rips at your heart strings like cat claws rip at a scratching post. His wise words extort and wring out every emotion from your deepest core, including ones you didn't know existed.

I usually buy CDs and dislike at least a nominal amount of the tracks. Not the case with "Songs," however; I listened to every one in sequence and seemed to love each more than the last. I have no idea how a young man from Oklahoma can already orate so passionately about loneliness, loss, love, and life in general. It's as if this is already his second or third go at it. His lyrics tell stories, share wisdom, and are simultaneously bloated with optimism, pessimism, and melancholy. I can't get over his musical genius at his age, and his ability to shell out high quality songs in such a short time.

I remember how serious he looked when I met him. Onstage, I don't think I saw him smile once. On his most recent album cover, he is pictured in black and white looking pensive and lost deep in an ocean of thoughts, which seems quite fitting. I hope his career spans many decades and that he continues to demonstrate to the world his immense talents of singing, songwriting, playing piano and rocking on the guitar. This musician is one that seriously deserves your dollars, so if you are going to actually spend money on music, spend it on the young and talented Mr. Fullbright.

The closest I've seen him to smiling