Who knew?

When I decided I was going to visit Jeremy in Austin for Spring Break, I started doing research.

I'll give you a few guesses as to what I researched.

History?
Nope.

Art museums?
Nah.

Live music venues?
Sure didn't, despite the fact that my visit coincided with SXSW.

I researched breakfast tacos.

This is not entirely my fault. I started off just researching food--any and all kinds--but all everyone wants to talk about in Austin is breakfast tacos. So I played along--I read my fair share of blogs, websites, and magazines. Tacos versus burritos, bacon versus chorizo, egg versus potato.

I mean, doesn't everyone do breakfast burritos? And aren't they the same as breakfast tacos? I've had a burrito or two from Parker's here in Savannah, and it wasn't too bad, but it was no biscuit.

But hey, I'm always game. So I started out the week with a couple of different breakfast tacos from different places--some at the farmer's market booth, some at a coffee shop, and I'm going to say it: I was unimpressed. They were perfectly edible, and tortillas are quite handy for making ingredients portable, but I just didn't get it.

I didn't get it, at least, until Jeremy and I pulled up to this spot on Friday morning.











To be continued...

Someone get me out of here.

I thought this was just a gymnastics job. You know--point your toes, lift your chin--things like that.

Wrong. Apparently the kids I teach at the JEA (Jewish Educational Alliance) didn't get the memo.

I pride myself on being an educated, worldly young lady but I'll admit: I lived the first 18 years of my life without ever meeting a Jewish person. Thank you, small town South Carolina, for not preparing me for what just happened.

Not all of the kids who take gymnastics at the JEA are Jewish, but many of them are. The girls wear skirts, even at gymnastics, and the boys wear yamakas, even at gymnastics. It was my third or fourth week teaching these kids, specifically the 8 - 10 year olds when this happened:

One girl and two boys are arguing in whispers while standing in line to do their warm-up jumps. I, being the authority figure and resident badass, say:

"Guys, guys. No arguing in line."
Little girl who is, at this point, quite red in the face: "Coach Holly?"
Me, watching the other kids bounce down the line. "Mmhmm?"
Girl: "Is there such a thing is Jesus?"

Oh shit.

Boy who has uncanny ability to catch his yamaka while upside down: "Blake said there was no such thing as Jesus."
Blake looks at the ground shamefully.

I kind of look away, hoping they'll get distracted by my next statement:
"O.K., everyone straddle jumps all the way down!"

I glance at the trio out of the corner of my eye. They're looking at me with bewildered, painful expressions on their little faces.

And how, do you think, would someone like me (who has been to church a grand total of 10 times in my life and who has met a grand total of zero Jewish people in her life) answer such a question?

"This is gymnastics class. We only talk about gymnastics here. Get back to work."

Nice, Holly. Nice.

http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2009/06_04/Crepuscular1606_650x488.jpg

A Holly by any other name.

First day of work, December 15ish:

Boss: "Hi everyone. This is Coach Holly. Say hi Coach Holly!"
Evil-eyed girl child: "Have a HOLLY JOLLY CHRISTMAS!"

Suddenly, I'm back at Centerville Elementary, sitting at my too-tall desk. I can hear the snot-nosed boy behind me singing "Have a holly jolly Christmas," over and over, like those are the only lyrics he knows.

They probably are.

I'm brought back to the present by the silence around me.

Boss: "Coach Holly, Jessica asked you a question."
Me: "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
Sweet, doe-eyed child: "Is your name Holly because it's Christmas?"

I thought about it. I might have even looked at the ceiling for inspiration.

Me: "Yes. That's exactly why."
All children, in unison: "Cooooooooooool."


Day 2 of work, December 18ish:

I'm minding my own business at the end of class, cleaning up some paperwork when I'm approached by a child, roughly in the 8 - 10 year old category. (I still haven't mastered the skill of guessing their ages.)

Messy haired girl who talked the entire class: "I know why you're named Holly."
Me: "Why." (My lack of question mark indicates my level of interest.)
Girl: "Because it's your Christmas name."
Me: "You got it."
Girl: You know what I'm going to call you when it's spring? Flower. And when it's summer, I'm going to call you Sunshine, and when it's fall I'm going to call you...
....
Leaf."

Me: "OK, sounds good."
Another girl, who had been standing by and listening: "What's your real name?"
Me: "I can't tell you that. It's a secret."
Group of girls who had gathered around me: "Oooooooooooo."

Eat it up, kids. This is only the beginning.

http://www.hzmre.com/holidays/ADVENTtable_html_m27dc4cd9.png

Ankle deep in material

Guess what? I'm back--for real this time--and (for those of you who know me) you're going to love the reason.

1. I got a new job (in addition to my magazine job)
2. It pays 8 dollars an hour
3. It involves working with . . . children.

Now, I am famously (in the six-person circle that I move in) adverse to children. You can try to argue with me about the merits of miniature people, but I'm generally disdainful of poorly behaved ones, and incredibly awkward around all of them.

I try to speak to them like they're adults, which they don't take kindly to, and I'd say one out of four children look at me like I'm a lint-covered monster crawling out from under their bed. That's right before they hide behind their mother's legs and refuse to go near me.

If I try to baby talk them, they look at me like I'm crazy and, again, run.

So it may seem strange, even masochistic to get a job teaching gymnastics to children aged three to fifteen. Not only are there lots of tiny humans involved--they're in various states of misbehavior thanks to big, gushy mats and high bars and hard-edged balance beams. They see the gym equipment and
THEY
GO
CRAZY.

But, it turns out I'm particularly well qualified for this job. I was a competitive gymnast in another life, the daughter of a collegiate gymnast, and the child of two parents who owned/ran a gymnastics gym for much of my middle childhood.

So here I am, surrounded by munchkins. And here you are, getting ready to read blog post after blog post about all the things I wish I could say to my students.

Let the judgment begin.

Thanks, http://www.asklopan.com/pictures/evil_children.jpg for getting it just right on the photo.

Pat on the back

Look at my friend Owen's website. He used to be a poet--now he takes pictures of naked ladies.

Are the two really so different?

Good job, Owen!

www.runhoperun.com

Welcome back to Savannah

I'm back, and I promise I'll be more consistent.

I promise!

How can I not regularly update my blog when there is so much material in Savannah?

Case in point:

Biking to the library yesterday. Forced to stop on the corner of Oglethorpe and Abercorn because a black SUV breaks in front of me. An 80's-haired lady leans out of the window and asks,

"Where is the Savannah Historic District?"

Me: "All around you."

What I should have said is:

"Actually, turn on Abercorn here and follow it all the way out--past crumbling mansions and rows of oak trees, until you get to DeRenne. Everything after DeRenne is the Historic District."

I love this town.

Organ failure

Well, it happened again.

My stomach let me down when I needed it the most.

As in last night, when Sebas and I went to one of the best restaurants in Bogota for his birthday dinner (of which he was paying for, sadly).

The place has a 5 diamond rating, and is only one of two in the whole of South America to receive this honor. Now, under normal circumstances, we would never be able to afford a dinner like this but....it's Colombia, and that means Colombian pesos which instant royalty status for Holly and Sebas.

So we get there and decide we're going to order the tasting menu with the accompanying wine. I mean if you're going to do it, do it all the way, right?

First course: thick, creamy, buttery French vegetable soup in a little tiny espresso glass.

I chug it.

Second course: quivering, savory, rich foie gras pate with vanilla gelatin and reduced wine sauce.

I inhale it before the waiter can leave the table.

Third course: crispy, creamy, firm scallops perched atop spanish chorizo, which is perched atop a crispy corn cake (total: 3)

I attack them like a rabid dog.

Keep in mind, this whole time there is a half glass of wine to accompany each course. I'm eating, I'm drinking, I'm feeling good and...

BAM.

The stomach gives out. I went from 100 miles per hour to 2 miles per hour in 1.2 seconds. Just the site of the next course, Lobster thermidor with champagne risotto makes me want to vomit. The smell of the Reserve Collection Napa Valley wine makes me want to jump out of the window just to get away from it.

I eat one bite.

Fifth course: seared ribeye with escargot and smoked mashed potatoes.

You notice there are no glowing, succulent adjectives to go with this one. Why?

One bite.

Sixth course: pineapple sorbet

Three bites. Hey, it's sorbet--it like, dissolves in your mouth.

Seventh course: lemon tart with strawberry icecream.

One half of a bite--the ice cream, not the tart.

And the wine through all of this? Sitting sadly on the table, never to touch my lips. To my credit, I did force myself to at least try everything, though it kind of backfired because the exquisite food (which was excellent, according to Sebastian) just tasted like impending doom to me.

So we left the restaurant almost immediately after the last course, me apologizing profusely, Sebas being reassuring but looking disappointed.

But that's not even the best part.

We get home, brush our teeth, settle in for a night of sleep. Except I wake up around 4:00 suddenly, sit straight up in bed and think to myself

I'm hungry.

And suddenly the whole evening came rushing back, and the realization of all the delicious food I didn't eat and I stared at the ceiling and tried not to cry.



Ask yourself this: have you ever cried in the middle of the night over food that you didn't eat that day?

I have.