Girl About the World

I’m not one to splurge on hotels. If it’s clean and safe, I’m happy. But when I stopped in Laguna Beach for the night last month, I was feeling luxurious (perhaps in the spirit of Laguna’s reality show teens, to whom money seemed to be no object).

When I checked in to La Casa del Camino, for just $50 extra, I was rewarded with one of the suites that came out of the Casa Surf Project, which paired 10 companies with 10 Southern California designers to create surf- and skate-inspired rooms that would make anyone want to move to the beach.

I was in the Etnies room, designed by Eve Lowey of Chameleon Design Inc. A mirror adorned with skateboard wheels, a bathroom sink shaped like a kidney, a ceiling with skateboard marks, and a headboard made of recycled shoes were just a few of the fun features. Even though I can count the number of times I’ve been on a skateboard on, oh, no hands, I appreciated all the little skater touches. Eco-enthusiasts will like it here, too, with a dual-flush toilet, cabinets made of sunflower stalks, and energy-efficient lighting.

Built in 1929 as a beach retreat for Hollywood’s stars, the Mediterranean-style La Casa del Camino is a mainstay on South Coast Highway. Bigger and fancier places have since been constructed, but the charms of the old-fashioned lobby and rooftop bar are undeniable. Regular rooms are on the tiny side, so if you want space, try to get a suite. It can also get a bit noisy here, so if you’re a light sleeper, you may want to bring earplugs.

As much as I loved the decorations and ambience of the room, the real star was the ocean — there’s nothing better than falling asleep at night to the sound of waves crashing.

Like most travel writers, I suffer from wanderlust. I’m a nomad at heart, always searching for my next adventure. And as my lease was set to expire in Texas in May, I didn’t know where to go. Since becoming a freelancer, I can work pretty much anywhere, provided there’s Internet access and cell phone reception. Did I want to move to Boston, a city I’ve spent too little time in but love? Or Atlanta, where I’ve never been but am intrigued by? Or what about something more exotic, like South Africa or France? Or something international but closer to home, like Vancouver? I love moderate weather, so maybe the California coast, or something close to home but not all the way there, like Portland?

My mind reeled. After months of contemplation, I ended up home — right back in the Seattle area where I grew up. It felt like a cop-out in ways, terribly unimaginative, completely at odds with the independent, globe-trotting person I am.

But yesterday, my great-grandmother died, and I was here. I saw her a week ago, and I’ll be at her funeral in a few days. If I lived elsewhere, it’d be a scramble, and I wouldn’t have had the chance to see her one last time. Living far away wouldn’t have made me a bad person — far from it — but living near my family (my parents, sister, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins all reside in Washington) offers something that none of those other options did: a true home.

I’ll always be a wanderer, but I have travel to quell that thirst — and a home to come back to when I’m ready for a break.

Ah, summertime. Who doesn’t love the long days, warm weather, and weekend getaways? But like every season, there are pros — and cons. For me, one of the biggest cons is bugs, and last summer, my attractiveness to bugs became a running joke among anyone who traveled (or just went outside) with me.

It all started with a trip to Central Texas, where I was bombarded by chiggers while camping — 151 bites later, they were done with me, and I was in agony for the next two weeks. (As I looked at my unrecognizable legs, one of my fellow campers said, and I quote, “You’re not that much uglier than before.”)

A month or so later, while on assignment and spending the night at a hotel, I woke up to ants crawling all over the nightstand and a number of small red welts all over my body: the result of some hungry bed bugs. Needless to say, that hotel won’t be appearing in any of my stories anytime soon.

A picnic shortly after that led to dozens of mosquito bites — and I, of course, am allergic to mosquitoes, leaving large, swollen, sore marks along my back, arms, and legs.

Summer may be a glorious season, but this year, I’m staying indoors a little more.

For those of us not in the northernmost latitudes, the idea of daylong sun (or daylong darkness) is a strange concept — and thoroughly disorienting to the body. While recently in Sweden, I’d often wake up at 4 a.m., sure that it was time to wake up, tricked by the color of the sky, which was so light, it just had to be daytime, right? Wrong.

There’s something glorious about a full day of light, though, strange as it may seem. And to celebrate that, in Reykjavik, they dance under the midnight sun.

I happened to be in town for Iceland’s Independence Day, and on the program events, there it was: dancing under the midnight sun. Now, I’m not the biggest fan of dancing, but as a lifelong night owl, I do love midnight, and so it was set: We’d stay up until midnight and get our grooves on.

In the tourist center, I asked if this was something the locals actually did. “Oh yes,” the woman responded. “We dance at midnight all summer long.”

But as the time ticked down and I sat in the streets with the teenagers — who must love summer even more than the average teen, given the double whammy of no school and the end to nearly full-time darkness — I saw no one preparing to dance, and there was no music playing. Undeterred, we climbed to the top of a grassy hill, and at the stroke of midnight, showed Reykjavik some moves it may have never seen (at least not recently) — we’re talking The Sprinkler, the Macarena, the YMCA, the do-si-do, and every other cheesy dance move we could think of, all against the backdrop of a brilliant pink sky.

We retreated from the hilltop, gawkers left behind, and danced across the streets until we reached our apartment and promptly fell asleep (jet lag is a killer). I don’t dance often (or well) — but now I can say I’ve danced under the midnight sun.