I did it. I left the country.
 
We were invited to visit an old friend of Mr. Parker’s in Mexico. The two hadn’t seen each other in about 25 years, and I’d never met the man. But, they both seemed to think it was a swell idea. Also, this old friend had told my husband that we should come for at least two weeks. “So much to see.” So, a plan was made. Plane tickets were purchased. Careful-ish-ness cast to the wind!
 
With travel being open-ish, then closing again somewhat, then kind of relaxing again, we had no idea if we’d actually be able to travel when the time came. But, as luck would have it, Mexico had no travel requirements for Americans to enter the country other than a vaccination card. We had those. Plus, we’d both caeful-ishly gotten boosters. The only catch: the U.S. would require us to show proof of a negative COVID test 72 hours or less before returning home, and that was easily attainable.
 
But, what to expect when we got there? Who knew? We weren’t going to one of those places that Americans typically go to for long sessions of lounging on a beach with umbrella drinks. We were headed to Cholula Puebla. This is where Mr. Parker’s friend, John and his wife own and operate a craft brewery. Oooooh. The friend has a brewery! It’s called Cerveceria Crazy Moon. Ulterior motive? We can stay home and drink beer, ya know. No passport required.
 
The flight to Mexico City was on one of our favorite carrier’s older planes. That was bummer number one. (Not that I’m counting.) We tried to not let it get us down. We whipped through immigration and dashed for the motor coach (see: nice bus) for the two-hour ride to Puebla. While we got to the counter in time, sweaty and panting, the bus was sold out. We had to wait another 90 minutes. Bummer number two. Once aboard our bus, it turned out they had a movie. A movie! Yay! Except—loud audio throughout the coach. We got to hear Peter Rabbit starring Rose Byrne and Sam Neill dubbed in Spanish. Loud. Bummer number three. And that, my friends, was the end of the bummers. These are first-world problems.
 
Arriving in Puebla, John greeted us with open arms. And his wife, who neither of us had ever even spoken to, treated us like old friends. We brought a bottle of craft bourbon as a gift, shared it alongside some craft beer, then promptly passed out.
 
The rest of the two weeks featured tours of beautiful old towns, a visit to the largest pyramid in Mexico, enjoying various kinds of street food, learning much about Day of The Dead, and enjoying the company of our friend’s friends. Truly, that latter part was the best. Everywhere we went, we felt like we were upping the U.S. population by 100%. It was a rich dive into someone else’s culture. Warm and fascinating. I could go on too long.
 
But what of COVID? The Mexicans have a much different approach to COVID than we do in the U.S. Everyone was wearing a mask, even while walking down the street. All public places, restaurants, churches, museums, all of them take your temperature before you can enter. There are hand sanitizer pumps everywhere. And no one had a problem with it. No one. When we asked about their mindset, our friends told us that everyone was determined to do everything possible to keep businesses open.
 
Speaking of business, we visited our friend’s tasting room and brewery. And I’m not just blowing beer foam when I say: the product is exceptional. The Munich-style Helles lager reminded me of Oktoberfest in Munich. The IPA was easy drinking without being overtly bitter. And the stout was rich without being heavy. It’s a bourgeoning craft brewery, and I can’t wait until they export to the U.S.
 
It was a magical time in Mexico. We’d been there long enough that we acclimated. It all just began to feel like home. That is, until it was time to leave. We’d gotten our swab-to-the back-of the-brain COVID test, which was comical. My Spanish left me as the very nice nurse with the foot-long swab up my nose kept laughing and saying, “¡Gracias!” And, of course, we were COVID-negative. All good.
 
Our flight out of Mexico City was very early, so we’d decided to spend the night at the Airport Hilton. Smart, right?
 
Wrong. Good luck finding the Airport Hilton at Mexico City Terminal One. Mr. Parker had seen online that it wasn’t easy to locate, but it’s literally in the airport. So come on. How bad can it be?
 
Bad.
 
We walked the length of the terminal four times, getting wrong directions from multiple airport employees. Yet, find it we did. Next, our very fine dinner in an airport steakhouse cost us more money than any other meal during our trip (yet half the price of a comparable meal at home). After that, we returned to the hotel bar for an adult beverage. That’s where we heard all the stories of people whose flights had been cancelled the previous day due to bad weather in Atlanta.
 
Realizing that we’d be getting home well before people scheduled to leave before us, I let it all go—until the next day, when the non-VIP treatment in the airline VIP lounge let us know that the best part of our trip was well over. It was filled with entitled passengers and surly staffers. But, two uneventful flights and we were home—home where no one was wearing a mask.   
 
The bottom line? Traveling during COVID is just plain weird. The being-someplace-else part is fine. Allow yourself to adopt their rhythm of life and it all seems normal. Then, traveling back breaks the spell. It was the trip of a lifetime with people I hope to count as friends forever. Will I travel again in the near future? Mmmm…we’ll see.

Stay Careful-sih
Honey
 

We’re heading towards a new phase of lockdown: The Release.
 
Coming out of pandemic seclusion will and should be slow. But some of us are starting to get back to things we haven’t indulged for over a year. Like excited butterflies worried about leaving the cocoon, we are venturing out.
 
I’m one of those butterflies.
 
After getting both vaccine shots, I made my way into the world, hoping desperately that nobody would spit as they spoke.
 
In my case, “venturing out” meant sitting on the outdoor deck at a ski-resort restaurant, ordering food that neither Mr. Parker nor I had to cook or clean up. Crazy!
 
For the last year, we’ve been eating only that which we crafted with our own hands. And by “we” and “our,” I mean, “he” and “his.” I married the best cook I know, and he has no need for me to try to best him. Not that I could. He is also one of those “Turn the kitchen upside down” cooks. So, I’m cleaning up. A lot. (Not a complaint. Merely a fact.)
 
But anyway, here I was. A sunny day. A big deck. Mask in place, I skied with my bubble friends to one of my favorite spots on earth. Located at the top of a ski run at Park City Mountain Resort, the restaurant is called Lookout Cabin. That may sound decadent, but remember: I live here. For me, this is like a neighborhood bar.
 
Stepping onto the deck and looking out over the snow-covered ski runs filled my heart. I was back.
 
But it was also weird.
 
First, walking through the restaurant to get out to the deck was different. It felt a bit post-apocalyptic. Half the normal number of tables were set up inside. In front of the bar was a wall of Plexiglas, like it was a giant sneeze guard from a NYC salad bar.
 
Part of me really did want to sneeze on it. But behind the glass was my favorite bartender, so I quashed the urge.
 
The restaurant manager, our waiter and my favorite bartender all took turns telling us what a busy season they’d had. Really? Seems not everyone’s approach to a global pandemic is the same as mine. But I was glad that all these good people were employed and doing well.
 
Did I mention that I was with my bubble? At the table were the two couples we’d spent most of lockdown with. All were masked. All were looking around like puppies on a car ride.
 
A girlfriend and I decided to share a dish. It was a banh mi sandwich that sounded fantastic. That’s due in part to the fact it’s not something that I’d eaten at all in the last year.
 
After the waiter brought it out and walked away, we realized that we had only one plate. My friend asked if I wanted it. Then she pointed out that I could also use my napkin.
 
Napkin?
 
That’s when I realized that it hadn’t occurred to me to put my napkin on my lap. I hadn’t done that in forever.
 
I grabbed the rolled-up napkin and unrolled the flatware within. It felt like unwrapping a holiday present. I was giddy. I’m going to use a napkin! It felt like an activity from another time and place.
 
Now, this is where Mr. Parker points out that I may not want to share with the world that I haven’t been using napkins. But few who know me will be shocked that my manners have their limits.
 
BTW, just as I’d hoped, the sandwich was fantastic.
 
Of course, to celebrate this first outing, we all had more than our share of good wine. When lunch was over and I had to ski home, I did so careful-ishly.
 
Have you been out yet? How was it for you? Did you use your napkin?
 
Cheers to getting back to the world.
 
Stay Careful-ish,
Honey Parker