After the New York Times published an updated 36 Hours survey of Nashville, featuring sustainable eating, live music, cowboy boots, and a boutique hotel fit for a Nobel laureate, I’ve been gunning to go back, and specifically, to check out this hotel of lore, the Hutton, an 13-story eco-friendly boutique hotel along West End Avenue, steps from Vanderbilt, Belmont and the fun coffee shops and local business that dot Broadway and West End (With extra love for Fido, the coffee shop cool enough for pagers, and SEE, my favorite eyewear boutique). It puts many of the fun, eclectic, and quirky areas of Nashville at your doorstep. Props for that. So, here I am, in Nashville—hunkered down in snowstorm—eight inches of snow and the warmth of my duvet and minibar liquor is feeling pretty comfy.

Hotels fall into two major schools of thought, and I spend my time in both: hotels that shower you with unnecessary indulgences that you’d never reasonably have in your everyday life, and places that advertise their TV lineup. Sure, the Hampton Inn has free breakfast, the Embassy Suites even has free booze if you’re willing to trot downstairs in your pjs for the reception, but grandiose and fun luxury needn’t get bogged down on eggs and toast. Winning the luxe hotel wars is about great design, impeccable service, and thinking about what you didn’t. Like surround sound in the bathroom. (Conan in the shower!)

The Hutton excels as one of these places that anticipates your every whim and then playfully (calmly, with a Southern casual hospitality), surpasses your expectations. Al Gore has the hots for this place because it represents eco-friendly building in his hometown—toilets with 2 button flush options, lights controlled by keycard keep rooms cool and lights off when guests are gone—but the cultured traveler will love Hutton for the seemingly effortless way they make the hotel a getaway all by itself. (As I stare outside at a city engulfed in the most snow it has seen in decades, this is a fairly easy proposition, but still.)

Visually interesting and packed with charm, the lobby is like a well curated exhbit—heavy on art reflecting both a twangy-Nashvillian quality and an earthiness that lets you know these are cool people who like saving the environment. I slunk into a robe, cracked the spine on a good book, and trotted down the hall to the communal Nespresso machine—where I dialed up a latte in the wee-hours, not because I needed it, not because I should, but because I could.

Portland is a foodie’s paradise. No secret here. And with a prime location close to the coast, wine country, and mountains, localvores can rejoice at a bevy of tasty local treats, even in the dead of winter. After all, we need something to eat with all that coffee.

Lovejoy Bakers: In the heart of Northwest (and all the yuppifying condo construction that’s been going on), a new bakery cafe has sprouted up. Service was a touch frosty, but is quickly forgiven—this is a place that takes bread seriously. The stuff on the bread has to match up. The Lovejoy Deluxe is a light and fluffy ciabatta roll packed with blue cheese, bacon, egg, frisee lettuce, and a touch of balsamic vinegar. It’s a somewhat off kilter taste: at once decidely sloppy breakfast (eggs, bacon), and a crunchy lunchtime treat (blue cheese, balsamic vinegar, lettuce). It’s wonderfully filling, the kind of sandwich that you keep eating as much to feed your appetite as because it piques your interest. As you munch, enjoy contemplating a snack (or two) from the playful wall of samples. 939 NW 10th Avenue lovejoybakers.com

The Lovejoy Deluxe is a sandwich to be reckoned with.

Samples! On Spoons! Betcha can’t eat just one.

Por que no: Up in Northeast Mississippi, in a tiny storefront, is a quaint cave of Mexican grub. It meets all my criteria for dining: it’s cheap, it’s tasty, it’s made of real food. Por que no is a bit off the beaten path, but folks from all over the city were pressed in to the 20 seat eatery when my friend Jennie and I stopped in. Unfussy, quirky, if not unpretentious, the low ceilings feel ready to fall down with all the bric-a-brac they’ve stuffed on to the walls. Sure, living in Chicago, I’ve had more authentically Mexican food—and one could argue that with Akon blaring on the speakers and fruity drinks on offer, this is Mexican for white people. More aptly, it’s accessible, fresh, and tasty, and for that I left stuffed, happy, and my wallet, only $7 lighter. 3524 N. Mississippi. porquenotacos.com

Serious fixin’s: Plenty of ways to deck out your taco.

Voodoo Doughnuts: Nevermind the fact they spell ‘donut’ funny. Everything about Voodoo is a bit theatre of the absurd, bit college humor, and a heavy dose of irony in the form of ugly looking donuts. There, I said it. These aren’t donuts that you look at and go, “Damn, I really want a cake donut covered in Fruit Loops” or “Shucks, that Bacon-wrapped Maple Log is going to spoil dinner!” But, likely, I, and the 30 minute line we were slogging through hadn’t heard of Voodoo because of Fruit Loops. No, their fame was more likely assured upon creating the cock ‘n balls doughnut. Yes, you heard me. (Allison Weiss and Lauren Zettler made a video devouring the dessert dong during their Pacific Northwest tour last Spring). A few observations, having now consumed my first chocolate-frosted phallus:

1. Who said this was life size? Cue the penis envy.
2. The white Boston Creme filling is both a wonderful counterbalance to the fried dough, however disgustingly dirty you feel slopping it off your bottom lip.
3. The balls are tastier than the, eh, um, shaft.

After waiting in line for twenty minutes, my friend and I smelled like donut. And if the stink of fried dough on your sweater isn’t enough to make you queasy, the folks at Voodoo will sell you a bucket, a heaping bucket, of day old doughnuts for $5. I’m thinking this would be great for parties and entertaining, but the folks rifling through buckets in the shop didn’t seem quite as socially inclined. It’s fun, but there’s a huge kitsch-tourism element here. Something to cross off my list? Two locations, but less crowded at 1501 NE Davis. voodoodoughnut.com

A Bucket of Day Olds, $5. The fat ass that follows is included at no additional cost.

Some of the offerings: Yes the donut penis does say “EAT MEAT”.

Row 14 is an Exit row, a hotly coveted spot with a few extra inches of legroom on this mislabeled ‘regional jet’. In recent years, the jet and I have been on a national tour, and ‘region’ becomes far more muddled in the subtle moves from Florida palms to the grayness of New York—a haughty weightiness that let all know they were in a city of global consequence. But, I digress, and today, Row 14 is my spot in said jet on the jaunt to Louisville, where I spend much of my work week, working as it turns out, in a city fastidiously committed to play. Leaving on the weekends to play in those bleakly frenetic cities up North, clearly I had missed the point of Kentucky living.

I woke up this morning at 5:00 in my parents’ home, in an enclave tucked somewhere between Fort Myers and Naples—and with a hodgepodge of Italian, Spanish, Greek, influences stirring with an American lust for comfort and luxury, it was both everywhere and nowhere all at once. My bed was like I had seen in those catalogues, replete with those mountains of pillows—all various shapes and sizes. Every time I see them all tossed there, it makes me think of a pile of gumdrops I could splay my limbs across, picking them off as I got hungry.

Beating the church rush in to my favorite brunch spot this morning back in Louisville—yes, many people were in fact likely still sleeping as I had crumpled geography like a ball of scribbled notes. There was, of course, a brief foray in to the carnival that is Atlanta-Hartsfield, a noisy mess of trinkets and stimuli. My first plane was continuing on to Aruba, and after letting my mind wander for a moment about what my life would look like in Aruba right now, I plunge into the terrazzo maze and find my next gate. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution replaced the Fort Myers News-Press in the hands of business travelers and addled dads, looking for a nugget of escapism from their holiday travels, in the day’s news.

A dash to the next gate. Row 14. An exit row. Wheels up, seat back—lulled in to a sleep with the steady hum of jet engines. I awoke less than two hours later in Louisville. “Good morning”, the friendly voice billowed overhead. As I caught glimpse of the lineup of UPS planes (Louisville maintains an impressive hub for the parcel carrier), I knew in fact we were back. “How did this happen?”, I thought. It all just seems so unnatural and yet wonderful.  Liberating if not incredibly confusing.

I may be an avid flier, and a frequent one at that, but I never get too old, too frequent, too hardened in ways to not notice the wonderfully bizarre fact of it all: I woke up in Florida, sat in a steel tube for three hours, and now I am in Kentucky.

Happy Black Friday! We’ve survived the turkey and stuffing and the trip to the photo albums for a blow-by-blow of the awkward years. Yup, it’s the holiday season. Time to break out the ugly hat with the ear flaps and brave the cold for some hardcore American-style shopping! You’ve got to do it, you may even want to do it, but skip the florescent-lit box stores, because the real deals are to be found at the Renegade Holiday Craft Fair.

Think of it as “Renegade, Part Deux”. Which it is. Because Renegade was in Chicago but 3 months ago for an ‘oh man, summer is winding down, let’s buy crocheted mustaches!’ romp. The Holiday fair is a shorter second act, but captures the playful creativity that makes a Renegade fair fun. Mostly, it captures my paycheck.

My friend and serious craft nerd Sarah, and I will be there—meticulously rounding the booths and finding the deals, and succumbing to a few impulse purchases—Chicago map t-shirts, anyone? Rest up now, count your pennies and come out this weekend. Louisvillian and Dearest Inez designer Melissa Liptrap (also owner of The Makery) will be there. And plenty of people hawking high-end paper, posters, and of course moustaches. If I’m tech-savvy enough, there will be tweeting and live-streaming (ooh) from the fun. At the very least, we’ll play around with video, because let’s face it: I’m going to be at Best Buy today too, and I’ve been jonesing for a Flip video recorder. We’ll see. Look for inane posts called “hello world!” if in fact I prove successful.

Greetings from St. Louis, Missouri. I’m in a hotel room that is some respects criminally luxurious. Perhaps I should explain: I’m cozied up by a fireplace in a two-bedroom, two bathroom suite overlooking the city’s Forest Park. It is the kind of hotel room that in fact does not encourage the kind of exploration I am if not prone to, then at the least, find myself ultimately yearning for.

Still, I’m not one to swat away a nice hotel room, and when you’re in town, I’d encourage you to find a fireplace at the Chase Park Plaza to snuggle up by. The movie theatre but a few floors down has allowed for an ever so slight scent of popcorn oil to waft up through the air vents. Films and food: I’m hooked.

Just like the smell of popcorn triggers a memory, rekindles fiery emotions left to otherwise char in ignorance—so too do many smells and tastes for me. Food and in fact the travel associated with food is about people and about place, the core, elemental values of (my) memory.

I have just returned from an adventure to, unbelievably given the frigid rain outside, Ted Drewes Frozen Custard. It’s a custard stand, and I wouldn’t be the first to sing its praises. But, perhaps more importantly—it is fervently anchored in its surroundings. Ted’s sweet, milky custard whipped up to a stiff mix called a ‘concrete’ is a taste that defines this place. Surely, one could get a custard in many places, but that Ted Drewes taste seems to anchor itself to this city, and the city to Ted.

City loyalists abound sing the praises of their local treats: Skyline Chili (3-ways) and of course, the meat and oats mix of goetta in Cincinnati, the boiled Sabrett hot dogs of New York, Al’s Italian Beef in Chicago. Indeed, one taste of any of these foods is not simply sustenance, nor is it about fine dining in the least—its about celebrating the local and the unchanged in spite of or in light of tremendous urban turbulence around us.

On this cold night, scarfing down a concrete in the company of friends, we are undeniably in St. Louis. We didn’t really need ice cream, and I’m the first to admit my sweet tooth has probably lost its nerve endings. But, for a guy on the road, a foodie on the road, a taste like this reminds us all of where we’ve been and allows us to pause before picking up a napkin and considering where we’re headed.

It has been four oddly robust days every way you measure it—hours asleep (less than 6 a night), miles walked, and balloon hats made (more on that later).

Somewhere between Louisville and Tokyo, there is Baltimore—a city who by all accounts, is big enough to keep you busy, small enough to allow you to easily enjoy it. The taste of Old Bay is still in my mouth and I have confidently explored much of this quirky locale’s offerings. I stayed in town centrally located within a half mile walk of the Inner Harbor (yuck), the cultural institutions of the Westside (Walters Art Museum, the Pratt, and the Cathedral), sports (walked on the Camden Yards field!) and the artsy happenings further North—with Baltimore School of the Arts, MICA, and the Symphony. So, I walked a lot, mostly because the MTA ticket machines don’t take credit cards, but still, I walked all over this city, and the architecture, the food, and all the heaploads of culture here leaves me with a soft spot for the Charm City.

As the cab driver back to BWI said, “2 hours to everywhere, but why would you want to leave?” Well said, cabbie.

I’m on the road again, a mere three days since my last trip. And, sitting again, for the third time in Philadelphia International’s F concourse in a week, it is strikingly clear why I picked up this ‘life in transit’ theme for a blog in the first place. It’s early morning—7:50 to be exact—and somehow, magically, Sbarro and the entire food court already smell like stale pizza, the same pallid display of bread and grease, it appears from three nights ago.

Today is a work trip, but I’ve given in and given up on work clothing. When I packed up for summer, I put some of them in my luggage and others, most actually, went in to a storage unit. My one attempt to look at said storage unit has resulted in me opening the door, taking note of the 70 or so boxes, a couch, bed, nightstands, desks, tables, and a Knoll chair (can’t forget that—my favorite! Ask me, sometime about how I used to stare at this thing in the windows outside the Merchandise Mart and how I miserly saved to splurge on this mid-century velvet chair, even when I had no room to walk around it.) I stare at my contents—I fought and saved for this stuff—and I am but powerless and utterly confused. I walked out of my storage unit with two mahogany hangers from Nordstrom and a personal steamer. Somewhere, it that very well assembled game of Jenga-Possessions was all the clean clothes I could want. But given the prospects of rifling through these boxes, I’d rather not want.

I’m not alone—The New York Times recently ran a story in the Sunday Magazine chronicling the storage industry. Not surprisingly, Americans have and hold on to, a lot of crap. While that’s dipped ever so slightly since the financial apocalypse last fall, there is still, a heavily entrenched sense of wealth measured in America by the amount of stuff we hoard. (I wonder if I really need a dinner service for 20 after all.) Given my short stint of a couple months of living with less—no waffle makers, no sandwich presses, and a vastly smaller selection of haberdashery—I am inspired to trim the fat and get rid of all that extra junk weighing me down.

It is the kind of change I’m finally ready to make. The big, meaningful changes that help us appreciate there is a difference between wealth and happiness. And that holding on to play and child-like imagination does not demand a childish sense of materialism. I make no pretenses that purging will be easy—it won’t be, and I can cleverly craft a narrative for each julep cup, each keyboard, and every vase in there. I was that consumer who was hopeful each piece said something about me—as if my personal ethos could be commoditized in the aggregation of junk.

So, one of these days when the travel cools (if only for a moment), we’ll head to the bin. Look out for me as I wax nostalgic and get ready to say goodbye to that Family Ties board game and every boarding pass from 2006. Now, 2007—well, that’s another story…