If you know, me, you know I have an obsession with life’s little moments. In fact, I’ve had a one-sentence diary for the better part of a decade where I write down my favorite moment of the day. It’s a good reminder that on crummy days, there’s always a silver lining (like that friendly M102 bus driver waiting for you in the pouring rain), and on your best days, it’s often the tiniest of interactions and/or feelings/sights/sounds that mean the most.
At the start of March, I spent a great week in Columbus, Ohio. I soaked in (the views of) crazy, awesome waterfalls spilling over snow-capped peaks. I took a trapeze class where I flipped upside down enough times to fill every ad page in an Amtrak magazine. I yoga-ed, museum-hopped, ate, drank, shopped, hiked and concert-attended my way through town. I even ran into a few no-neck body builders in town for The Arnold Classic.
My absolute favorite instant? Settling into a bar stool at Denmark on High, watching the elegant tango of a wildly talented bartender, smoke, muddle, shake and stir our cocktails to perfection. I may have only arrived five hours before, but New York City and my ever-expanding inbox already seemed but a fuzzy concept, ages away. The bar was alive with suited fellas mingling with organic cotton tote bag touting locals. Tourists exchanged eager conversation with retired locals (or was it a fellow conference attendee?) as the bar lit up with a happy, carefree din. I was buzzing on just three sips of my delicately-designed (local, obviously) whiskey libation. It was 4:47pm. On a Tuesday.