After spending three months in Los Angeles teaching summer school and mooching off my parents, I returned to Austin on Monday with both a heavy heart and a twinkle in my eye.  It's back to my own apartment, my own laundry and groceries, and relative quiet.  I have spent the past few summers since graduation living with my parents and two younger sisters, and I'm always thrilled to spend time with my family and take advantage of the perks (pool, stocked fridge, my mother's closet, the Southern California weather).  But as happy as I am to arrive, (close your ears, Mom) I am just as thrilled to say adieu in August and get back to being able to control the thermostat and the remote control. 

Even though I know that leaving home is the healthy thing to do (at least according to Western values and my boyfriend), I remain ambivalent about making the transition.  It seems that the very thing I miss most about home (the constant companionship of a big family) is what I appreciate most about having my own place--a little P and Q, as my abbrev-loving sister Jillian likes to call it.  A week ago I was shrieking across the house, "Will you all just shut up so I can get some work done?"  Now, the only voice I hear is Rachel Zoe's, coming from the TV I was too lazy to turn off (no Mom here to tell me I'm wasting electricity), and I'm feeling a little lonely.  It feels embarrassingly trite to say, but why is it so hard for me to live in the moment, as Jillian once pointed out to me in a rare moment of Zen.  Why can't I be glad I'm in LA when I'm in LA and be glad I'm in Austin when I'm in Austin? Maybe I should put that on my to-do list, right after buying peanut butter and folding that pile of laundry--and reassuring my boyfriend that I really am glad to be back here...

To celebrate my best friend Jaclyn's recent engagement, a few of us girls headed out to celebrate with afternoon tea at the Montage Beverly Hills. Going out for tea is somewhat of a tradition for the group of us, and we've indulged at all the high tea hot spots in LA (the Hotel Bel-Air, Peninsula, Beverly Hills Hotel, and who can remember where else after a decade of friendship?). So, being somewhat of connoisseurs, we held our 3 pm treats to the highest standards. 

Perhaps it was the complimentary champagne our waiter brought us to toast the bride-to-be or the couldn't-be-cuter china place settings, but I liked this place right off the bat. Ordering was simple--all we had to select was our tea of choice. I'm a traditionalist and stuck to English Breakfast, but my friends sampled organic teas with fun-to-say names like "Mightea Aphroditea." We settled happily into our armchairs and plush sofas and prepared to overeat. How is it, by the way, that with food so tiny one always manages to leave feeling uncomfortably full?

I had warned my friends that I didn't like "freaky" finger sandwiches (i.e. a slice of boiled quail egg atop a layer of beef carpaccio on a brioche crouton). I was thrilled to find out that the Montage valued tradition as much as I did when we were served a tray of chicken salad, egg salad, smoked salmon, cucumber, and tomato finger sandwiches. Yes, there was one prosciutto and asparagus, but I let it slide. Plus, we were alloted enough sandwiches for each lady to have one of each--no squabbling, thank goodness! As for the scones, both butter and currant? Perfection. In addition to your usual clotted cream and lemon curd, there were also bowlfuls of house made strawberry preserves, which were gladly refilled upon request. The only disappointment came with the dessert course, which didn't surprise me (this is usually the case at afternoon tea, in my opinion). The teensy pastries and tarts were adorable, but just couldn't compete with the divine scones and the sandwiches, especially when we were already reclining into our food comas. The one dessert worth its salt was the slice of cake with "Happy Engagement" written in chocolate on the plate. The harpist even struck up Pachelbel's Canon in honor of my friend. Could you get any more celebratory?

Last but not least, the whole shebang was entirely reasonable, at $30 a lady. I'll toast to that!

I rarely manage to write a decent paragraph in the confines of my own home. Somedays it's my boyfriend's fault (how dare he open the refrigerator door noisily!).  Other times, my apartment is too messy to focus, or I am too far behind on my recorded TV shows.  When I absolutely must produce words, it's imperative that I get the heck out of dodge and into the nearest coffee joint.  By the time I've found parking and paid four bucks for a cup 'o joe, there is enough cognitive dissonance going on to guarantee I stay put for an hour.

At times, I make due with Char-bucks (usually for proximity's sake), but in each city I've lived (and currently live)--Los Angeles, Evanston, and Austin--one special coffee house has wormed its way into my heart.

Espresso Profeta, Los Angeles, CA
I don't love "Profeta" simply because I am a sucker for shabby chic decor.  Not only do the hiply dressed baristas whip up a mean cappuccino, but the wooden tables are big and generously spaced.  The free wireless (password required but gladly shared) extends even to the lush courtyard outside.  When I've written a page, I reward myself with the fruit-granola-yogurt parfait.  One downside: there are only two outlets in the entire joint and the management frowns against stretching charger cords across the room, something about tripping and liability.  So charge up your laptop in advance!

Quack's, Austin, TX
Quack's has a whole lot going for it.  While the bright and cheery space is constantly filled with academic types, I have somehow never struggled to find a table.  There is free WiFi and the electrical outlets abound.  I love the wide windows that line the front of the building (people watching helps my writing when I'm stuck), but my law student boyfriend he hates watching happy people walk by (to each her own, I say).  One caveat: when I'm watching my figure, I watch out for Quack's.  Simply put, rhubarb pie, crumb coffee cake, and molasses cookies are not this girl's best friend.  

Unicorn Cafe, Evanston, IL
I can think of no cozier place to write than Unicorn Cafe, my coffee house of choice during college (its coziness probably stemming from the snow drifts outside).  What made Unicorn so welcoming was the wide and affordable lunch menu--house made sandwiches, baked goods, and soups--which enabled me to work through lunch.  Seeing your TAs at nearby tables was a blessing and a curse; you could ask one a question if needed but you'd also have to watch the volume of your gossip so as not to tarnish your intellectual image.  The cute (albeit heavily tattooed) guys behind the counter helped make each visit worthwhile.  

As I write this, you might wonder whether I am at Profeta, Quack's, or Unicorn. Well, the answer is none of the above, which is precisely why I am writing this, rather than the essay I am hiding from.  

I'm about to head out to my fifth or sixth tennis lesson, and I am still getting used to the idea that I am the proud owner of not just a tennis racquet but the requisite white, boat-like tennis shoes. Only now in my mid-twenties, have I willingly tempted the Sports Gods.

You see, I have never played a sport.  Not AYSO soccer as a six-year-old, not middle school softball--nothing.  When I was ten, my mother dragged me (whining and pouting, of course) to a two-week session at Olympic Sports Camp, to see if anything would stick.  I spent two weeks crafting daisy chains and participating in gymnastics only (my perfected center splits would later appear in the camp brochure).

I wasn't a total couch potato.  I took dance lessons from toddler-hood well though high school and later rose to power on my high school's amateur cheerleading squad.  But there was something about sports that terrified me.  The concept of winning and losing, succeeding and failing--I wanted nothing to do with it.

When my 12-year-old sister started taking tennis lessons this summer, I mentioned to my mother that I wouldn't mind learning how to play.  My friends in college had casual matches with each other, and I always felt a little wistful bowing out of their invitations.  So when my mother offered to treat me to some lessons over the summer, I decided I had nothing to lose.  If I was a total disaster, no one would have to know besides Lori, the shockingly chipper 40-something who gave lessons on her parents' Beverly Hills tennis court.

At my first lesson, I was shocked that I managed to make racquet-to-ball contact, and I felt pretty pleased with myself.  When I learned how to hit backhand and travel to the ball, I was ready to challenge Venus and Serena to a match.  Could I serve?  No.  Could I rally more than 3-4 times over the net?  In my dreams!  But did I feel proud to be overcoming a life-long phobia of courts, points, balls, nets, and competition?  More than you can imagine.

See you on the court...