The fine folks at High Country set our group up with an hour-long tour. Upon entering their wood cabin right off the slopes, they outfitted us with gloves, boots and helmets before sending us out to claim our vehicles. I grew up riding Sea-Doos and was pleased when each of us got to claim its land counterpart, a Ski-Doo. Each machine was adorned with a rapper name from a budget label maker and I was hooked up with Jay-Z. Solid start.

After signing our life away with the customary waivers, we got the rundown on how to use the Ski-Doo. If you ever had a spin on a wave runner or an ATV, you can handle the snowmobile. Not only is there a typical hand-accelerator, the throttle is even heated so that your phalanges don’t freeze off mid-ride! The engine itself keeps your legs and feet cozy along the way. Add the helmet and we’re talking serious luxury cruising with a snowmobile.

Just as the sun was setting behind the mountain, our group took off in a single file line that would have made my second grade teacher proud. We quickly climbed the ski runs and took note of the groomers working their way down the slopes. It wasn’t long before we jetted off into seemingly uncharted territory, however. We took a turn off a larger ski run to find a narrow trail that cut abruptly into the forest. As the sky’s blue began to deepen, we charged on up the mountain going some 25 to 30 mph. Under my helmet I an ear to ear grin creep across my face. Faster! Man, if only Frost got his hands on one of these things back in the day, then Stopping By The Woods on Snowy Evening poem wouldn’t have been so short. What’s after ‘These woods are lovely, dark and deep’?

We emerged from the forest to find ourselves following the perimeter of the Somerset Reservoir we had seen earlier in the day from the top of the mountain. To my delight, we crept our way onto the ice and began gaining speed as we jetted across the reservoir. It started at an earnest 30 mph, then 40, and the last time I looked down at the speedometer I saw the needle hovering around 60. And miles to go before I sleep! Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta. (You were always wondering how I would work a Top Gun reference, Office Space song and Robert Frost poem into one post, weren’t you?)

At some point during my speed craze, the sun set completely and we began our descent down the mountain with a couple sparkling lodge lights in the distance. Finally, we found ourselves back at the home base completely intact and still full of adrenaline. I realize not everyone is a speed junkie, so please know if you decide to embark on a snow mobile tour you can travel at a comfortable (cough, granny) speed.

Logistics:

High Country: www.snowmobile-tours.com

One Hour Ride: $55, weekday; $75 weekend and holiday

Group Rates: 10% off regular rates

Upon arrival at Mount Snow, my travel group quickly hit up the ski rental and we were promptly outfitted with all the gear we needed. Some of my buddies even needed ski pants and the resort was kind enough to provide us with some spare waterproof attire to preempt any nasty wipe-outs. Note: If you want to get in with the mountain crowd, the proper word for “wipe-out” is now “Yard Sale.” Imagine every bit of gear you own unceremoniously strewn about the slope.

After gathering our goggles, hats, boots, boards/ skis we each set out for some private lessons. Though I had skied regularly as a child, I felt unbalanced on my skis and wanted a refresher so I didn’t pull a Sonny Bono on the slopes. Most of my contact with mountains the past couple years has been in a hiking capacity, so it was great to be reminded of things like leaning forward in the skis (instead of on the heel, like in hiking) while scaling the face of a mountain.

Growing up I was always spoiled by the tall, iconic ski resorts of Colorado and therefore inherently disappointed whenever I tried to ski in the Northeast. The runs seemed short, icy and expensive. Mount Snow proved to be different, however. The runs seemed adequately long and I didn’t spend my entire day on a ski lift.

It also helped that our ski instructor made sure we saw all the gems Mount Snow had to offer. Once we regained our ski legs he let us conquer the half pipe and then were perfectly positioned to watch snowboarders strut their stuff. He then made a point to take us to the North Face of the mountain, where there are absolutely stunning views and more challenging trail runs. The top of the mountain provides the perfect place to break out the wide-angle camera lens and take in the gorgeous Somerset Reservoir (pictured above).

After surviving an entire afternoon without falling off the ski lift, hosting a Yard Sale or hitting a tree, my ski/ blogging buddy from Living With My Parents Is Cool and I were feeling rather victorious. Here is a picture to further document our success. Please note smiles, gear retention and the lack of other people in the photo. If you have the luxury of hitting Mount Snow on a weekday, do it. It’s an entirely serene experience in contrast to the crowd-plagued weekends and holidays.

Just when we thought our legs were giving out for the afternoon we grabbed a hot chocolate and prepared for our next adventure: snowmobiling. Stay tuned for the second Mount Snow post later this week!

Logistics:

For those of you planning your own getaway, you already know ski costs can be directly proportional to the amount of fun to be had. Lift tickets for adults are $79/day on weekends and $72/day during the week. Equipment rentals were reasonable at $39/ day for skis and snowboarding gear. My crew stayed at the Snow Lake Lodge, which has various pricing options and also condos that can fit large groups. I recommend the condos because they allow for cooking in, which will ultimately save you money on food expenses.

My first cucumber roll. An art in progress

Sushi comes in many forms—the grab n’ go package, the dodgy half price buffet and, of course, the classy over-priced restaurant with the open kitchen so you can admire the chef’s handy work.  Out of my experience in all three types of establishments, I always come away with utter admiration for the sushi chef. Even airport sushi has to be made somewhere, right?

Last week I had the fortune of taking a sushi class for the first time. I should confess now, that I had been on sushi hiatus for almost a year from a bad bout of roe (eggs) and some other reddish unidentifiable ingredient, but I’m back on the sushi brigade, and can now make my own sushi to boot!

The first step of our sushi class was to cover our sushi rollers in saran wrap so that the rice wouldn’t stick as much, Then we loaded it up with specially prepared sushi rice. Sushi rice is special sush-only-designated rice you can buy at most Asian stores and should be mixed with a rice vinegar mixture to give the rice a distinct sweetish taste.

Once you spread the rice on the nori (seaweed sheet to hold it all together), you can then add anything you like! Typically there is salmon or tuna, then avocado and cucumber. For this roll we just did rice and cucumber to start. A normal roll (rice on the inside) is the most traditional. Then you slowly start to roll it all up like a delicate burrito. (I’m sure the Mexican food reference would make a sushi chef cringe.)

Like most ethnic foods brought to America, we managed to transform a healthy Japanese meal into a fatty and fried version of its former self. Yes, a good spider roll is hard to resist, but traditional sushi does not involve anything fried, no mayo (that cuts out spicy tuna rolls!) and very little soy sauce should be used. Apparently dousing your rolls in salt-laden soy sauce is an insult to the chef!

Another thing that is also American is the inside-out roll. Most restaurants charge you an extra buck for this, but it’s actually easier to wrap because you can fit more ingredients into the roll. To accomplish this you just flip the rice over and load the ingredients directly on the nori. Here we added crunchy flakes, true to American form.

If you’re looking to take a class on your own, I recommend rounding up a group of your friends and getting a private lesson. My group was led by Sushi By Simon, an entertaining actor-turned-sushi-chef and we made three rolls each. Plus, Simon let us keep the extra ingredients so we could dabble on our own the next day. Avocado-banana-peanut butter-roll  anyone? Surprisingly, it was tasty!

Chances are if you don’t think the subway is the superior mode of transit, you’ve quit reading by now. For you loyalists and fellow subway snobs, this post is for you. Today is Monday and chances are if you know your morning route inside and out, which you obviously do, when you got down to the subway platform you didn’t just stand there. No, you walked right past the crowd gathered at the bottom of the entry stairwell and walked until you were standing seemingly arbitrarily in the middle of the subway platform.

This act was entirely premeditated, however. You were just positioning yourself to be in the optimal subway car so that you wouldn’t have to walk far to the exit once you arrived at your destination. There are eight subway cars on an average train, so you have a 1 in 8 chance of choosing the right car (bonus points if you get the right door on the specified subway car!) This is the Subway Pre-Walk.

If you optimize your subway exit, you can fly right through those turnstiles before the rest of the crowd and escape to street level, fresh air and all. Let’s say that you botched the Subway Pre-Walk (which I know you would never do) and were forced to walk the length of six subway cars. Not only would this waste 53 seconds of your precious time, you’d be doing the Subway Walk of Shame. You will inevitably get stuck behind some mom with a stroller and a toddler, or perhaps a chatty group of high school girls drafting a text message to a BF. This is no way to start a morning… or a reputation.

That’s 53 extra seconds of the day that you can spend saving the world, primping yourself in the mirror or Tweeting. New Yorkers (and any other city friends that take the subway), may you go forth and rock your subway swag.

For starters, the Roundabout Theatre Company caters to the younger crowd by offering $20 tickets to Hip Tix members (requirements are that you are under age 35. Read here if you missed my post on this). This means for a little more than a NYC movie ticket you can see Victorian propriety come to life for over two hours.

For those unaware of the storyline, it revolves around two gentlemen, John Worthing and Algernon Moncrieff, in pursuit of two eligible ladies, Gwendolen Fairfax and Cecily Cardew. The mens’ courtship grows complicated when both men use the alias Earnest to cover up their weekend excursions. Further problems arise when the revered Lady Bracknell, who is played by Brian Bedford, closely guards each lady’s marriage eligibility.

At first I was skeptical when I discovered that Bedford would be playing Lady Bracknell’s role in addition to directing the play. Understandably, there are many all-men theatres but those are usually found in the Shakespeare space and as old as Wilde’s script itself. That skepticism was quickly erased as he/she entered the stage with the prestige to rival a queen, or any proper pearl-toting, tea-drinking, cucumber-sandwich-eating grandma! Over the course of the play I quickly forgot that Lady Bracknell was indeed a male, which is the highest compliment of Bedford’s directing and acting.

If there was ever sparkling execution of The Importance of Being Earnest, this is it. It doesn’t take much to enjoy this comedic play, but a great performance reminds us that many of the societal elements that Wilde wittily criticizes are still relevant in our modern, social media dominated era.

Don’t believe me? I”ll leave you with this Lady Bracknell line, “I have always been of opinion that a man who desires to get married should know either everything or nothing. Which do you know?”

There are the lifers. These are the old people you help across the street, or shall I say attempt to help until they exclaim they’ve been just fine without your service for 90-some years. They’ll tell you about the time they organized a rally for JFK or when Frank Sinatra played a gig with only 15 people at some extinct hole-in-the-wall in Midtown. They have a 3-bedroom rent controlled apartment for $350 per month and still manage to complain. They have achieved some elusive state of angry-contentment and every time you talk to one you think, “Is that going to be me someday?”

The more common way to go about determining New York status is the hierarchical years of service metric.  Some newbies tend to think that five years in the city means you’ve earned your stripes. The most common answer is 7 to 8 years. Given that everyone always asks if Sex And The City is an accurate portrayal of city life and it ran for six seasons plus two movies, I suppose that qualifies the number 8 as a reasonable barometer.

Then there are the cutthroat people that claim New Yorkership is attained if you’ve lived here longer than where you grew up. Assuming you moved right after high school, that is age 36. (Age 40 if after college.) By this time, everyone else in the country has 2.5 kids and a retirement home in Florida.

There is also a theory that living in NYC when disaster strikes creates an instant bond and respect to other residents. Though a bit grim, those who have survived blackouts, blizzards, strikes of varying sorts and even 9/11 tend to walk around with a little more gusto than those who have not experienced such events.

Which of these are the most accurate? Your guess is as good as mine. Someone once told me that you know you’re a New Yorker when you reach this breaking point: As much as you may hate the city on any given day, you hate the thought of living elsewhere even more.

I know that there are certain things that lead to the jaded, New Yorker mentality. You stop questioning the cost of rent. You’re on a first-name basis with the neighborhood bartender, coffee guy and dry cleaner. You give cabbies specific directions. You stop to argue with delivery cyclists and cabbies when they nearly-hit you in a cross-walks. You say “hi” to routine street performers and homeless people. You pre-walk the subway platform to the car that will be nearest your exit when you arrive at the next subway platform. You can’t help but smile and feeling resentfully cheesy whenever Empire State of Mind plays. These are the things that develop over time and make one a New Yorker.

Where do I fall? That’s up to you. I will tell you, however, that the best NYC-style pizza is from Patsy’s, the best burger is 5 Napkin and best bagel is from H&H. And that I’d love to argue with you about it.

One byproduct of living in New York is growing jaded from the buildings and sites that once attracted you initially to the city. I now see Times Square as a neon tourist trap and officially branded the iconic Macy’s in Herald Square as the worst department store in the city. There are a couple places, however, that I always find myself eager to visit and Strawberry Fields is one of them. When visitors come to town I inevitably find myself on the Upper West Side or in the park, both with easy access to Strawberry Fields. As one can imagine, I have happily received many visitors over the years, and I recently discovered a handful of pictures documenting the place in my photo files.

I suppose some people weren’t raised by die-hard Beatles fans, so may be unaware of Strawberry Fields and its pop culture importance. It is a memorial on the West side of Central Park for John Lennon. Strawberry Fields is a mere block away from where Lennon lived with his wife Yoko Ono at the epic apartment building, the Dakota, where Lennon was also shot and killed.

Strawberry Fields is mainly a place for people to come and pay respects to Lennon or give a public nod to the prospect of world peace. If you visit you may see an older, scraggly man giving a well-rehearsed, enthusiastic, speech about Lennon’s life and the Beatles. That man is Gary. He is the self-proclaimed Mayor of Strawberry Fields and takes it upon himself to decorate the place with whatever he finds inspirational. Though the decor is usually along the lines of flowers, typically arranged in a peace sign, he has also done up the mosaic with bagels on NYC Marathon Day as a nod to the runners.

This place must be photographed thousands of times daily—rain or shine. This is the rain version from last week.

First, I feel I must explain why I haven’t gone to the AMNH before. One of my versions of hell involves mobs of screaming children. It has been my experience that children frequent museums involving science, space, history and sometimes art. Thus, I avoided the history museum like most people avoid Wal-Mart on Sundays—fear of total apocalypse. These preconceptions were briefly erased with the optimism of a new year, and during that fleeting window of time I made the conscious decision to venture out to the museum. And it rocked.

The monstrosity of the place is entirely overwhelming. There are exhibits on dinosaurs, planets, stars, the brain, butterflies, mammals in North America, mammals in Africa, space, etc. Some of the animal exhibits seem remarkably realistic. Among the squirrels and deers of North America was also a giant caribou… not shot by Sarah Palin!

We began our journey learning about stars and black holes. Let me tell you, black holes really do exist and there is a five minute video to tell you all about it. Also, if you’re making a weight-loss resolution there are various scales so you can see how much you weigh on other planets or stars. I recommend a red, giant star, because this is how much I weighed:

This museum adventure also led me to my new favorite word: zircon. Zircons are a mineral that is found on the crust of the Earth and used for radiometric dating. Zircons are special because they actually survive erosion and metamorphism so they reveal more about the history of whatever stuff it’s found in. Don’t you feel smarter now?

Lastly, we hit up the IMAX to see the special on the Hubble Space Station. Now, I must admit that I am an IMAX freak. I will probably see anything if you put it in an IMAX theater just because it looks cool. I will admit that the IMAX theater at AMNH is a little odd in that the seats aren’t graded as they should be (retrofit problem) and you will be craning your head upward for the entire show. Aside from that, the special on Hubble is pretty remarkable. It is narrated by Leonardo DiCaprio, which only enhances the entire experience. Not only does the footage take you through a launch day, it shows unparalled images from Hubble itself. It’s basically a window into the other 100 billion galaxies (yes, that’s the number they used) of the world, and it’s really quite colorful.

In the end, the children weren’t terrible. The actually provided some pretty hilarious commentary on the dinosaurs. “Mom, when you were growing up did you have a T. Rex as a pet?” Who didn’t?

The reflexology session was the first for both of us. The Eastern alternative medicine technique aims to release ailments and energy blockages in the body by use of pressure on the bottom of the feet. I became intrigued by the massage ever since I saw Anthony Bourdain do it on his No Reservations: Singapore episode. Though I always enjoyed the massage during a pedicure, I heard torture stories about reflexology treatments and Bourdain’s face throughout the episode confirmed that it would not be the most pleasant of massage experiences.

Undeterred we set out for Yan Mei Foot Reflexology Center in the heart of Chinatown where $20 will buy you a 30 minute reflexology session ($30 for 60 minutes, $45 for 90 minutes). We were ushered in and placed in a private room with two chairs. After a brief herbal bath a couple Chinese men sat down to examine our feet and start the magic. These men knew only three words of English, “No pain, no gain.” After their warning they began poking and prodding the bottoms of our feet starting with the big toe, which is supposed to correspond to the brain. Though traditional reflexology treatments don’t utilize any lotion or ointment, these guys used a bit of Vaseline as they worked their way around feet and up our calves. Let me be clear: this is a no frills experience. The therapists set a timer to our desired massage length, paper towels were used instead of real ones and our legs were sometimes propped up by a roll of paper towels to manipulate the angle of the massage. You can hear the discussions of other patrons and I’m sure they heard our fits of laughter as the reflexologist (is that their title?) tried to use sign language to convey our ailments. The entire process wasn’t as painful as I anticipated, but there were definitely pressure points hit in my feet that I was blissfully unaware of before the experience. As it concluded, the man looked at me and pretended to drink a glass of something and rub his stomach.

“Oh my god, he’s telling me I drink too much!” I shouted to my friend. I always knew Anthony Bourdain and I were kindred souls. Alas, the reflexologist quelled my worries and pointed to the area on foot chart to show that I had tension in my stomach, not my liver. Phew. Note: Most of these reflexology places only accept cash, so be sure to have some on hand so you don’t have an awkward conversation in Chinese that you don’t understand.

The best part about going to a reflexology sesh in Chinatown is that you are perfectly poised for a cheap soup-dumpling/ dim sum excursion as you float out of the massage parlor, fully refreshed!

First, most people assume that Times Square is the place to be on NYE. False.  Allow me to list the reasons why this would be the most horrifying start to a new year imaginable.

1. You will be surrounded by one million people in Times Square (a smallish area given the crowd) with no access for immediate escape.

2. No public drinking. At least you won’t have a champagne hangover? If that’s a plus…

3. No public restrooms. Adults wear diapers in case they “have to go.” Yes, for real. Pretty sexy, huh?

4.  It’s cold. I can somewhat rationalize dressing myself in every article of fleece and dri-fit that I own for a sports game, but not so much to countdown one minute of time.

5. You wait for 9-ish hours out in aforementioned cold. Most people arrive in Times Square mid-afternoon to secure a good view. Haven’t you heard? We American’s don’t wait around well. Disney World is even considering options to revamp its lines due to American impatience!

New Year's Eve confetti wishes on Time Square's Wishing Wall

Now, I don’t mean to take on a bah-humbug attitude about the New Year, if the above is your jam then totally go for it. One ton of confetti and an appearance of Giuliana and Bill is a pretty enticing offer, but I still pass. Instead, I elect to send my New Year’s wish to the Times Square Confetti Gods and watch from the comfort of a warm apartment and fancy T.V. as that confetti wish rains down upon the crazies in Times Square!

Alternatively, many people elect to spend their NYE at a swank or not-so-swank bar with an expensive cover charge. Most of these offers are in the $100 – $200 price range (“But it includes a free champagne toast!” your friends will say) and involve dense crowds fighting to get to the bar. Admittedly, I’ve done this scene a few years running, and though I consider it a city rite of passage of sorts, I will also be opting out this year. It just takes paying 500% what you would on a normal night out and being stranded in the bitter cold and stilettos due to severe cab shortage to deter you in future years!

Instead, I will be hosting a party in the comfort of our apartment for the first time in NYC.  Some of the typical New Year’s problems will persist: a line for the bathroom, ears ringing from obnoxious noise makers and, hopefully, a mild champagne hangover. Good riddance, 2010. I salute those of you heading out to Times Square or any destination requiring a cab (including my apartment…).

Cheers. Salud. Santé. Salute. Prost. That’s all the languages I can think of for now, but let it be known that Santa brought me new luggage for Christmas and I’m anticipating more travel in 2011!