When I looked through my personal double-plated, rectangular hole (a.k.a. windows), the view reminded me of an extremely flat, dull colored patchwork quilt. Dorothy must have been exasperated when that tornado cut through the vast flatness located thousands of feet below me—Kansas. Suddenly, the captain’s voice sounded over the intercom and alerted the other eager Delta passengers of the up coming change in scenery. My view hole turned completely white as the plane cut through a layer of stratus clouds. As the clouds separated and thinned, I saw the most extraordinary example of plate tectonics—the Rocky Mountains. My jaw dropped, my eyes watered, and the only thing in my mind was “Why the heck do I live on the East Coast? I’m never going back.” When I entered the tiny Vail/Eagle airport, located in Vail, Colorado, I realized my buddy was not there to scoop me up. Problem? Not for me. Just evaluate the circumstances of my situation. I was 30 minutes from killer powder; I was in the Rockies, my snowboards were in my arms, and I had packed boxes of Velveeta Shells and Cheese, as well as travel packs of Oreos, not to mention the fact that I had remembered to pack extra underwear in my board bag. I was set. There was not an obstacle big enough to get me down. I was in my perfect world.

Reality check. I was thousands of miles from home, the only person I really knew in town wasn’t at the airport, I didn’t know where he lived or worked, and I didn’t even have a working phone number. I had only brought hundred bucks. (I’m poor, so what.) For starters, the only person I really knew in Vail was my buddy, Mike Romeo, and the two chicks he had been staying without there while he found a place to call home. Actually, I didn’t technically know the girls. In fact, I didn’t even know what they looked like since I had never met them. But I did talk to them on the phone a few times if that counts. My situation complicated itself even more. First, I met this guy named Scott in the airport. He was also going to Vail, and he was waiting for his friends to pick him up too. He said he could probably give me a lift into town. (The shuttle was half of my money.) He explained that his friends’ mom was coming to pick him up. He then added that this parental was “very conservative,” therefore; it wasn’t cool if I rode with them. “What are you trying to say bud, I’m conservative,” I said as I stood there with big holes in my ears, a multicolored beanie, (extremely) dirty, baggy jeans, and a T-shirt that read “Hippies Smell.” I later saw Scott on the mountain with a bloody face. Of course, he was a skier. Stupid gaper. He probably rollerbladed too. Still stuck at the airport, I decided to use my rehearsed hitchhiking skills. I spied two guys picking up a blonde, college Barbie. The gentlemen were wearing Vail employee jackets, which equaled a bull’s eye on my “get a ride” target. I slid in next to Barbie at the baggage claim and struck up a conversation. I explained my situation to her and achieved an introduction to the Vail employees with a vehicle. The result I got a ride.

As we sped along Interstate 70, our truck was an insignificant ant amidst towering layers of aged sediment. I had to crouch down to the floorboard just to see the tops of colossal mountain ranges hugging each side of the highway. I couldn’t soak up enough of the lingering beauty, formally unknown to me. I was like a child who had tried chocolate for the first time. Despite the fact that I was still completely absent minded about what I was going to do when we actually got to Vail Village; I was in heaven, and I was carefree. Coincidently, the driver claimed he knew one of the girls I was hunting for, Bre. He thought she worked at a bar called the Hub Cap. “Just drop me at the bar hommie,” I said as we drove through the quaint Vail Village. Ironically, the quaint Vail Village I entered was not quaint at all. On the contrary, Vail is a city. It has its own confusing transportation system (I hate buses), it even has its own newspaper. I had been under the misconception that it would be easy to find my friends in a ski town. Then my epiphany, “I’m not on the East Coast any more.” I wasn’t in Snowshoe. This was not wild, wonderful West Virginia, and there were no tractor pulls to attend. This was the real deal, this was the mid west, this was Vail, Colorado. Panic, umm nope. Let me repeat, can you say Vail, Colorado? At that point, I made an important conscious decision, that is, I didn’t care if I ever found my friends. If I did, fabulous. If I didn’t, oh well, I’m in Vail. I would sleep on a bathroom floor if I had to, it didn’t matter (girls’ bathroom, of course). I am a survivor, and I know how to survive (Just call me Destiny’s Child). I was able to survive at Snowshoe Mountain in West Virginia for more than two weeks with zero dinero and no clean socks.

However, I ate well every day, and I snowboarded for free every day. Vail couldn’t be that different. Plus, instead of rednecks, Vail is stocked with lots of rich people, but none of that really mattered. I was there to snowboard, and I was within walking distance to the chair lift. I needed nothing more. (A lift ticket would’ve been helpful). I entered the Hub Cap and took a seat at the bar. Being my loud, obnoxious self, I quickly met the bartender, Jamis. He let me put all my stuff behind the bar, which was very convenient. As I talked with Jamis, I found out that my girl, Bre, actually did work there. However, she hadn’t been to work in more than two weeks. Perfect. I’ll never find my friends. On the other hand, all was not lost because Jamis knew a bunch of people who also knew Bre. He quickly got on the phone to help aid me in my search. He called a hippie named Mike, who turned out to be a pretty cool friend of mine. Fact: Hippie Mike lives in a teepee in the summer time. The hippie located Bre and told her where to find me. So, I just hung around and waited to see if this girl, who I had never met, would come and fetch the lost, East Coast, beach dwelling, snowboard chick me.

When Bre entered the bar she brought along a couple of my hommies from Virginia Beach. I didn’t even know they were visiting Vail. Naturally, they spotted me quickly. I had moved from my cozy bar seat and was raising heck with a table full of Aussies. (There are a lot of Australians in Vail). Initially, Bre and I hit it off, and I left the Hub Cap to drop my belongings at her crib. Bre informed me that my buddy Romeo was at work. He had gone to pick me up at the airport, but the retard went the wrong way on the interstate and was 20 minutes late. He was not too enthused that I didn’t wait, but how was I supposed to know he was just lost. I hadn’t talked to guy in over a week. I didn’t even know if he realized that I was coming into town that day. Late that night I finally found Romeo. However, I liked my new friends so much that I decided to just stay with them. We had a slumber party and hit the beds early in order to hit the slopes in the morning. My journey to the Midwest was definitely an adventure. I had such a great time that I went back to Vail just two weeks after I got back off the plane in Norfolk. I’m doing it again in a couple more weeks. At least we’ll have a vehicle this time, hopefully, if it makes it. But if it doesn’t, at least the story will be good.

My mother says that I take after my grandmother’s passion for handbags, like it’s a bad thing. Maybe she doesn’t want to see me go down in history as the girl with thousands of purses, following the example of former Philippine first lady Imelda Marcos, known the world over as the lady with thousands of shoes. After all, Marcos was duly criticized for her extravagance, and the shoes were just a mere reflection on how corrupt the Marcos government was. However, unlike Marcos, I have no intentions of running a government and corrupting it to finance my fancy for purses. If I do end up with thousands of purses, then so be it. Some people just don’t understand. A purse is a girl’s best friend. Unlike diamonds that are so pricey and somewhat impractical, purses are relatively affordable (depending on the style and brand) and useful. There are a million reasons why girls (and women, to be politically correct) love purses. We would be lost without them. Where else would we put all our stuff? Chances are if you needed lotion, Altoids, or Band-aids, your female friends would have them. So thank your lucky stars for Nine West. Purses can be lifesavers. Last week, my co-worker was attacked while riding the bus to her apartment. She had to ride the bus because her car was being serviced in the shop and her husband couldn’t pick her up because he was out of town. Luckily, she was able to fend off her attacker when she whacked him with her purse. I felt bad that she was attacked, but whacking an attacker with her purse was priceless.

However, in a Cosmo article from years past, the snooty editors polled men on first impressions on first dates. Half of the men polled said that if their date carried a purse it’s like screaming “high maintenance.” They might not ask for a second date. The other half said that they didn’t really care whether their date carried a purse or not. Hmm, I wonder about those men who judge their date from the looks of their purse. It seems so shallow and stupid, but whatever. However, looking at this from a guy’s perspective, sometimes a woman’s purse would be a scary thing, especially those purses that suffer a bad fate from the hands of the cluttered and unorganized. I’ve seen those kinds of purses from almost every where — at work, at the grocery store, the bank, etc. I dread the sight of messy purses, especially when I’m standing in line at the check out counter in a grocery store, and the woman in front of me cannot find her checkbook, her drivers license, or her keys, and all her hidden treasures are tumbling out of her purse. Hello! When will you part with those bits and pieces of old receipts, driving directions, and candy wrappers? It’s so tempting to volunteer my anal-retentive- induced cleaning skills sometimes. Yet, I’ve never seen a woman go on a date with a purse that’s the size of a luggage bag, so I don’t know what those guys were thinking.

Just in case you guys out there don’t know, there’s such a thing as the “Purse Test.” Never heard of it? Well, it’s that situation where your girlfriend would ask you to hold her purse while, say for example, she goes to the fitting room to try on clothes. I know you guys hate that, but no matter how ridiculous you feel holding that purse (and if you really like that girl) then you know you must pass that test. And if you suspect that your girlfriend is tickled with this little act of torture she has imposed on you, you better believe it. Purses not only hold a girl’s personal effects, and possibly save lives, they can serve as signal warning flags to men. It could be a fashion statement, as well. Some people like to don on flashy belts, while others trot with funky shoes. Some adorn themselves with lots, and lots of jewelry. Think Ghetto fashion. Diamonds screaming “look at me! I’m so rich, rob me, rob me!” So to each his own. I’m sticking with purses even though they are not good investments like jewelry that has a resale value. But then again, if I become rich and famous, people will be clamoring to see my thousands of purses. However, I first need to be rich to have thousands of purses? My mother would be so mad to think that her only daughter would conceive such unspeakable thoughts. Prudence, prudence.