When we talked about the upcoming holiday season, there were plenty of activities to put on our calendar: Light parades, breakfast with Santa, baking cookies, ugly sweater parties, touring neighborhoods with decorated houses.
But my 9-year-old wanted to do something entirely different. He wanted to learn how candy canes are made.
It was a humble request, but it seemed about as possible as making reindeer fly. Where in the world would I find a place to make candy canes?
Turns out I didn’t even have to go to the North Pole. Logan’s Candies, a small, family-operated shop in Ontario, California, has been hand-making candy canes since 1933. Tickets to attend a candy-making demo are just $5 per person.
Nearly everything about the process has remained the same since 1933: Same recipe, same stove for boiling sugar, same marble block for pulling and stretching the candy.
Even sweeter than the candy were the kids, pressing their faces against windows to watch the seemingly magical process.
Owner Jerry Rowley stretched and pulled the warm sugar until it turned stark white.
Then he added stripes of color, used to achieve their signature candy cane look.
Afterward, everyone received a warm candy cane to shape however they wanted. We opted to make hearts, since ours were so full.
If you go
Logan’s Candies is located in downtown Ontario, 125 W B St, Ontario, CA. Street parking was free.
When: The shop does candy-making demos year-round. This time of year is more crowded and chaotic, but it would be a fun activity for someone who enjoys Christmas year-round or for celebrating Christmas in July.
Also good to know: The shop sells 31 flavors of homemade ribbon candy, and it’s also home to the world’s largest candy cane!
Planning a family trip to Universal Studios Hollywood felt like a Choose Your Own Adventure where every option was somehow the wrong choice and would lead me toward doom.
To spend hundreds of dollars for one day at the park, but skip the ride lines, turn to page 17.
To spend slightly less and get a nine-month pass to the park, but waste your one wild and precious life waiting in all the lines, turn to page 23.
We opted for the latter. Instead of trying to cram everything into one day, I figured we could go a few times and focus on a different area each visit. Even though this meant we’d have to wait in line for the rides, it wouldn’t matter as much, since we wouldn’t be on a tight timeline. And who knows? I thought. Maybe we’d luck out and there wouldn’t be any lines.
Alas, that was the strategy of a much more naive version of myself — the Maggie I was before I waited 2.5 hours to get on Mario Kart: Bowser’s Challenge.
Here’s how the day went, where we went wrong, and what I’ll do next time.
What it costs
That’s not so easy to answer. Regular tickets start at $109, two-day general admission tickets start at $159, express passes start at $209, and various other passes go from $179 to $639.
Why do I keep qualifying that with “start at”? Because the price varies wildly by day. Peak times, like weekends, holiday breaks, and more desirable days are significantly more expensive. So while I tried to find that elusive $109 ticket price, it never aligned with our work/school schedule.
Instead, I found a discount on the nine-month California Neighbor Pass, bringing it down to $150/per person. That is still expensive, but I can justify the cost by making multiple visits.
Note: I don’t want to tell you how expensive parking is. I can barely admit it to myself. But you should know that parking is my second-least favorite thing to pay for, because it’s just GROUND that my car is borrowing. Stupid.
Food and beverages
That brings me to my least favorite thing to pay for: Water.
Thank goodness Universal Studios allows you to bring in refillable water bottles. (Maximum of two liters).
The regulations also say you can bring snacks and small food items, and I did that too. But I didn’t bring enough. Later I saw people pulling hoagies the size of Buicks out of their backpacks, so I could’ve packed more substantial items. Next time.
Instead, we ate at Three Broomsticks in the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. I had the vegan shepherd’s pie, which was food. It kind of looked like someone started to make shepherd’s pie, then got tired of it halfway through.
Everest plowed through whatever he ordered — a platter of cabbage and mashed potatoes and tomatoes and sausage and peas and some spare change, I think. Jason had a salad, which he regretted because he hates salad, so I’m not sure why that order was ever made.
The real winner was butterbeer, something I’ve wanted to try ever since I first read Harry Potter. It was delicious, like a butterscotch cream soda, and I think I could happily live on a butterbeer-only diet. It would be a short life, but a satisfying one.
The rides
It’s been a long time since I’ve been to an amusement park, so I had forgotten what it feels like to wait in line for a ride. And everything in the new Super Nintendo World required a wait. We waited in line to enter that section of the park (sometimes there’s a virtual queue, but it wasn’t an option when we visited). Then we waited 2.5 hours for the Bowser’s Challenge ride. We waited for the interactive games. We were about to wait in line for photos with Mario, but Mario went on a break. Bless you, tiny plumber.
There was another ride in the Super Nintendo World area, but I could actually feel my soul leaving my body, so at that point we left.
Then we waited 45 minutes to ride Revenge of The Mummy.
Later, we waited for the Flight of the Hippogriff ride.
That’s it. THREE RIDES. But those three experiences topped our priority list for the day, and we accomplished that.
The other stuff
Yes, I visited Ollivanders Wand Shop. I was curious how it would compare with what I imagined long ago, when I first read the Harry Potter series. And it was, in fact, pretty darn magical.
The whole point
A few months ago, Everest said he wanted to ride his first roller coaster, and I wanted E to love roller coasters the way I do.
I remember going to King’s Island with my family when I was growing up — devouring hot, greasy funnel cakes, posing for keychain photos in front of a fake Eiffel Tower, riding the Beast and then hurrying to get back in line — those are some of my most treasured memories.
That was the impetus for this Universal Studios trip. The exhilaration of being THIS TALL TO RIDE, the lap restraint pressed a little too tight, the click-clack of cars chugging up a steep hill, and finally, taking flight.
I wanted to give that to my child.
Well, he hated it. On the two coasters, Everest clutched my hand until my fingers turned blue. He murmured, “No. No. NO.” His eyes were as big as saucers, and those saucers were full of terror.
So he’s not a roller coaster kid. At least not right now, and that’s fine. It just means that when we return to Universal, we’ll be the folks enjoying the shows instead.
The other day my 9-year-old son asked what exactly people celebrate during a “celebration of life.”
I thought it was a great question — something I hadn’t thought about, even though I’ve attended many such celebrations before.
I explained that it varies depending on the situation. If the person believed in an afterlife, we’re celebrating their passage to a better place. If the person had been ill or injured, we can celebrate their freedom from pain. And if the person had cultivated a life full of loved ones, we celebrate the impact that person made in their world and what they meant to everyone in it. Sometimes it’s an amalgam of all these things.
That’s what was on my mind Saturday when I attended a celebration of life for my friend Steve Vericker, a desert radio host and local personality.
When I moved to the Coachella Valley in 2005, I worked for the daily newspaper. My job was in the features department, writing lifestyle stories and my own weekly column. I worked hard to make a good impression; this had been a big move across the country, and Palm Springs both awed and intimidated me. I desperately wanted to carve out my own little place in it.
However, there was a popular morning radio show that eviscerated my column every week. Absolutely ripped it to shreds. And the more I pushed myself to be cool or impress readers, the more it altered my voice. Months after my arrival, I was mocked, miserable, and wracked with self-doubt.
An email from a stranger
That’s when I received a message from Steve Vericker (known on the radio as Steve Kelly).
“I want to get you on my show,” he said. “Let’s talk about some stories you’re working on and show people who you really are.”
Keep in mind, I didn’t know Steve. I hadn’t yet met Steve. But somehow Steve knew everything. He understood I needed a life preserver, and he made a point to be one for me. So I went on his show. I chatted about who I am and what I write, and it restored a lot of my confidence.
To this day, I’m still touched by his gesture. It was a generous use of his platform and a real gesture of kindness at a time when I didn’t see much of it elsewhere. Not only was Steve great at helping out fellow journalists and creating valuable networks, he was very good at being kind.
Many years later, our friendship well established, Steve popped into my inbox again. This time it was to say he was proud of me for getting quitting alcohol. He told me that he’d been dry for decades, and he credited sobriety with saving his life.
“I promise you, life only gets better,” he wrote.
So that’s what I celebrated on Saturday during Steve’s celebration of life — the gifts he so freely gave, the way he reached out whenever life was hard, and the promise that things always get better.
•••
Steve’s ashes will be spread by his family and close friends in Ireland. If any of you are ever in the Emerald Isle, I hope you’ll think about his generosity of spirit, and it’ll inspire you to pass along a small kindness.
I am not a Paris expert. I’ll say that right off that bat.
In fact, even though I’ve been to France before, I actively avoided Paris. It seemed too mainstream, too simple, too done. Everybody goes to Paris.
But on my way to Tanzania, I wanted a long layover to acquaint my body with different time zones (and possibly let my bags catch up with me, in the event of misplaced baggage). I also hoped to explore somewhere I’d never been, and when I mapped out all the flight options, Paris was the winner.
It turns out that people go to Paris because Paris is wonderful. There’s no other way to say it.
Everything looked like it had been plucked right out of my high school French textbook, which was cool because I genuinely enjoyed French class. (I don’t remember any French, mind you. But I enjoyed it.)
I was instantly charmed from the moment I opened my balcony window and gazed over the city. My love only grew from there.
Where to stay
I wanted to be within walking distance of Musée d’Orsay, my top priority of things to see. So I found Hôtel de l’Université, a sweet little place in Saint Germain des Prés. It’s on the left bank and nestled in a quiet section of the city but still close to good restaurants, shops, and many tourist sites. It was also well within my budget.
Next time I would probably stay somewhere in Le Marais, which is a bit livelier, has more of a foodie scene, and is historically known to be the LGBTQ+-friendly district.
Where to eat
The first mistake I made in Paris was something I do too often when I travel — I wait to eat until I become ravenous, then I find myself in a place with few options, and I snarf down something sub-par. And so it was at Musée Rodin, when I was about to eat my own hand. I ordered something from the on-site cafe, because sometimes museum cafes are terrific, but this one was very sad.
Now every time I see The Thinker, I will assume he’s pondering why the soup is cold and the pasta tastes like glue.
From that point on, I visited Paul each morning and kept a loaf of bread on me at all times. Kind of like a Boy Scout, but armed with a baguette instead of a pocket knife.
For really excellent Thai food, I loved Street Bangkok, which has locations all over the city. (Yes, I went all the way to Paris for Thai food, and it was delicious.)
I could’ve eaten the fresh dumplings every single day at Raviolis Nord Est.
While wandering, I was lucky enough to stumble across the oldest cafe in Paris, Le Procope, which serves traditional French fare.
Honestly, I don’t remember everything I consumed as I ate my way around the city. But there was one night where I walked through the Latin Quarter and ordered one small thing from nearly every place I encountered, from vegan fast food to tiny pastries, and it was one of the best nights of my life.
With such a limited amount of time, I figured a tour would be the quickest and easiest way to see a lot of landmarks and orient myself. (Here are some of my recommendations. I do earn a small commission if you book one from that link.)
• I booked a vintage motorcycle ride with Retro Tour Paris, which was so fun. My tour guide was kind and accommodating, customizing the tour to include everything I wanted to see. But the best thing about it was that so many people smiled and waved as we rode by. It felt like I was interacting with Paris rather than getting shepherded through it, which has been my experience with other kinds of tours.
• I also wanted to maximize my museum time, so I bought the Paris Museum Pass in advance and booked time slots whenever possible, so I could skip the lines and breeze right in.
While I risked getting museum-ed out, I’m impressed with the sheer amount of art and beauty I squeezed into my few days. Here’s a little taste. (Also I cried, because that’s what happens sometimes when I see magnificent things.)
• I’m a fragrance-phile, so I couldn’t leave Paris without visiting the Musée du Parfum and creating my own scent with Fragonard.
Tips
• I read way too many guidebooks in advance that warned against taking the Métro. So that was my next mistake. I spent my first two days clomping 15 miles/day all over Paris in my hiking boots, and I ended up injuring my right ankle to a point where I didn’t know if I could climb Kilimanjaro — the whole reason I was heading to Tanzania. When I finally gave in and took the Métro, it was so fast and easy, I felt foolish for not using it earlier.
That said, pickpocketing is a real problem in any city on any public transportation system, so be very aware of your belongings.
• I do advise getting the Paris Museum Pass. It was a great deal, and the sites are varied enough that you won’t get bored. It also saved time, since I avoided the massive lines.
• Finally, don’t be like me. My biggest mistake of all was that I didn’t give myself enough time in Paris.
After one night resting up in paradise, it was time to leave the tranquil Pongwe area for my next stop on Zanzibar, the livelier village of Paje.
But first, a massage.
I’ve said before that I don’t take time to relax when I travel, and that goes for spa treatments too. Even though I love massages, unless I can squeeze it into something I’m already doing, (like getting a massage during the night markets in Thailand), it’s not a priority.
So that goes to show just how wrecked I was after climbing Kilimanjaro: Relaxation became top priority.
The massage therapist, Margaret, gave me a few minutes to undress, and I folded my clothes onto a nearby chair before I eased myself onto the table. At this point, my calf muscles seemed permanently clenched. There were knots in my back. My body was speckled with bruises and sunburn.
The moment Margaret pulled my hair away from my neck and put her hands on me, I audibly groaned with relief.
She paused for a moment and touched the chain around my neck. “May I remove this?”
I had totally forgotten about the necklace. I wear it every day and never remove it, so it hadn’t even crossed my mind. Nodding, I told Margaret to go ahead. She unlatched the chain and showed me where she was placing it, atop my pile of clothes.
As the massage proceeded, my mind wandered to other things. Like, wow, this woman works miracles and I hope my toenails don’t fall off in her hands. And finally, I have to pee.
I had to pee so bad. This is why I am bad at relaxing. Because I cannot regulate my beverage intake well enough to go 90 minutes without a bathroom break. Suddenly a toilet was all I could think about, and I willed the massage to be over as fast as possible.
Relief
The moment Margaret left the room, I yanked my clothes off the chair and dashed for the restroom, which was connected to the massage room. Afterward, relieved, I got dressed, walked out the door, tipped Margaret, and left.
I didn’t even remember the necklace until I was in Paje, more than an hour and a $50 taxi ride away.
Any stress that had dissipated during the massage returned and hit me with a wallop.
My necklace. I couldn’t think of anything else in my life that was at once so worthless but also so precious. I’d purchased the necklace in Greece, just a few nights after my emergency surgery in Athens. It was a tiny evil eye, smaller than my pinky fingernail, and it hung on the most delicate silver chain.
Fresh off a medical issue, I wanted an evil eye for protection. A talisman. But it also served as a beautiful reminder of Greece, the place that lives in my heart. I’d worn it every day since.
Maybe I could find something close, I thought, and scoured the internet. Somehow there were approximately 78 million evil eye necklaces on the world wide web, and none of them were similar to mine. I remembered how my family and I walked through dozens of tourist shops until I found the perfect one — and when we found this necklace, it was just 15 Euros. It was the only one like it.
Even if I could find another, this one was irreplaceable.
Lost and found
I messaged the hotel on WhatsApp, but I didn’t have much hope, because I didn’t even know if my necklace was there.
I assumed that when I yanked the clothes off the chair, I launched the necklace somewhere. But where? What if it fell behind something? Or what if another client picked it up? What if they threw it away?
“We have located your necklace!” someone from the hotel replied.
Next we had to figure out how to get it to me.
I’d hoped that Pongwe to Paje was a well-traveled route. Perhaps another hotel guest was coming this way?
They weren’t.
The hotel employee suggested I take a taxi back to Pongwe, pick it up, and return to Paje. But I couldn’t stomach the thought of paying $100+ to go back and forth.
I was still weighing the cost when I received a message with good news: There was a taxi driver who was headed my direction, and he could bring me the necklace. I’d have to pay for the trip and for his time, but it would be far less than $100.
The lesson
I remember hearing a story once about how Cher hired a separate limo just for her wigs. It sounded like the height of decadence — not only did Cher have these exquisite wigs, but the wigs had their own driver, and they traveled without her. Think of all the adventures Cher’s wigs must have!
Now my necklace was the broke girl’s version of Cher’s wigs, traveling around Zanzibar before returning to me. I loved thinking about that, imagining all the places it might go.
Here’s the other gift I received.
The hotel couldn’t tell me what time to expect the driver, and I didn’t want to miss him, so I agreed to hang out at my place in Paje and wait. Luckily, I was staying at Mr. Kahawa Waterfront Suites, a stylish and comfortable boutique hotel that also happens to be located on the most picturesque, pristine stretch of beach. When I tired of watching the kitesurfers, I could take a cool dip in the pool.
Hours into my wait, as I lounged by the water, read a book, and luxuriated in solitude, I realized that my necklace was forcing me to stay in relaxation mode. So maybe that evil eye gave me some protection after all, and protected me from myself.
