Where is the Stargazer’s Lounge?

By: Gabriela Yareliz

My eyes were scanning a long line of taxis, empty and ready to go. JFK would never. That would be too smart.

When you arrive to BNA (Nashville International Airport), you are spoiled for choice. A taxi driver signaled to me, telling me to walk to the front of the cluster (whose direction was unclear at first), and I got into the taxi with an Ethiopian driver who told me his life story. He told me he had too many kids (“One kid is enough, yeah? Tops two— like Americans”), he at first had wanted to move to California, but it was too expensive, and he asked me if I was ok with the summer heat.

I nodded and told him it was nice he had so many kids and that I was fine with the heat as a certified Floridian. (No AC, no problem). I glanced around at the car repair places we were driving past and saw the skyline of downtown from a short distance.

“Just drop me off at Music City Center,” I told him. “Which side?” he asked. I had no idea how huge this conference center was. It also made no difference to me. “Doesn’t matter; whatever is easiest for you,” I told him.

I had called the hotel from the airport and my room was not ready, so I would need to schlep my stuff around for a bit. They told me to come back at four for check-in and that the room may be ready earlier (maybe it’s just passing inspection, they told me).

I was hungry. I opened my phone to find the nearest Starbucks or Dunkin. No Dunkin. Everything else was closed. I wandered over to the hotel a half hour before check-in, hoping to finally get into my room so I could find food.

As I walked into The Westin, I passed the hotel valet teenagers talking about pants from Chattanooga and sneaking a smoke at the valet station. They looked like kids doing a summer camp job or Theo Von’s naughty cousins.

I walked up to the desk and gave them my ID, my last name, and my credit card, and at the end, they told me my room still wasn’t ready. They told me they would call me. I was annoyed. “You can leave your stuff in the front with the valet,” the girl at the desk told me.

I glanced back at the scene I had just passed. I imagined them opening my bags and putting my underwear on their heads— they seemed like the types who would. “I’ll pass on that offer. I will sit here in your lobby and do some work. Please let me know once it’s ready. It’s been a long day.”

Check-in time came and went. I called the front desk only a few feet away, and they told me my room (still) wasn’t ready. I kept busting out emails and contracts with my hotspot because my laptop wouldn’t connect to their WiFi.

Frustration mounted (both on and off the screen). I felt like the guy from the SNL Hotel Check-in sketch (except I didn’t know this sketch existed then, but it was so real at that time). I didn’t want to see the Stargazer’s Lounge— I wanted my room.

I wish I had a stargazers lounge. Ironically, I was also staying with Marriott.

Finally, more than an hour after check-in time, after delays, scarce AC while being on my period and no food, I received a call. A chipper man told me my room was ready. “Come whenever you would like,” he said. “Dude, I have been waiting. I am staring at you from the beige leather couch in your lobby,” I told him. He made eye contact and grinned. I did not return the smile. I slapped the laptop shut and put it under my arm and tossed my duffle toward the counter. (Giving zero f’s at this point). The room was not what I had been told I would get. I had two beds instead of one. I unpacked and hung my clothes. Desperate, I opened a bag of chips and a KitKat bar in the room beneath the TV that would later be charged to me at $12.33 a piece. (WTF, Marriott).

It was time to find real food. At that time, I had no idea how hard that was going to prove to be that week. Nashville will put you on a diet, if you are carless, have eating restrictions, your conference is cheap, and you are trapped downtown.

JetBlue (Sweat) Ghetto

The start of a literally bumpy ride.

By: Gabriela Yareliz

We were delayed.

“It’s getting hotter and hotter,” the pilot told us. So we would be delayed further because they couldn’t get the plane to cool with external units.

*collective sigh from the cohort of southbound travelers*

The plane had no functioning AC on the ground. The day wasn’t even sweltering. It was 75F outside, and the inside of the plane was 97F. Ironically, where we were going was much hotter. It’s like we were on planet earth and traveling to the sun. But we couldn’t get it together on earth. A dubious start.

What blew my mind was that the solution JetBlue was offering was for us to wait and board the hot plane complaint-free or they would cancel our flight. How are these the only two options? Most of us were conference bound and hoping to arrive before the open plenary.

How is getting us a functional plane not an option? I wondered. This is the state of JetBlue. Ghetto. (The flight back was a steamy one where I was seated on a hot plane, trapped with parents who had zero control over their kids or themselves— more on that later).

The state of NYC flights is wild. JFK has a new exit for certain terminals. There is zero signage where you need it. The security line is insanity. They yell at you, telling you there are three lines, but it is all a lie. The three lines merge into one in five feet. It’s the dumbest thing I have ever seen. Everyone is pissed and cutting each other as they merge.

Basically, NYC has taken the approach of complicating travel. It’s like someone asked, How can we make this harder and more unpleasant? A+ on that assignment to the asshole who succeeded.

No Ubers allowed. Lines for taxis that last for hours. A NYC-based plane and crew with no AC. The lines for Starbucks and Dunkin were three city blocks long. They closed Jamba Juice in terminal 5.

RIP Jamba Juice?

So you go hungry because you don’t have the hours required to make it through the Starbucks line, and the snacks get smaller and more pathetic in-flight. JFK Terminal 5 hack— the new Eataly mini-mart. It’s the size of a corner with self-checkout. They have egg salad sandwiches and other little snacks for the hungry.

My precious egg salad sandwich. One of my last full meals because Nashville is not pescatarian-friendly.

Traveling out of NYC (or to NYC, for that matter) is not for the weak.

Just as we thought we were taking off, the flight attendant tells us we were rerouted to another runway, and we are #24 to take off. On a hot plane. He reminded us to “not complain” and cooperate or they could easily cancel the flight.

Also, what does it mean to not cooperate? We are strapped captives in this capsule. Were they telling us not to fight each other? To not fight them? (At that point, we all would have fought them). Honestly, I kind of understand why people lose it on planes. I bet we miss context in these stories that hit the news. Were they sitting on the tarmac sweating for hours? That’ll do it. We lose all civility because the airlines lost it first. Passengers suffocating on incompetence (and the lack of moving air).

I turned on St. Denis Medical in the background, opened my Kindle and said my prayers while we bopped over clouds and experienced insane turbulence. The pilot was like, “There are no flights making a path for us in this direction— we keep running into these systems, and it’s going to be bumpy.” Meanwhile, we are all gripping for dear life. It was basically the SNL Newark sketch.

The flight crews’ whole conclusion was always, “Don’t complain.” Meanwhile, it’s like, Why can’t you get it together, JetBlue?

I made it, though. I made it and landed in the South. And if we thought it was hot, we went out of the frying pan and into the fire.

I walked out of the tunnel and through a new terminal. A man dutifully swiped his badge, opened the auto doors. Swiped again. Closed the doors. A bus pulled up ten seconds later, and the man swiped again, opening the doors. It was an absurd routine that I observed. Closing the doors for five seconds was unnecessary. But one thing the South has down that doesn’t exist in NYC is order. I was going to give him that.

The doors opened, and I scurried to a bus shuttle. Welcome to Nashville.

This Week’s Favorites 07.02.26

Art by Anne Neilson

By: Gabriela Yareliz

It’s America’s birthday week. Let’s gooooo!

I love a good birthday. Always.

This week was a busy one. I felt like I was in two places at once, working across time zones and stupidity.

The southern heat was an intense one, and I am not one to complain about heat. On one day, my blue linen dress melted onto me basically, and I spent the evening scrubbing the Banana Republic navy off of my arms and chest. (Could have joined the Blue Man Group?) On another day, as I crossed a sunny intersection, it literally felt like my slacks (dress pants) were thick flannel and on fire. Thighs on fireeeee. 🔥

That’s what heat does— it consumes. I have sweat out my toxins, exorcised my demons (more on that later), and slept to the sound of Rose and Blanche arguing on Golden Girls. #comfortshow

Here we are in early summer— heat waves, airplanes with no AC (the one I am on now is struggling to cool) and extra strength deodorant.

While I was melting, these are some of the things that caught my attention this week:

Fruit always speaks. This is biblical.

“Every writer chooses herself if she is going to write honestly. There is no other way.” Rebecca Woolf

Rainier Wylde always imparts wisdom.
Valid.
Always win.
Never tone it down.

“They can knock you down, but they can never knock you out.” Kendall Toole

Locked in.

“I haven’t felt like myself lately. I must be growing.” Unknown

(What if our discomfort and the moments where we don’t recognize parts of ourselves— what if all of that is ok? What if it’s not a sign of something bad but of growth? What if feeling like yourself starts to feel different? Like when a caterpillar becomes a butterfly. Transformation means different. Been thinking a lot about this).

Yep. Some people will get my Tony Soprano.
Via RCLM Substack.
Via Kenzie Burke.

Something that has been on my mind a lot has been the wellness industry. It feels like we are full circle to early 2000s and shrinking oneself. It’s easier than ever now, with all these injections and pills.

I enjoyed this Dr. Stephanie Estima interview with Diary of a CEO. Listening to it felt like an exorcism of sorts of the skinny demons that haunt me (and I am sure many of us). Dr. Estima’s message, along with Kendall Toole’s message (founder of the NKO Club) is similar: Don’t shrink yourself. Build yourself strong.

I hope you listen to it. I hope you put away every message that tells you that you aren’t enough, that you need to do more, that your legs are too big or short or that your shoulders are too broad. I come from a culture where it almost feels like people express love through judgment. People say the craziest sh*t to each other. You grow up with older women tearing you apart and saying things that leave your jaw hitting the floor. Some of those things stay with you. And they are unworthy of taking up space in your head.

I have found a lot of wellness things a bit triggering lately. Every other ad is a GLP-1 or some 19 year old who doesn’t even work out. This podcast was divine timing. It serves as interruption for this moment in culture. Dr. Estima’s message is one rooted in love and compassion. One that celebrates true health and strength (not obesity and not skinny). It’s a must-listen, for any age. 💪🏼

Loved hearing about the Olympics, aka the Tkachuk Summer Camp Experience.

A fun pod.

I loved the message below. One of my takeaways is that sometimes, God doesn’t meet us in our faith, He meets us in our faithfulness.

This beautiful message on joy has stayed with me.

And lastly, happy fourth and happy 250 America! Celebrating the great USA 🇺🇸, this weekend. Proud to be American. There is no place I would rather be. I feel this to my core. I love this country. I love freedom. Freedom is a spiritual thing, you know. It’s a posture and experience we were wired for.

I was walking down a street to a sports bar to see U.S. v Bosnia, and this song was blasting from the speakers. It is forever a favorite. It reminded me of our team winning the hockey Olympics (men and women). On repeat.

Forever an American Girl.

Prayer PSA

This is your prayer PSA. I loved reading this as my devotional. A beautiful reminder:

“Prayer in Acts is never polite or passive.

It’s the mechanism by which ordinary, frightened people access an extraordinary, unshakable God.

So, where are you feeling the pressure today? Rather than strategizing, spiraling, or scheming, what if prayer was your first response, rather than your last resort?” Glorify

Mindset of Control

“She observed how New York is essentially set up to encourage rigidity in people: the city is physically set up as a grid; it requires grind in order to survive; the culture often makes people feel like they’ve never quite ‘made it,’ and as a result it’s easy to forget about pleasure or flow. It produces a mindset of control.” Nadia from Nouri Paris