“For last year’s words belong to last year’s language and next year’s words await another voice.” – T.S. Eliot

— HuffPost Books (@HuffPostBooks) January 1, 2012

In February 2011, author Cole Stryker looked at the correlation between several common resolutions and their popularity in Google Trends for Urlesque.com. The results were almost comically not surprising. Two months into the new year, the terms “get fit,” “get organized” and “quit smoking” are at their near lowest peaks of the year. “Diet” pops up again toward the summer months, but “resolution” is the most striking, with one solid peak at the culmination of the year and not another appearance till then. Psychology Today writes that “after six months, fewer than half the people who make New Year’s resolutions have stuck with them, and, after a year, that number declines to around ten percent.” With odds like that, it’s tough to be a modern resolution.

I don’t consider myself a quitter. A runner, maybe, but not a quitter, and I’ve been accused of sticking with things (ideas, jobs, people…) long after I should have let them go. In the past I’ve noted that I prefer to call my resolutions ‘to-do lists’ and go at them with the same fervor I attack a daily to-do list at work, or the errands list stuck to my fridge. I’m a staunch list maker, and achiever. So, it’s no wonder that I’m aching for a little break from the tyrannical to-do’s.

As far as lucky ducks go, I might be the luckiest. 2011 was no slouch. First and foremost, I got paid to explore the West Coast, Asia and South America more extensively. I tested my own boundaries, got sick and learned to laugh from it, and opened up to total strangers. I strengthened very old friendships and cemented new ones. I received an immeasurable amount of trust from new colleagues and thus have been able to work with some of the brightest minds in my field. I perfected my summer tan while achieving a work-life balance. Hell, I rode a horse up a mountain like a champ.

And looking ahead, 2012 means…

The beginning of the HuffPost Book Club, my pet project for the past few months, an interactive project that will blur the lines between what we read and how we live. We’re taking books off your nightstand, and out of your commute, and incorporating the words we love into our daily lives as a means of connection and growth.

More mountainous travel to Denver and South America, while planning a honeymoon to somewhere that will blow my hard-working, not-yet-well-traveled fiance’s socks off.

The continuation of my yoga practice, which has had an amazing impact on how I see life and my own health.

The formation of a team at my work place that will quite literally revolutionize the way we read and share and formulate the news, and the chance to re-energize and rebuild one of most important news websites of our time.

Lots and lots of long weekends in new places because, hey, all of that creativity has to come from somewhere.

And, of course, my wedding, February 16th, 2012, when I’ll need to learn to stop being ‘me’ and start being ‘us.’

With so much already on the table, who needs to mandate happiness into their lives?

So, if I had to pick a resolution, if I was absolutely forced to, it would be this: Make no resolutions. Put no boundaries on life. Go where the wind takes you.

See that quote embedded above? Last year I tweeted that simple quote from the Huffington Post Books account. With 57 retweets and favorites, and countless replies, I know I can’t be the only one ready to forge forward without fanfare or looking back.

“How was your trip?” a friend would Skype me that night. “Amazing,” I replied, “I just had the most amazing pizza of my entire life.” This was the last thing she expected to hear from a Brooklyn-raised Italian American and, also, this is Argentina we’re talking about.

When you find yourself in Buenos Aires, don’t forget to make it to Eva Perone’s grave, and remind me to pass along the name of a fantastic little leather shop in Palermo where you can score affordable heels. Oh, and regardless of whether or not you’re a good dancer, give the tango your best whirl. Visitors venturing down to Argentina’s famous capital have no lack of ideas in front of them. Often breathlessly described as the idyllic love child of romantic Paris and edgy New York, guide books quite literally overflow with tips, ideas and itineraries for first-timers that range from sorta-scary-but-generally-okay street art paths to tango jaunts in cramped second floor studios. Food lovers here are corralled into art nouveau cafes and break blood vessels eating at gourmet butcher shops until they burst.

“But stay away from the pizza,” your friends will warn you, “you don’t want that pizza.”

Since Italians are the largest heritage group in modern day Argentina, it shouldn’t be that surprising that pizza is a staple of your typical Argentinian diet. You’re likely to find a Mediterranean restaurant on many streets featuring those old staples like spaghetti and meatballs. Argentine families are often mobile in their daily routines and these quick meals fit into their schedules and fill tummies. But there’s something about that pizza that causes confusion in visitors. There’s something different about this meal that the masses of sauce-covered faces just can’t place their finger on. Even Wikipedia, the crowdsourced dictionary of “subjective” reference, says of Argentine pizza, that it “more closely resembles calzones than it does its Italian ancestor.” Maybe it’s the recipe.

There’s one obvious difference to this exotic sideshow: the crust. This is not your typical Chicago deep-dish thick crust, this is a loaf of flaky bread more on par with another Italian treat, the focaccia, a round bread topped with light sauces and herbs. To achieve that dense, chewy base, dough is left to rise for up to 70 hours during preparation. After that, it’s smothered in an array of large hunks of vegetables like peppers, broad hunks of meat and whole green olives, an achievement similar more similar to a Jackson Pollock painting than your casual New York folding slice. And the faina, ah the faina. If you’ve still got room in your belly for more, you can try to handle this slice of “secondary pizza,” a broad slice packed with chickpeas, roasted onions and cheese. It adds a satisfying crunch to the soft, mushy ball of cheese you’ve undoubtedly only just gobbled down.

While even well-traveled Westerners can admit our US standard of pizza has no resemblance to it’s Italian brethren, we can’t deny having a love affair with the iconic slim triangles of dough covered in a dollop of cheese and drowning in oil. It’s an emotional thing, it’s a nostalgia thing, and here comes Argentine pizza, a mass of bread piled-high with thick, gooey cheeses and almost aggressive toppings, throwing us all for a loop.

If you’re willing to ignore the jeers and ridicule the Foursquare check-in will earn you, there’s an actual gem of a pizzeria right on busy Corrientes Av where Guerrin has been making people cry tears of pizza joy for 43 years. Brainchild of Milan immigrant Franco Malvezzi, the pies here are thinner by Argentinian standards, but still pack a punch that will make you double over in satisfied pain after you’re done licking your fingers clean. If you’re brave enough, pour a tall glass of moscato, fight for a table in the back and join the hundreds of people who line the walls of the bare-bones shop each day for a very emotional lunch break. What does this classic establishment have that the dozens of other shops lack? It could be the minimalist interior, or the all-business serving staff. It could be that the pies are closer to the style of our nostalgic pizza dreams than other Buenos Aires fugazza. Or, it could just be that Guerrin’s house pie, teeming with spicy ham, fresh tomato slices, salty olives and cheese so thick it’s actually walking away from the pizza, is really damn good.

Call it procrastination: we had waiting until the final possible minute to contact the two rabbis listed on Disney’s preferred list and they did not have good news for us. One rabbi listed his price at three times my list of clergymen; the other was booked for our wedding day. Not able to afford the high price of the first rabbi, we set out on a mission to hunt down any and all Jewish people in the Orlando area for a new list of preferred rabbi; one who would officiate with my chosen priest and who would join us for some Disney World fun.

Two weeks and several awkward phone calls down, we had one. He wanted us both on the phone to go few a through things. And here are some things I learned in the priest 20-minute conversation.

• Many rabbis and priest will not do interfaith weddings, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t reach out. It was a rabbi who initially declined us who helped us track down our current selection within his awesome Jewish Batman email network.

• You might need to get an additional license. The Ketubah is a Jewish marriage contract of sorts. It’s apparently a very expensive piece of well-decorated parchment paper that stands for your contract of marriage and many rabbis take it seriously.

• You might be able to get your marriage license ahead of time. Check with your priest, rabbi, planner, or the city hall in your chosen location for rules and regulations. Some allow apply by mail, some require you in person, and still others create time limits before and after ceremonies and life events.

• Be prepared to connect your rabbi and priest beforehand. Both of ours requested to be in contact with each other and I think it’s a great idea. It leaves for no surprised (of what sort, I don’t know) on your wedding day and many destination weddings aren’t given a rehearsal.

• You’ll need to be flexible. After the initial phone call with our new rabbi I learned that we had to be sensitive in the ceremony wording and vows. While all mentions of a higher God of some sort are okay, it’s insensitive to wear your “I LOVE JESUS, HE’S AWESOME” t-shirt to your wedding, should you be a Christian. So that Jesus doesn’t think I’m denouncing him, I can’t wait to slap my “YAY JESUS CHRISTMAS!” stamps on our itineraries and follow-up invites.

• Finally, don’t leave the front door closed when you’re on the phone with your rabbi and the Chinese delivery guy is on his way. It’s just awkward to explain to the rabbit that yes, you’re listening, but the dim sum just arrived.

See more posts from my absolutely insane, last-minute (even though we’ve been engaged for 3 years) destination wedding at Walt Disney World right here.

As noted in the video, another big bonus of the program is the simple refrigeration of the products. Each market gets a colorful branded refrigerator that is stocked daily for just $200 with healthier options than high-sugar sodas and snacks. The markets have the choice to sell items at a higher price point to make a profit, or price to sell.

This initiative is just getting started and I can’t wait to see how it grows. As anyone who lives or travels in this city knows, one block can make the difference between neighborhoods and yet there are dozens of parts of the city that go without healthy necessities every day. Folks in the test neighborhoods, Central Harlem and Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, can check the list at GrowNYC to find out which local bodega carries Fresh Bodega products and to become involved in continuing this project.

Fresh Bodegas from GrowNYC on Vimeo.

Photo via Flickr user Maggie Jane.

Even if you’re not a fan of the flashy sights and sounds of spots like Vegas and Atlantic City, there’s something about the odd juxtaposition of a glittering, shimmering golden dragon rising through a puff of white smoke next to a doorway in which a tiny pot of incense has been placed that makes this city like one big treasure hunt.

Try, if you dare, to ignore the rainbows of colors coming off of every surface of Macau.

Note: My trip to Macau was sponsored by their CVB and Myriad Marketing.

I sat in our hotel lounge munching on a croissant breakfast with two other Americans and in they all came, a parade of nations: New Zealand, Australia, South Africa, Great Britain and Canada. I couldn’t remember their names as fast as they were being thrown at me but, oh well, I thought, I’ll probably hardly speak to them anyway. I’m not a particularly outgoing person and knowing my own shyness and limitations, didn’t really expect that the size of the group would have any impact on my trip.

I love being proven wrong.

Two days into my trip, in Aguas Calientes, a steamy little hot springs town at the base of Machu Picchu, I started to feel dizzy. I excused myself back to the hotel where I promptly laid down on a towel on the floor and within minutes began throwing up into the poor hotel’s garbage can. That episode repeated itself four more times, until, drowning in silent tears, I had to admit defeat: there was no way I’d be able to do the 5am walk up to the ruins. No coca leaf, nap or cup of tea would resesitate me. Finally around 8am I reluctantly packed my day bag and joined a group of three others at the town bus for the ride up to Machu Picchu. Despite the best efforts of those with me, I couldn’t breathe or focus on climbing, I lost what was left of my dinner into a plastic bag and, at the prodding of a public worker and a few group members, decided to climb back down to the bus and into the warm, loving arms of a special “sick room” hotel room that had been procured for me for the day.

I passed out into the evening then packed up once again to meet the entire group at the train station for the hour ride back into beautiful Cusco, a trip I was dreading, at 12,000 ft above sea level, and I settled into my train seat to begin moaning and groaning when 20-something faces turned to me.

“Are you okay?”
“Are you feeling any better? Is everything alright?”
“Do you want my water?”
“I have some coca leaves in my bag…”

A girl I had met just 48 hours ago rummaged through her stuff to find me an Advil and a gentleman from half-way around the globe got up to give me his seat. When we disembarked the train, a new friend helped me figure out how to buy a Gatorade in Spanish, and another carried my bags from the train to our awaiting coach bus. Back on the bus to the hotel, another friend gave up her seat so that I could lay down across a bench. In spite of feeling like I was rotting alive, their kindness took me by surprise and I began smiling. They carried my burden with me, all the way back to Cusco and to Lima the following day. And when we arrived in Lima, with my immune system fully recovered, others started to succumb to symptoms, and I returned the favor, dispensing Advil tablets, shuttling water and becoming a cozy shoulder to rest on.

I don’t travel in groups. I’m not outgoing and to take the time to really get to know 20 other people sometimes feels like a job to me. Remembering names, taking others feelings into accounts, doing group activities… sometimes these are things I travel to get away from. But had I ventured on my trip to Machu Picchu alone, had I been alone in that Aguas Calientes hotel, I can tell you that my trip would have been very different.

If I had no one to cry to, no one to make me laugh when I thought I was dying, no one to rest my head on, it would have been a very different trip. Instead, I was given the opportunity to be vulnerable to 26 people, never an easy task, particularly not for a life-long New Yorker, and in exchange 26 people carried me up a mountain.

I’ve been home for five days now. I’m very much back in the New York swing of things. I’m hunched over Occupy Wall Street emails, I have wall-to-wall brunch dates this weekend, and back-to-back meetings through next month. My heels were pulled out of my desk drawer and my debit card has swung through the magical Starbucks cash machine at least three times already. But there are two new editions to my desk at the Huffington Post. One is a tiny alpaca keychain, one of the few items I purchased from a Cusco market. His little keychain body is made of alpaca wool and he has googly eyes, which is basically a no-brainer for me when purchasing items. And next to him is a photo. I’m squished into the corner, wearing the one wrinkled dress I packed and new leather shoes from Argentina. I look visibly exhausted and out of my comfort zone. I’m leaning heavily toward my right, into the group of 26 people I had traveled with, and we’re all smiles, some mid-laugh, others mid-pose. It makes me smile every time I take a break from real life and consider the backpack that held all my belongings for over a week.

I entered my South America trip a cynic, a loner prepared to be polite and do her own thing. I came home with one alpaca keychain, one pair of shoes, 312 photos, three new songs on my iPhone, one used plastic bag and 26 amazing friends.

Sure, we were excited about the new cues for Haunted Mansion and Winnie the Pooh, not to mention the big wall guarding the famed Fantasyland expansion and the brand-new Beast’s castle peeking out from over the top. But most exciting of all, the night before we left, I stumbled upon this blessing of a blog, the Disney Food Blog, where I discovered a cupcake crawl.

Walt Disney World might not be the first place you think of when you go on a foodie vacation, but we decided, in preparation for our nuptials and dessert table, it was our duty, no, our mission in life, to test out as many Disney desserts as humanly possible. Thank goodness for walking uphill to Splash Mountain 4 hours a day!

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This platter of cake samples was provided by our Disney Weddings planner. We fell in love with both almond cake and marble cake, amaretto cream and white chocolate.

Candied apples are very popular at Disney World. These Mickey and Minnie apples were found in Hollywood Studios and are covered in sparkling sugar.

These cupcakes are found at the Boardwalk Bakery near the Epcot Boardwalk resort area. Besides the marshmallow cream and graham cracker crust, the center was filled with molten chocolate.

Cake pops are a new offering at Disney World and they're already everywhere. These versions were spotted at the Main Street Confectionery in the Magic Kingdom and were freshly made by a team of in-shop chocolatiers.

Best for the tiny hands of kids (or those who can't handle a cupcake) these are simple pretzel rods doused in white, milk and dark chocolate, and sprinkled in coconut, M&M's and nuts. They're available in Downtown Disney and Hollywood Studios.

If pretzels aren't your thing, these chocolate covered marshmallows should do the trick. Like the pretzel rods they're doused in candy and on display in Hollywood Studios and Downtown Disney.

During the day gourmet food trucks line up on the walking path across the island’s 170 acres to feed hungry patrons. After dark flashing lights tilt toward makeshift waterfront stages and music blares so loud you can feel the beat in your throat from Manhattan. But on an opposite side of Governors Island from the statuesque sculpture, pop-up shops and contemporary art exhibits lies the skeletons of a bygone era that reveal not the holiday weekend escape we make it to be, but a city within a city, a very normal urban dwelling where families went to church, ate dinner together — and fortified themselves against British forces.

My favorite part of the island? The Fort Jay Theater, crouching behind an unruly collection of trees on the outskirts of the island. With paint peeling off the doors and windows of the establishment, it’s almost difficult to imagine that you can still rent out the single screen room of the theater, even though there is no working water and sparse electricity.

The 1936 landmark is also a National Monument of Fort Jay, and contains a fallout shelter in the basement, similar to many other of Governors Island’s older buildings and wartime establishments.

I’m a horrible chicken. I jump ten feet high on haunted house rides; forget walk-through Halloween houses, I could never get near one of those. I get weak in the knees on particularly tall bleachers. It helps if I’ve had a gin and tonic or two before I fly. Meeting new people makes me nervous.

I’m looking to put an end to this madness because, what is fear, really, except a barrier to the rest of my life?

When my mom passed away seven years ago I lost a lot of the inhibitions that held me back as a student. After all, what could be as bad? And what could matter more? But amazingly, living in the middle of life, even a fast-paced life, can naturally give you a few pieces of emotional baggage. Read the news today? Ever think about how all of that could happen to anyone? Yeah, me too.

So, this summer, I’m going on a series of trips that will confront a handful of my biggest fears in the hope that all the little ones won’t be as bad.

First up? Heights.