Mary Novaria

We love the Southwest. SANTA FE, N.M. -- John and I are on an extended, working road trip throughout the West. We love the scrubby, desert landscape, the mountains, and the big skies. We’re doing the Airbnb, VRBO thing, because we want to get the feel of what it’s like to actually live in a place, as opposed to staying in a hotel. Sometimes, though, the accommodations can cause one to rethink this strategy. The thing is, this place looks above average in the marketing materials and has wonderful reviews. We're not overly critical or picky, either. I guess finding a vacation rental is kind of like using an online dating service. There could be two terrific people, but in the end, they just don't have anything in common.  If you have a zealous obsession for all things Southwest, the Santa Fe condo we’ve rented just might be the place for you. Swaddle yourself in Native American blankets you’ve ripped off the walls, and imagine you’re transported to a gallery overflo...

This piece first appeared in the Huffington Post. Even with dozens of family trips under my belt, I still can't get myself or the rest of my brood out of the house without a meltdown. And I'm not talking about the kids, here. They're way past the age of tantrums. Unfortunately, I'm not. It's not even the actual travel that makes me come unglued. I could almost justify that since travel these days seems to be fraught with peril. Mostly, I enjoy travelling -- once the trip's in progress. I don't even mind making the arrangements. I happily shop the travel sites for the best airfares and great deals on hotels. I'm fine once we hit the road or get to the airport. Until then? I'm like an 18-wheeler that's lost its brakes on the way down the mountain. Too often, before I lock the front door behind me, I am whipped into a frenzy, suffering that gnawing, doubting clutch of Trip Anxiety. My daughter calls it "that thing that makes us all s...

Melrose Place With our upstairs neighbors away, we’ve been enjoying relative peace and quiet. There are still the usual city noises, of course—motorcycles, screeching tires and sirens, mostly; and the occasional amped up banter of bar patrons staggering home in the wee hours. We miss the vacationing folks upstairs like you miss a toothache. Oh, they’re pleasant enough when we meet in the courtyard or at the recycling bin, and they have a sweet three-year-old who’s advanced enough to have real conversations—although she’s never had candy, which presented a trick-or-treat dilemma last Halloween. Trouble is, they have no idea how much noise they make. Or, maybe they do and they just don’t care. Personally, I’m giving them the benefit of the doubt and calling them clueless. My better half has dubbed them the Klompuses, in a twisted nod to their constant clomping around. (Also, an homage to Jack Klompus, a Seinfeld character and resident of Del Boca Vista. But I digress.) ...