Work is a crazy place, though nothing ever really happens. The glacial pace of systemic change in a tiny bureaucracy, the sporadic spitfire of emotionally suppressed emails, the incessant hum of pages being printed (to be retained for seven years), all wrapped in the repetition of blithe inquiries about your office mates’ weekend activities or how the weather’s shifted into a new season. It makes for a bizarre life experience when you spend at least a quarter of all your time there, even more bizarre when all your previous jobs have been in stores, open to the public and therefore a variety of daily experiences and interactions without the pressure of real responsibility. My relationship to work has always been hella plebeian. I’d survived on minimum wage and credit cards, happily. I’d stand all day, speak to dozens of strangers, and struggle for the twelve days preceding each payday. Every day these days, I sit at my desk in front of two monitors and a landline phone, sequestered in one section of a waterless aquarium. And every second Friday, I receive a direct deposit in an amount I’d once considered far fucking fetched.
How can you really describe work beyond the actual work you are responsible for? Work as I know it is a place where you can be yourself, but not really. Unless, of course, you are genuinely a dull person. My mind is sharp, and though certain work activities get it sharper in practical business ways, most of my work life sends it barreling the opposite way with full force, in slow-motion. At any given time, you can find me in my head about what I’m doing with my life. I get lost in so much thought it’s not even funny. I envy how my cat can witness the same meal served to him three times a day and never think, “Again?” To the contrary, he thinks “Yes. Again.”
I used to pontificate about my future work life, questioning how realistic it would actually be that I end up actually sitting at a desk doing something I don’t mind but don’t love. It’s now been my reality for four years. Does that sound terrible? Not really. There are plenty of worse fates than an HSA and a 401K. In an alternate reality, I could be struggling to pay rent or forced to rely on unreliable public transportation. For plenty of people, that is base reality. Because theoretically I would be grateful for any existence with a semblance of free will, I guess I am grateful for this type of life, too. I just get depressed by the unforeseeable end of my company, as it erodes at the life force of its ultimately dispensable staff who’ve spent so many cumulative years within those four walls. It pays well. What do we pay, though?
I say all of this to say that Ling Ma wrote an amazing novel that spoke to me as a corporate, consumerist millennial, particularly one who’s been caught excelling at a job for which they are utterly indifferent. Severance is a zombie novel focusing on a particular kind of fungal-induced fever that renders its victims stuck in a cycle of repetition for any number of mundane daily tasks. Imagine obsessively and mindlessly printing and filing papers at your desk until you rot away from malnutrition, your mandible hanging on by a sinewy thread. The main character of the story is Candace Chen, a Chinese immigrant who loves to work and has no family. She literally works through a zombie apocalypse and finds herself alone in New York City. She’s one of the few who have avoided contracting Shen fever and deteriorating into sloppy pseudo-humans, but at times I thought, maybe her fever is just a little more functional. You know, like the difference between an amateur and a career psychonaut, because she’s definitely tripping big time at plenty of points throughout the story. At these same points, I also wondered to what degree I, myself, am metaphorically fevered. I’ve been waking up to work at the same desk for four years, unable to pinpoint any real moments of meaningful satisfaction. Is that really living?
Severance is Ling Ma’s first book, and written during a time after she was laid off from her job and given a severance package. I remember when my coworker was laid off, not long after I’d started. She’d trained me to take over one leg of her responsibilities, but what was really happening was unbeknownst to the both of us until she was called into our boss’s office one Monday morning. Later, we talked and she told me that she’d been meaning to quit for a while, and that this was the kick in the ass she needed to get started on her own editing and proofreading firm. I am reminded of how inspired and envious I was, but what overshadowed that was my newfound ability to pay for things comfortably. Like Candace Chen, I was, and have since been, working for Kiehl’s eye creams and cashmere Uniqlo sweaters.
My favorite passage in the book is one in which Candace talks about her boyfriend, who’d expressed disenchantment and downright disdain for the consumerist lives they’d been leading in the Big Apple. He ultimately decides to leave. In a way, it read as me talking to myself.
I know you too well. You live your life idealistically. You think it’s possible to opt out of the system. No regular income, no health insurance. You quit jobs on a dime. You think this is freedom but I still see the bare, painstakingly cheap way you live, the scrimping and saving, and that is not freedom either. You move in circumscribed circles. You move periphally, on the margins of everything, pirating movies and eating dollar slices. I used to admire this about you, how fervently you clung to your beliefs--I called it integrity--but five years of watching you live this way has changed me. In this world, money is freedom. Opting out is not a real choice.
Billy McFarland was the young, white sociopathic entrepreneur that ripped his way through the small chain of Bahamian islands known as the Exumas, to defraud countless workers, business owners, and investors, all with washed up rap legend Ja Rule in tow. Together, they were certainly “living it up” (DO I DO?), selling a dream they’d christened “Fyre Fest.” McFarland’s lofty promise to eager attendees was an overtly lavish music festival laden with celebrities and influencers, gourmet catered meals, and exclusive, stylish beachfront accommodations. You've probably seen at least one by now, but there are two documentaries about the man and this farfetched, fucked up plan: 'Fyre' on Netflix and 'Fyre Fraud' on Hulu, which were released within days of each other.
I watched the Netflix documentary on my first day in the Bahamas, a trip I planned for my 30th birthday. I would have watched the Hulu one, too, but I discovered that Hulu isn't available in the Bahamas. I traveled with B and we were staying in Nassau, but the highlight of the trip was definitely going to be the Exumas. Seeing Chanel Iman and Bella Hadid play with the swimming pigs in the Netflix documentary did a bit to rejuvenate my overall excitement for the exotic excursion. Our first two days in the Bahamas were all about the fish fry (a strip of restaurants and bars that come alive with locals and tourists alike at night), beautiful beaches (like Junkanoo, with the bomb conch fritters), and getting adjusted to driving on the left side of the road (which is especially weird, because there are cars in Bahamas with the steering wheel on the left, and also cars with it on the right).
Prior to the trip, we’d booked a boat trip from Nassau to the Exumas through a company called Powerboat Adventures. For the two of us, the total was $441. Not long after our arrival in the Bahamas, we received a cancellation email from the company, saying that a mechanical issue with the boat would prevent us from going that day and that our money would be refunded. The email was riddled with typos and errors, which made me feel slightly like I had vertigo. Was this really happening? We attempted to rebook through another company, and were told that the tour was not available on our requested day.
At this point, B launched into research mode and found the optimal option. Firstly, he discovered that all the boats used by different companies for the Exuma tour come from the same place. Also, though the boat rides are cheaper, they were also 2.5 hours long each way, on semi-choppy waters in a small boat. The plane, on the other hand (which was tiny and a bit scary but oh-so-fun), gave the option of just a 30-minute flight, which would allow us 3 to 4 additional hours of enjoyment and exploration. Flamingo Air, a local airline, offered flight and tour packages for $500 per person. B then inquired about the individual price of a flight, and the individual price of renting a tour guide. In the end, we paid $188 apiece for the flight (discounted from $220 for paying in cash), and $175 apiece for the tour (paid in cash at the end, directly to the guide). Our grand total was $726, which is a lot more than $441, but also a lot less than $1,000.
Our tour guide was Kuenson Rolle. This felt significant to me because the woman in the Netflix Fyre documentary on Great Exuma that lost $50,000 at the hands of McFarland was named Maryann Rolle. We didn’t want to ask about the festival at all, since we thought it may still be a sore subject, especially seeing as though most of the workers are still unpaid for the labor they provided in 2017. Kuenson was an amazing guy and almost a local celebrity. We’d been told that everyone in the Exumas knows each other. Having given tours for over 30 years, he was still as enthusiastic, helpful and kind as we could have hoped for. [NOTE: You should definitely contact Kuenson directly if you plan to go to the Exumas. His company is named Papa Pig and I have his phone number -- there is no website.]
The first stop on the tour was a beach full of lizards. When we arrived, the sandy strip was mostly empty. As Kuenson pulled out his bag of honey wheat sandwich bread, lizards of all sizes started to emerge from the shrubbery. We fed them by stick.
The second stop was the famous pig beach. As our boat pulled up, a pig swam out to greet us. Later, we saw that they do this to each new boat, in hopes of securing new food. The big pigs were aggressive, running the smaller pigs away whenever it looked like a meal was coming their way. One of the more aggressive pigs bit my thumb as it attempted to snatch a slice of bread from my hands.
After saying bye bye to the piggies, we headed to Compass Cay, where we had to pay an additional $10 each to swim with nurse sharks. They lay in wait, nearly on top of each other, on a small pier where workers hack up big fish and toss it to the sharks for a snack. Meanwhile, we pet them like puppies and swam amongst them like guppies. They were harmless and actually kind of sweet, swiping their caudal fins against our legs as they passed by, kind of like how cats slyly impart their scent on adjacent humans.
The next stop was a sand bar, which was essentially a tiny desert island, no more than about 25 feet across in any direction. While riding in the boat, we noticed that the water elevated and depleted rather quickly, sometimes making it tough for our guide to navigate through very shallow areas.
From the sand bar, we went to the Thunderball Grotto, an underwater cave system teeming with all sorts of colorful fish and creatures. This is where a James Bond film was shot in 1965, and the entrance is a small dip that we swam through with scuba gear, life vests, and flippers. Neither B nor I are the best swimmers, and it was tiring even just getting from one point to twenty feet away. But the underwater view was absolutely incredible, and Kuenson dove in with us to babysit and make sure we didn’t somehow drown.
In the hour or two we had before catching the tiny plane back to Nassau, we ate at a restaurant at Staniel Cay with an Italian couple we’d met during the tour. I had the fresh catch of the day, which was mahi mahi. We ended up smoking with them on the beach and discussing travel and Bahamian politics until it was time to go. She showed me her hairy legs and underarms, and called me a coniglio (Italian for “rabbit”) for shaving mine.
The rest of our vacation we spent at the Atlantis Cove resort, which was almost depressingly nice. I tried sky juice for the first time there, which is a traditional Bahamian cocktail made of coconut water, condensed milk, gin and spices. After the first sky juice, I drank only sky juice. Our room was big and beautiful, overlooking the water park at the resort and a sliver of beach with waves crashing against rocks. We played roulette at the casino and ate cracked conch at Nobu (which you can ONLY do at Nobu Bahamas). It was a manufactured paradise, but paradise nonetheless. I’m not usually a resort type of gal, but since I’m turning 30, I had to increase my bourgeois-Z-ness a few notches.
The Exuma excursion is what made this trip spectacular, and I couldn’t imagine how I may have felt about the trip had we been unable to go. Billy and Ja weren’t wrong; a music festival there would have been amazing (albeit physically damn near impossible). I would recommend the Exuma tour to anyone who is going to the Bahamas and has a day and $460 to spend, even if it means forfeiting a few nights in a fancy hotel to opt for an Airbnb, which there are plenty of in the area.
In the past few years, you’ve undoubtedly seen more of your Instagram timeline in Reykjavík, Iceland, splashing in ethereal turquoise lagoons or showing off shitty, blurry Northern Lights captures. That’s largely due to the relatively cheap, direct flights offered from cities like Baltimore and New York by the fairly new (and often lamented) Wow Airlines, headquartered in Reykjavík. Nothing’s free on a typically hours-delayed Wow flight, and you have a decent chance of arriving to your destination without your checked luggage. I paid $250 for a direct flight from Baltimore to Iceland, though, which is hard to beat. Add the $44.99 carry-on luggage charge and it was still $100 less than the next cheapest flight available. If you’re fine forgoing comfort for six hours (and don’t need to check a bag), this is an amazing deal.
It’s cheap getting to Iceland, but it’s by no means cheap staying there. I stayed at an Airbnb flat about 40 minutes outside of Keflavik airport, where the hot water smelled like rotting eggs (which we realized was not an uncommon occurrence there). My rental car was an Opel Corsa, and despite it being a low-quality compact car, cost 75 dollars to fill (which I had to do twice in 3.5 days). Stumbling through directions written in Icelandic, I used my debit card at the gas station and ended up with over $400 in temporary authorizations hanging out in my account. Later, a Twitter friend informed me that I should have used a credit card at the station instead.
I arrived on a Friday morning and had a day by myself before my friend Ayanna got there on her more comfortable and expensive Delta flight (with a free drink, in-flight movie and blanket -- but also with an annoying three-hour layover in New York). I booked a Golden Circle tour, which took me to the famous geysers and the Gullfoss waterfalls. I witnessed one of the world’s most active geysers, Strokkur, erupt twice within a few minutes, which was truly extraordinary and unlike anything I’d seen before. The advice from my tour guide: “Don’t look away, it’ll erupt as soon as you do.” People camp out around the outer borders of the geyser area with cameras ready to capture the explosion, sometimes waiting 10 or 20 minutes to see it. The Gullfoss waterfalls were breathtaking, but not even the most amazing waterfall I visited. The great outdoors in Iceland is so visually varied. It’s like four or five of the distant planets from Interstellar. Glaciers, lakes, waterfalls, black sand beaches, volcanoes and peculiar rock formations all join up to create a terrain that is at once wondrous and intimidating.
On Saturday, Ayanna and I went to the Seljalandsfoss waterfalls, which was recommended by my friend Marianna, who’d just left Iceland the day prior to my arrival. Her text: “You NEED to check out this waterfall in Seljalandsfoss. I won’t say anymore, and let you discover the magic yourself!” When we pulled up blasting Cardi B, we immediately saw the astounding height and ferocity of the first waterfall. As we walked along the path to the other waterfalls, we saw what Marianna was talking about. There was a hidden waterfall, which you could climb up towards with the assistance of an anchored chain to help you lift yourself atop the potentially icy rocks. After snagging this view from above, you are then able to walk down and over stepping stones through shallow water, to stand at the bottom of the waterfall, semi-enclosed in the cave-like structure. If you’ve never felt insignificant in the world and would like to, I highly recommend this Icelandic adventure.
From Seljalandsfoss, we headed 45 minutes away to the city of Vík, home of fabled black sand beaches. At Reynisfjara Beach, I felt like a martian. This was the first beautiful beach I’d ever been to where I didn’t want to run straight into the water. There were definitely no beach towels or bikinis in sight. Posted signs actually warn visitors about sneaker waves, or disproportionately large coastal waves that accompany smaller ones, without warning and with sometimes deadly consequences. A handful of tourists have died at this beach after being carried away by a wave that crept up on them. The rock formations at this beach are basalt sea stacks, which look like a bunch of concrete steak fries, arranged with wild yet careful abandon. The rocks on the black sand are perfectly round and smooth, or jet black and shiny. They reminded me of what masseuses use for hot stone therapy, and I took a few with me.
The next day, we headed out to the Blue Lagoon, certainly the biggest tourist attraction in Iceland. There are many options for natural hot springs, but this one is huge, beautiful, and worth every penny of our $99 “Comfort” level admission. Walking from the parking lot to the entrance of the spa compound was the coldest three minutes of my life. Once we entered, we received our towels and magnetic wristbands, which allowed us to purchase drinks at the lagoon bar (and provided a first free drink). From inside, we waded into the water, which was a surreal light blue and sporting the slight sexy scent of sulphur, and made our way outside through a half-submerged exit door. The average temperature of the water was about 100 degrees Fahrenheit, and felt amazing on my body as my ears and hands froze. If you are coming to the lagoon, bring your own waterproof case (the bag kind, which you can get on Amazon for super cheap), because you will need one and won’t want to pay 2,900 Kronas ($29 USD) there. Although I had a Lifeproof case, I was still hesitant to dip my new iPhone X all the way in, hence my numb and frozen hands. The bar at the lagoon is pretty good, with selections of wine, beer, slushies, and fruit and veggie juice smoothies. I had two Proseccos, a strawberry sparkling wine and two green juices. Because I didn’t eat that morning and I suffer from AFR like many of my far east brethren and sistren, I was a goner by 1 PM. If you know me, you already know how that story ends. If you don’t know me, I’ll spare you the vomitrocious details.
That night at 9 PM, we were scheduled for a 5-hour Northern Lights tour, but I was dead. Ayanna went solo and was able to use long exposure on her professional camera to capture the itty-bittiest bit of green and pink swirling in the night sky, which she said was pitch black to her naked eye.
We left on Monday. Had I stayed a minute longer, I may have had to file for bankruptcy upon my return. Just kidding, but this is the only island I’ve ever been to without the utter cheapness of everything making you feel like foreign royalty. It makes sense, after talking to some friends, because Iceland has to import everything. Most likely, none of the ingredients on my $27 chicken kabob platter originated in Iceland.
This was an amazing trip for the gorgeous natural landscapes alone. Had I been ballsy enough to be more of a spendthrift, I would have indulged in the lamb, arctic char, gourmet hot dogs, seafood soups and more. For the short amount of time I spent in Iceland, it made a strong impact on my experiences as a traveler and world citizen. Getting out of your comfort zone by way of travel is one of the more enjoyable keys to personal growth -- and when you have views like the ones in Iceland, even frigid temperatures can’t stop your experience from shining.
Dana’s Travel Diary: Celebrating 29 with Escargot, Camels and Canals
For my twenty-ninth birthday, I really wanted to go to Morocco. A big item on my bucket list was to visit Chefchouen, the Moroccan city where all the houses and buildings are painted varied shades of blue. So, when I began browsing flights months in advance, I was disappointed to see that not only was it a few hours away from the nearest major airport at Tangier, but roundtrip tickets there were just shy of a grand, at best.
After tinkering with my flight search, I found a way to go to Morocco and two other countries as well, for less than a ticket to Tangier and back. I would fly from Baltimore to Paris via Wow Air (who caused me much heartache on this trip, but more on that later). I’d stay two days in Paris, fly to Marrakech for four days, then fly to Amsterdam for two more days, and back to Baltimore from there. Altogether, the flights cost about $750 (without checked bags and seat upgrades). All three airlines in my itinerary were budget and semi-crappy: Wow, Ryanair, and Transavia. Full disclosure: I did not sit in one comfy seat during my entire time in the air for this trip, nor was I offered a single complimentary beverage (even water). But I was able to visit three countries for three-quarters of the price it would’ve cost to just visit one (although the downside is that Chefchouen, the blue city, was too far away from Marrakech to justify a visit there during my four-day stay. I read that Marrakech, however, had the heaviest concentration of things to do for tourists out of all the major cities in Morocco).
We (my ex-boyfriend/friend/travel partner and I) took an overnight flight on a Monday to get to Paris through Reykjavik, Iceland. Our flights were delayed almost two hours, and although they held the connecting flights in Iceland so that we didn’t miss it, they took off without our luggage. This resulted in me only having two weather-inappropriate pairs of shoes and no heavy winter coat in the wet, slushy Paris snow.
Our suitcase got to us at nearly midnight on our last night in Paris. I shed tears in the airport before leaving, defeated – this was the first time my belongings had been lost in the travel abyss and I had severe separation anxiety. We spent our whole Wednesday at the Louvre checking to make sure our phones had service, because Wow Airlines was supposed to call us in the morning. They didn’t. We enjoyed the Louvre, though, which is really the size of eight or ten regular museums, full of all the finest art.
I ended up going to the Moulin Rouge in a kimono, jeans, sneakers and a North Face parka. It wasn’t so bad. It was dark and we were seated in the corner with our own bottle of champagne. The show was mostly what I expected: plenty of nipples and corny European Showgirl choreography. What I didn’t expect was the brilliance of the smaller, in-between acts. Like, I’m talking mind-blowing strength and talent, doing crazy things. I almost cried at one point because I was so overwhelmed by this woman freely spinning around inside a huge hula hoop, balancing on its inner edge.
The snowy weather was just as inconvenient as it was beautiful – it meant the Eiffel Tower was closed. It also meant we had to cancel a bicycle tour we’d scheduled through AirBnb Experiences (which has a bunch of fun, unique activities like the beekeeping experience I did in L.A.). It also meant that any walking we had to do was through cold, icy slush. Also, for some reason, Parisians don’t pick up dog poop.
Overall, Paris was effortlessly charming, even with the semi-nasty weather. We visited the Museum of Modern Art and the shops and Ferris wheel at Champs-Elysees. Also, I ate beaucoup escargot. They were delicious, but I made the mistake of Googling what the snails look like before they are cooked.
We left Paris on Thursday night, arriving in Marrakech close to midnight. We were greeted outside by a man in a hooded cloak, holding up a sign for us. It had been raining there for five days, which the driver said was very unusual. He dropped us at the outer edge of a tall, clay-colored wall that wrapped around an entire mega-village. We were met there by another man in another hooded cloak, who took our luggage and led us through a series of narrow alleys, passing heaps of rubbles, a few stray cats, and one lone food stand still firing up kabobs, before reaching an inconspicuous door marked by the number 31. This was the Riad Star, whose claim to fame was that it once housed the iconic Josephine Baker. The décor was clean and Moroccan, with Josephine paraphernalia throughout.
In the daylight, the medina (the area inside the walls, where we were staying) was a brand new beast. Shops, called souks, popped up seemingly out of the thin air of the night. Herbs, oils, scarves, purses, shoes, tapestries, and more were being sold in small stalls on both sides of the alleys we’d navigated upon our arrival. Dried fruits, marinated olives, and fresh cuts of local animals were on display in other stalls. My favorite pleasure was the fresh-squeezed pomegranate juice, a deep, rich violet color, a tangy and pure taste. For 15 dirhams, the equivalent of $1.50, I couldn’t get the smallest bottle of Pom in the U.S. Haggling is pretty much mandatory in the souks. The shop owners will charm you, and try to get as much money as possible from you. Their thirst for tourist dollars is palpable. Once you buy something, they’ll ask what else you like and pass you to their homies. The network of shops is pretty repetitive, so it definitely feels like shop owners rely heavily on references from friends and family members. For example, if you buy argan oil from one souk, and mention you want a scarf, they’ll walk you to one of dozens (if not hundreds) of spots to get a scarf, because they know that scarf guy.
Our single most irritating experience in Marrakech was on the first day, when we foolishly tried to use Apple Maps (versus the map on the app created by our riad’s owner, a British woman who introduced us to hot water bottles) to navigate the medina. It was momentarily a real life nightmare, walking for minutes, taking turn after turn, only to pass the same old man posted up on the same corner. Some of the Moroccan natives look out for people just like us, semi-frantic faces buried in smartphones, clearly walking the wrong way. They will always offer to guide you, and they will always expect – or demand – money. We did this once or twice and justified it in our heads – we were in their country and on their turf, had no idea where we were going, and wouldn’t have made it without their help. But once, an old man bombarded us with navigation help without us agreeing that we needed it, and demanded 300 dirhams. We said we didn’t have any money and a little boy nearby chimed in and said that we did, and pointed to where we had it. The little boy even cursed at me when we left. It was hard to storm off, because we still didn’t know where we were going. But from that point on, we walked through the medina with more purpose and more skillfully brushed off the many people that tried to jump in front of us and fake-graciously walk us to our next destination.
Aside from “Where are you going?” the next most common question we got was “Do you want to get high?” We didn’t actually indulge in Morocco’s famed hashish until escaping the maze of the medina, when the waiter at a tall rooftop bar slipped some into our hookah. We don’t think we got high, but we appreciated the gesture.
The food in Marrakech tasted extremely local. The meals we had in the riad were definitely made with ingredients from the shops right outside – one of the more common dishes was lamb tagine, stewed lamb in a curry type of sauce with vegetables.
Outside the walls of the medina, things were a little less hectic, with much less interaction and pressure at shops. We visited Le Jardin Majorelle and the YSL Museum, both of which were not far outside of the medina. From a shopping area not far from the Jardin, we took a taxi to an area where you can ride camels, La Palmeraie. We were given royal blue headscarves and tunics to wear on a 30-minute ride through a grassy area with tall palm trees, kids playing soccer, and herds of goats.
We left Marrakech for Amsterdam on Monday night, taking us back to Euros from dirhams. We stayed at the American Hotel, which was called the Hampshire Hotel when I made my reservation on Expedia. I don’t think I would have chosen a hotel in Amsterdam called the American Hotel, but it was actually pretty nice. I’d already read online that hotels were generally smoke-free, and although weed is very, very decriminalized, it is still technically illegal to walk around outside hitting a doobie. However, EVERYONE walking around outside was indeed hitting a doobie.
Coffeeshops (not “coffee shops” or cafes) are the places where weed is sold, and typically, there is a designated (and properly ventilated) space for smoking it as well. We visited several, the two prevailing in my memory being Boerejongens and Green House. Boerejongens was set up like a lab, and definitely had some of the best weed of all the shops we visited. Upstairs, the smoking room was like a small glass chamber with four to six chairs. Everyone was stoned in their respective languages, some silent and stuck, some chatty and giggling. Green House had much more space, and really good smoothies to sip on while smoking. Apparently, it is a favorite of Rihanna, whose pictures are framed all over the walls by the cash register. We also visited a bar, where weed was not sold, but was welcomed to be smoked. Signs on the wall clearly stated NO TOBACCO. Amsterdam is not tobacco-friendly. One of the best things about Amsterdam, in my opinion, is that I hardly saw anyone smoking cigarettes or drinking liquor, even in the bars. Everyone was good with weed, and maybe a hot chocolate on the side. It was extremely relieving to be able to walk around with weed in my purse, not having to worry about the dangers of civilian or police confrontation. Seriously, everyone in Amsterdam is high. It’s a wonderful place.
Another thing we tried in Amsterdam was truffles from the smartshops (basically the stores where psychedelics are sold, legally). I personally didn’t have much success with them, but my travel partner seemed to really enjoy his trip. We also visited the Red Light District (very briefly, en route to our hotel) where we saw prostitutes in windows. The first one we saw banged on the glass in distress as a group of eight to ten men walked past. It was kind of sad. The next thing we did was pay 2 Euros to go inside a booth for two minutes of a peep show. We saw boobs, then her shift was over, and a couple entered. The viewer shut off when the blow job started, and so we left. We’d seen enough to get the idea. We left Amsterdam on Thursday morning, ready to return to the lung punch of Backwoods.
This birthday trip was my first visit to both Europe and to Africa, and my first time being amongst so many French-speakers (in both France and Marrakech). Initially, I was concerned about this language barrier, because my French accent has always sucked badly. We found that English was abundant everywhere. It’s kind of wack that Americans can be such cultural buffoons and refuse to learn any other languages and still be accommodated, but “Bonjour,” “Comment ca vas” and “Merci” took us a long way. Bonus: we also learned “Shukraan,” which is “Thank you” in Arabic. Mostly, the places we visit are accustomed to Americans coming through, and want our money. If it means speaking to us in English because they know we will only know English, they will do that. An American traveling abroad is likely to be in a much better financial situation than a person native to that country, working at a restaurant or shop in their hometown. Americans are dumb. The guys who worked at our riad knew three or four languages – because they have to be able to communicate with the worldwide travelers that come through and pay their bills. I cannot say how appreciative I am of the hospitality I receive when traveling to other countries. I always imagine situations in reverse: a person traveling to the U.S., not knowing much English. They’ll have an awful time getting through our Customs, or trying to order food or coffee at a busy place.
Celebrating 29 in these three places was really the best gift I could have given myself. Beyond visiting the landmarks and eating famous foreign foods, I got to walk and breathe and smoke in other parts of the world, observing trees and clouds and the stars at night. I got to hear the traffic, see the road signs, and eavesdrop on conversations I couldn’t understand. I got to stop for French fries, sit and people watch on a sidewalk I might never step foot upon again. I splashed through puddles of rainwater from clouds covering cities full of faces I’ve never seen. I smiled at babies who will grow up and never remember me. Travel is the best expense I can justify in my adult life. I’ll end this with one last random thought I have: people who ask you “Is that safe?” when you tell them about your travel plans, clearly don’t travel. People travel to every destination every day. Anything unsafe can happen anywhere. You have to hold yourself to a high standard of common sense, no matter where you are or what you’re doing.
I never thought I would visit Cuba. Not only was it absent from my mental wish list of countries to visit because of media portrayals and social common understandings in the U.S., I’d been so put off by the convoluted and ever-changing rules for traveling there. Is it okay? Is it banned? Do you need a tour guide? Jay-Z and Beyonce went. But am I Jay-Z or Beyonce? Will I be on a watch list once I return to the states? The most common question, the one my mom immediately asked when I told her of my intentions to visit Cuba: Is it safe? I still don’t have all the answers, but I will say that Cuba has been one of my favorite destinations of all time. I have experienced nothing quite like it - having visited Mexico, Puerto Rico, Canada, Thailand, Indonesia, and various U.S. cities from Los Angeles to Albuquerque to Miami.
I traveled to Cuba with three friends this month to celebrate my friend Kiara’s 28th birthday. The ability to travel to Cuba seemed like a window slowly being slammed by the Trump administration. Kiara’s affinity for Afro-Caribbean culture and immersive, awe-inspiring girls’ trips led us to the heart of Havana. We began planning four months earlier in May, and had no way to predict the messy bitch that was Hurricane Irma. Two days before departure, we had an awkward moment where we weren't sure if we'd have electricity or hot water and almost abandoned the whole plan. We went out on a shaky limb and are incredibly glad we did.
I know basic Spanish, and can speak slowly and in the most basic present tense pretty well, but I was worried about communicating with people speaking Cuban Spanish, which seemed faster and somehow more flavorful. Everyone I spoke with was helpful and not at all impatient with my broken, basic Spanish.
We expected not to have cellular service in Cuba, and because my friend Krystal and I arrived a day after Kiara and Traci, it was impossible to communicate about pertinent things (like Krystal's delayed flight, or the fact that our flights arrived in two different, non-walkable terminals of Havana’s international airport). Our hosts and neighbors were some of the most amazing people. They treated us as family from the very beginning, and looking back, we would have struggled immensely without their help. Our hosts sent a driver to pick us up from the airport, and because it wasn’t as busy or populated as in other big cities since Cuban residents can’t travel easily and tourism has restrictions, Krystal was able to find me instantly upon pullup.
Cuba has two currencies, the regular peso (CUP) and the convertible peso (CUC), which replaced the American dollar some years ago and is used by tourists. We noticed that in many places, prices are posted only in CUC, which we came to realize was the case for a few reasons. Cubans, on average, make the equivalent of 30 CUC monthly. They receive rations of things like rice, beans and eggs, which accounts for about half their monthly food. Their healthcare, education and other things are free or very cheap, and they live very humbly for the most part. 30 CUC is nothing by American standards, but Cubans hardly live by American standards. For context, one beer costs 2 CUC. For tourist context, someone sold us a beach towel for 20 CUC, before we realized that was way too high. Most Cuban natives don’t patronize the restaurants, cafes, and food and merchandise stands at the beach. The vendors rely heavily on tourist money. It goes a long way for them. When in Cuba, I was consistently torn between being frugal and taking advantage of a haggle-friendly setup, and showering convertible pesos upon the residents of a country that is economically suffering largely at the hands of the country I hail from. The historical context of U.S.-Cuba relations are what made me a little uneasy about the trip in general, but also what made me so humbled and thankful for everyone’s kindness and hospitality. I understand Cuba’s need for tourism, which translates into the amazing customer service they provide, but beyond any historical context, their warmth felt so genuine. It’s legitimately insane how we are told both outright and subliminally that it is wrong to support the people of Cuba. You don’t even think about the potential absurdity of it all until you meet some of these people, and see how they live and seem to treat everyone as family. The U.S. has imposed embargos on Cuba until they make strides towards “better human rights,” but effectively violate human rights in the process. The politics of it all makes my head and heart hurt. The government doesn’t care that human rights are disrespected, it cares that it’s disrespect is not U.S.-controlled. That’s just my opinion, based on my particular vantage point. I’m sure there’s much more I don’t see, as is the case with everything.
In Cuba, there’s no such thing as personal Wifi. For 21 to 22 hours of the day, we were descontectado from el mundo. Cuba has Wifi in parks, and you’ll see hoards of silently scrolling people sitting on park benches. You have to connect through a Wifi card, which costs 2 or 3 CUC for one hour. Limited Wifi time as a group definitely kept us all in sync and wide awake to the organic experience.
Aside from our neighborhood in Playa Miramar, the two main places we visited were Santa Maria and Viñales. The beach at Santa Maria was about 40 minutes away. Our driver was Misael, the absolute sweetest guy who was patient and helpful and waited by the car while we tanned and frolicked. The water was warm, calm, and a beautiful shade of blue. At the beach, we instantly got the attention of two to three different groups of young guys which became a big party of Spanglish,Tupac songs and Polaroids. Two guys became our unofficial tour guides, helping us get cheap taxis and cheap fried chicken and bought Kiara a very moist 10 CUC cappuccino birthday cake. Another guy, who’d just turned 17, added me on Facebook and told me he loved me en español. Cuban men are very forward and friendly (and often described as dramatic in romance) - you can read a funny and interesting blog about it here:
https://hownottotravellikeabasicbitch.com/2017/08/06/8-things-you-need-to-know-before-dating-a-cuban-papi-and-ruining-your-life/.
When we asked where the trash can was, the guys laughed. They told us to just drop it on the ground. We found this weird, but then they explained that everyone litters, and the Cuban government pays people to clean it up. The guys also questioned our casual use of curse words, and mocked us with a surfer dude accent, saying “Damn.”
Viñales was the best part of the trip. It was about two hours away from our casa, and we passed through a more countryside area than we’d seen in Havana. The first place we visited was Cueva del Indio, where we drank fresh sugarcane juice cocktails before taking a motorboat through a huge cave with water flowing through. From there, we drove to an intersection where an old papi was waiting under the trees for us with four horses. He kissed us, helped us up, and we rode off without a single word of warning. It was the best experience of the trip. We rode up a hill to a tobacco farm where we sampled amazing Cuban rum and cigars, and bought coffee beans. The tour guide, Hermes, rolled a cigar for us and also gave us free baby bananas. On the way back, we rode our horses through a small body of water, which is a lot scarier looking back than it was actually going through it. We had a late lunch at a small restaurant nearby with Misael. When we told the waitress it was Kiara’s birthday, she instantly poured up a massive shot for her. The food was delicious. We had an array of lobster, red snapper, and ropas viejas, a traditional Cuban dish of shredded beef.
Cuba was a beautiful place, but the trip was made ten thousand times better by the people we met. Until 1997, Cuban contact with tourists was outlawed. I’ve read that even today, Cubans seen in contact with tourists are asked for their identification, which may explain why we were stopped by the policia twice while driving. Traveling to Cuba was much less difficult than I think we are made to believe, and I recommend it for anyone who truly wants the experience of a different and unique culture where a certain type of lifestyle and set of values has been preserved in the face of adversity. Foreign relations are complex, but on a very simple level, a human is a human no matter the particular piece of Earth they inhabit. The connections we made in Cuba are what made this trip truly unforgettable.
I did not use a tampon for the first time until my senior year of high school. It was 2007 and the concept was really foreign and bizarre to me. The first tampon I used had a cardboard applicator. I was at the public swimming pool, and my friend Christina stood outside of the bathroom stall, encouraging me to shove it in. When I walked out, I had a tampon half hanging out, and I scooted awkwardly towards the pool. I opted not to swim that day. With the introduction of sleek plastic applicators, this became a simpler task, though I still preferred the ease of pads. What I hated about pads, though, was how they never seemed to prevent a fat red leak on my butt, and on my friend Jasmin's cloth car seat, and at school, and at work, and when I sat at an angle too obtuse with my legs up, as I tend to do.
I bought a Diva Cup in 2014, when I worked at Whole Foods and had a 20% employee discount. Instead of $40, I paid $30-something. This also coincided with the first phase of my health overhaul. I'd first seen Diva Cup in the pages of Bitch magazine, a periodical for ladies who generally resist the status quo. In terms of menstruation, the status quo has long been pads and tampons. Historically, that's leaps and bounds over the options women had in years past: wadded up cotton, softened papyrus, muslin belts, and cellulose bandages to name a few. Since the 1980s, we've come an extremely long way, but we've come even farther in the latter part of the last decade.
Menstrual cups have been around in some form since the 1930s, but have never had much commercial success as compared with pads and tampons. In 2014, I got a glimpse of why this could be. I tried to insert the Diva Cup and failed. I gave the entire effort about two minutes before I put it back in its package and ruminated on how I'd wasted 30 dollars. For the next three years, I used pads and tampons to a ratio of something like 10:1. Assuming I use about 15 pads each cycle, that's over 500 pads in three years. Just imagine that mountain of bloodied sticky-bottom bleached cotton pads. Do they biodegrade, ever?
So, I guess I should probably first explain the need for a pad or tampon alternative. The answer is threefold, and probably even more folds, more folds than your vagina flaps, even.
1. Most sanitary products are bleached. Though there aren't concrete scientific data to show this, we can safely assume that prolonged use of these products has an effect on women's reproductive and general health. The vagina is a sensitive environment. More than pads, tampons are harmful to use because of their internal nature. Toxic Shock Syndrome is a possibility if a tampon is left in too long. That's a life-threatening disease. Does that sound normal to you? We do a lot of things that aren't good but have been normalized beyond our questioning. There are certainly natural and organic option if you simply must have your disposable sanitary products. But that doesn't address folds two and three.
2. We create so much waste in the world with our sanitary product trash. Some estimates say the average woman creates 300 pounds of sanitary product trash in their fertile lifetime. That may not sound like a lot to you for a lifetime of trash, but if you consider the amount of menstruating women in the world per year, it’s a LOT of period product waste.
3. Save money in the long run. It may be a negligible amount to some people, but on top of all the other reasons, the reusability of certain alternative feminine hygiene products means that you won’t have to pay for pads and tampons anymore.
In the past year, I've had several issues regarding my fertility and reproductive health, and that has caused a resurgence in the attention I pay to everything I put in my body, including feminine products.
When I got my period in April 2017, I had no pads. My roommate had tampons but I had pretty much made a mental pact with myself not to use those if I didn't HAVE to (read: I'd rather wad up an interim paper towel than put a bleached cotton mini rod up my precious Yoni in 2017). I remembered my Diva Cup, still abandoned in its original packaging under my sink.
So, what are the specific benefits of using a menstrual cup?
When using a cup, menstrual fluid is collected away from the cervix and in liquid form, as opposed to in semi-coagulated form and against the cervix as with tampons. This eliminates health concerns such as the risk of TSS. Menstrual cups also create suction and prevent leakage if inserted properly and emptied often enough (which is less frequently than with tampons and pads). Many women have also reported bleeding less, having shorter periods, and enduring fewer cramps when using the cup instead of tampons.
So, this time around, I read the instructions and tried faithfully to insert it. There are two sizes of the Diva Cup, regular and a larger size for women who have given birth. There are two methods of insertion: U-shape (fold cup into a U-shape and insert, which is easier to grip but wider at point of insertion), and Conch shell shape (fold like a Conch shell with smaller insertion point, but trickier to hold in shape as you insert). The Conch technique ended up being easier for me. I felt the cup suck upwards and snap back into its original shape inside me. Then I didn't feel anything. For a few hours, I forgot I was wearing it. It was so comfortable, I could definitely imagine swimming or even exercising with it in. There was no leakage, which was often a problem for me with tampons. I was nervous about how much fluid the cup would hold, since it was the first and heaviest day of my period. After six hours, I tried to remove it. I couldn't immediately feel the cup’s stem when I probed my vagina, so I freaked out. I read that as the cup becomes more full, it drops farther down and is easier to reach. So, I waited two more hours. The instructions stated that it was okay to change up to every 12 hours, so I felt fine. I tried again and couldn't do it. In the end, I had to enlist the help of a good (and brave) friend to remove it, and it was not fun. It was so not fun that I didn't put it back in again. In order to effectively remove the cup, you need to insert almost all of two fingers up into your vagina, squeeze the base of the cup gently and ease out, which is uncomfortable because of width and thickness of the cup's rim. You also cannot tense up, because your vaginal muscles will pull the cup back upwards.
When the cup came out, it was only about half full. It also never leaked despite the shaky removal circumstances. It was fascinating to see the blood in the cup - it dawned on me that I'd never seen that amount of menstrual blood in liquid form. I dumped it out, cleaned the cup, and threw it away. I disappointedly wore pads for the next few days and made an order for Thinx underwear.
Years ago, before Thinx, I'd heard of a product called LunaPads, which were essentially reusable cloth pads. Thinx takes it a step further, integrating the reusable pad into the actual pair of underwear, also making it leakproof and antimicrobial. They come in in different cuts (bikini, brief, boy short, etc.) and hold different amount of period (i.e., brief holds up to 1.5 tampons worth). Each pair was in the mid to high $20s, and I saved something for buying three pairs. Because they boast a 60 day return guarantee for dissatisfied customers, I wasn't worried about the price, particularly if it ended up saving me money and heartache in the long run.
In May 2017, I wore all three pairs of my Thinx during my cycle: the Sport, the Cheeky, and the Hiphugger. The first thing I noticed was the material. It was almost like a swimsuit but more discrete. Trying them on, I was really pleased because the fit was great. I bought an XS in all three and they are some of the best fitting panties I can remember ever owning. Starting to use Thinx was slightly jarring. As women, we are all familiar with the sensation of period dripping unexpectedly onto our defenseless undergarments. It causes feelings of panic and unrest, and the expectation of seeing a huge red stain on your bottom. When I began to menstruate into the Thinx, I was nervous. I still felt like the period would leak through, but it never did. I wore each pair for about 10 to 12 hours each.
When you remove the Thinx, you first pre-wash by hand in cold water. Because the panties I bought were black, none of the period blood was visible on the garment until the time of hand washing. Then, it was evident and amazing how much blood the panties were holding while I wore them. They never really felt heavy or uncomfortable. After the hand wash, you machine wash cold. It is okay to wash with other garments, but I happened not to.
In conclusion, when it comes to alternative menstruation products, I find it funny that the Diva Cup is named the "Diva Cup." The definition of "diva" is a self important person (usually woman) who is temperamental and difficult to please. A diva would NOT use a Diva Cup. It's not easy enough. Thinx are much easier, and, in my opinion, a cooler technology. Some people are great at maneuvering things in and out of their vagina (maybe those who have used Nuvaring or similar before), but I am not. The one benefit of the cup that isn't covered by Thinx is the ability to swim. Other than that, Thinx really wowed me, and had no uncomfortable (and semi-painful) downside like the Diva Cup. Thinx is a more expensive investment, but to me, a more sensible and enjoyable one. We are lucky to live in a time where these technologies exist, and I know I'm not the only woman looking forward to the next product that makes periods easier.
Dana’s Travel Diary: Views (130 Kilometers) From The 6
I have a bad habit of browsing Google Flights by map and by price calendar, months in advance, for cheap trips I can take, particularly those I can take on 3-day holiday weekends. Visiting Niagara Falls on Memorial Day weekend was the most recent product of that anxious, wander-lustful habit. When I started to plan, I didn’t realize Niagara Falls had a Canadian side and a U.S. side. I just knew I wanted to make an international trip, as an International Woman of Mystery. I’d been to New York, but I’d never been to Canada. So, my friends Kiara and Traci and I flew into Toronto, which was actually an almost 2-hour drive from the Falls.
Arriving in Toronto Pearson International Airport, the first thing I noticed was the surge of West Indian, Majid Jordan looking men with slick, swooping mohawks. The second thing I noticed was the signage. Everything was in both English and French - so classy. Not only that, but there was inadequate signage to direct us to the rental car counter. When we finally got there, we were told that Payless Car Rental was not located in the airport, and that we’d have to take a shuttle. We waited for the shuttle for about 15 minutes, as people were picked up by various unmarked cars and vans, before someone asked us if we’d called Payless to have them send the shuttle. We said no, and he led me to a small corded phone in the corner of the lobby area, tucked to the side of the escalator we descended from. I called, and ten minutes later, a shuttle with “Payless” scrawled in chalk on the side window arrived.
When we got our car, it was around 10 AM and we immediately headed towards Niagara. Before we got there, we stopped for poutine, a Canadian staple. It’s basically fries with gravy and cheese curds, plus whatever toppings you’d like to fatly add. It was not all that.
Our Airbnb was beautifully vintage and carefully decorated, and just down the road from the Falls. There was no (working) television, so we mostly listened to the radio when we were home. The guy who was renting this place had a billion records and no record player. He also had some pretty cool books, one I started reading called ‘What Your Aura Tells Me.'
The actual Niagara Falls seem to pop out of nowhere, but you know where they are before actually seeing them because of the crowds of people snapping photos. A majestic mist circles the area above the Falls. The people in ponchos are down below, on boats. There is a horribly colorful and tacky strip leading to the Falls, perpendicular to the road our Airbnb was on, with arcades and cheap motels and Ripley’s Believe It or Not museums - an Atlantic City meets Coney Island vibe. It started to rain as we got onto the Niagara Falls Skywheel, a big enclosed Ferris wheel that gave great views of the water.
The next day, we visited Bird Kingdom, which is allegedly the world’s largest free-flying aviary. My count for number of birds that have sat on my arms went from 0 to 10 that day. I held a big (and probably sad) parrot on my arm, and then I fed nectar to eight or nine disgusting little lorikeets. I held the small cup of nectar between my hands with arms outstretched, and watched them flock to me. Only two or three actually ate from the nectar cup, but they all French kissed down the line to share the sweetness. It was actually equally amazing and ugly, on top of the fact that some of them had balding and diseased-looking little necks. In the main aviary of the Bird Kingdom, the diversity and proximity of the birds was awesome. I saw so many crazy colors and patterns.
We also visited the Botanical Gardens of Niagara Falls, which is home to the Butterfly Conservatory. This was a magical place to walk through. There is a place you can witness butterflies emerging from the chrysalis and into the main room. I’m usually somewhat scared of butterflies. This time, I was fascinated and pleased to be near them. It was hard as fuck to get a good picture with any, though.
That night, we went to a local pub with live music and had some of the worst food I’ve ever eaten on vacation, or at home. I had a burger that crumbled apart like drywall on a brioche bun. Traci had fish and chips seasoned with nothing but good intentions. Kiara had ribs, which for some reason came with a soupy, sweet-and-sour-sauce-soaked rice. The lead singer of the band came over to our table to check for song requests. Kiara requested “Baby Boy” by Beyonce. We didn’t wait around to see if he did it.
The following day, we stopped by a head shop to look for Backwoods. (Note: Backwoods are not sold in Canada.) The employee asked if we were from Canada or U.S., and when we replied the latter, he offered to sell us edibles. We bought some, under the condition that we didn’t tell any Canadians where we got them from (so, I hope no Canadians are reading this). He also directed us five blocks up the road to the parking lot of a Tim Hortons (which seem to be EVERYWHERE in Canada) to find weed. We made a very light, unsuccessful attempt before heading home.
That night, with shitty burgers and bland fish and chips in our recent memory, we vowed to eat dinner as far away from Niagara as we could manage. That ended up being about 90 minutes away in Toronto. We went to The Real Jerk, which is the spot where Rihanna filmed her “Work” video with Drake. Collectively, we ordered oxtail, jerk chicken, jerk pork, curry goat, red snapper, plantains, curry potato, and rice and peas. There were no leftovers. Traci left a day early, so Kiara and I had lunch there again before heading to the airport. It was very much worth it.
Overall, this was one of the less eventful, “regular” trips I’ve had, which isn’t to say I didn’t have a great time. Here are a few tips that may be useful to someone visiting the Toronto or Niagara areas from the U.S.
1: Things are cheaper - For example, if you buy a shirt at H&M for $17.99, after conversion the price you pay would actually be about $13.50. Most places also looked like they accepted both USD and CAD, so there’s less of an urgency to convert your American dollars.
2: Make Niagara a day trip - Everything that can be seen (and that you would want to see) in Niagara can be done in a day. I wish I’d spent more time in Toronto other than the few meals we had. Niagara is beautiful, but doesn’t even register on the nightlife/social scale. Of course, staying in and adventuring through Toronto likely requires a bit more research prior to traveling.
3: Bring clothes (and shoes) for both sunshine and rain - The weather was pleasant, but it pretty much rained or threatened to rain the entire time we were there. Showers didn’t last long, but large puddles seemed to be permanent fixtures.
4: Ask them to stamp your passport at the airport - I didn’t realize they don’t usually stamp your passport for coming to Canada. I missed my opportunity, but if that matters to you like it does to me, be sure to ask.
I have always considered Las Vegas to be a fake place, kind of like New York City. Prior to visiting, my perception was 9 months pregnant with images I've mentally hoarded from TV shows and movies. This is where little old ladies sit at slot machines and chain smoke cigarettes. This is where you gamble your life away and get lost in time, without a clock in sight. This is where you come from MIT to count cards, get dragged into the back of the casino and beat up by henchmen.
This was the second trip I've taken with my ex-boyfriend since we broke up, and he really was the best travel partner I could have imagined. (Note: I definitely have decided that if I audition for The Amazing Race, it will be with him.) When we first arrived, we picked up a rental car and headed to our hotel, which was just a bit off the main strip. After checking in, we decided to walk to the strip and explore. At the end of the day, my iPhone logged 15,000 steps exactly. Things don't look far away, but they are. The terrain is just so flat that you can see far as fuck ahead.
The first casino we visited was Caesar's Palace, and when the roulette lady checked our IDs, she asked if I was Thai. (I am - a quarter). She was from Thailand, and also very nice and helpful since I'd never played before. We took that as a good omen and I played for a while until I got up to $360. That's called beginner's luck. The next two times I played roulette, I left the table with $0.
We took our earnings upstairs to Mr. Chow and had a really pricey, glorified P.F. Chang's meal with exceptional service and the smoothest red wine I've ever tasted. Our server was "Charles in Training," not to be confused with the other Charles. He was a fantastic server, and everyone in the restaurant was quite accommodating and attentive (doesn't this sound like a Yelp review?). Charles in Training offered to select our food and drink for us, and we let him. We had prawns, sole, beef, and probably some other stuff, too. My favorite part was the weird spaceship sculpture that Mr. Chow designed himself to represent the moon, that descended from the ceiling and slowly transformed above our heads every half hour. I'm glad roulette paid for that meal, because I wouldn't have.
The next day, we drove to Grand Canyon West, which is an area of the Grand Canyon owned by the Hualapai people. It was a two hour drive, and we ventured from the welcome center to the canyon by tour bus. The view was literally breathtaking; seeing the edge of the canyon and knowing how deep down it went took my breath away. There were no barriers, fences, or anything of the sort.
We went on the Skywalk, which is a U-shaped glass bridge that allows you to walk over the canyon. Most people were scared to walk over the clear part, and preferred to relegate themselves to the white glass side. Not me, the girl that enjoys the thrill of jumping on sewer door slats. At times, the bridge did make creaking noises, which was freaky.
After the Skywalk, we took a helicopter ride down into the canyon, where we parked for twenty minutes and gazed upon the Colorado River. The helicopter ride was the most surreal experience of this trip. It seemed more like a wild west video game or helicopter ride simulation. Hey, maybe it was. Our pilot was from Norway, which I took as another good omen since I'm a quarter Norwegian (if you're keeping track, the other half is Korean).
Everything was beautiful and dusty. From the canyon, we traveled to my most random bucket list destination of Oatman, Arizona. This was another two hour drive, and the last 10 miles take you around the outer edge of a mountain with sharp turns and barely enough room for someone to pass in the opposite direction without knocking you down into the pits of hell. Visiting this city has been on my bucket list for a few years, since I found out they're famous for wild burros (basically Shrek donkeys) that roam about town. The burros are tame, and the shops sell little grassy snack bites to feed them. It was amazing feeding them by hand, but some of the bigger ones got a bit aggressive and started nudging me for more. At one point, half a dozen burros were surrounding me, hounding me.
Oatman is named after Olive Oatman, a woman who was kidnapped as a young teen by a Native American tribe, after they slaughtered her family. They tattooed blue lines on her jaw, which supposedly was so that when you die, your ancestors recognize you as a part of their tribe. She survived with this tribe for many years until she was rescued. Who knows what her life was like? If it was anything like the toilets in Oatman, the answer is shitty. (The public restrooms were literally caked in poop. No flushing, no sink to wash hands. I took a picture but decided not to share it here.)
I posted a picture of the desert on my Snapchat, to which a guy I used to like replied, "You go to Vegas to hit up the desert? You should be at a pool party." To that I replied, "I'm bucket listing. Eff your pool party."
The next day, we went to a pool party. Ha.
We went to Drai's Beachclub and Nightclub, which apparently was the biggest hip-hop club spot on the strip. The party was really fun, with lots of people and a short Filipino DJ. The most live group of people there were from the UK. They all went crazy over the Giggs verse on Drake's new album.
We almost went straight from the pool to the airport. Three days was perfect. Any longer and I would end up like the ghosts of Vegas past - the people who clearly lost all their money and their wits during a wild and crazy trip to Las Vegas, and now roam around either asking for money or just staring blankly.
The weather is Vegas was perfect. It was a bit colder when we went higher up in altitude in Arizona, but still wonderful. Maybe everyone's been to Las Vegas, but if you're late like me and would like some tips for your traveling, here ya go!
1: Use HotelTonight - HotelTonight is a great app for quick (day of) hotel reservations. We stayed at The W for about $100 a night. These hotels are fucking huge and have enough rooms that you don't really need to book too far ahead of time (unless you find a good deal, of course). But winging it is perfectly doable. You can even stay in multiple hotels seamlessly during your stay.
2: Quit while you're ahead - Beginner's luck is real. Unless you just don't give a fuck, decide not to gamble your way down to $0 at a casino table. When you're ahead, set at least the amount you started with aside. It's very easy to lose it all. And DON'T PLAY SLOTS. They suck. Tables are much more fun and potentially profitable.
3: Go exploring - Las Vegas is a weird little lit-up strip in the middle of a vast, beautiful desert. There are tour packages for Grand Canyon and other places (Hoover Dam) available everywhere. This is SO worth it. Natural beauty always beats man-made wonders, in my humble opinion.
Dana’s Travel Diary: Paradise, No Passport Required
I’ve known my friend Krystal since we were seven years old in the second grade. I’m not sure if our friendship was initially based on anything deep (we both liked ‘The Simpsons’ and ‘Arthur’), but over the years, we’ve grown together. We have a truly similar sense of humor and decades’ worth of inside jokes. This February, she turned 28, and for her first official “Ladies’ Birthday Trip,” we (along with our other BFF/my roommate, Kiara) went to Puerto Rico. We would be flying into San Juan, staying in Carolina, and exploring several other areas mostly along the northern coast of the island.
The three of us had been to Miami for Kiara’s 25th and Los Angeles for my 26th. We’d also traveled to Denver and New Orleans together last year (plus our friend/neighbor Traci), so we were all confident that we wouldn’t annoy each other too badly over the course of four days with limited personal space.
We flew to San Juan by way of Chicago (a cold and stupid route, but the cheapest) and arrived at 5 A.M. At this point, I realized I made the rental car reservation for 10 A.M., but we headed to the rental place anyway. They were able to accommodate us early, but the price we paid was steep. We had to drive a huge Dodge Ram pickup truck. Correction: I had to drive a huge Dodge Ram pickup truck. It also had a big ass “Allied Car & Truck Rental” sign on the side. Thanks, Misael!
We found the condo we stayed at through AirBnb. Much to our grin-less chagrin, there was a union workers’ protest directly in front of the building next door, so every morning brought honking horns and Spanish chants that rhymed “luchar” and “lugar.” (Note: we learned that they’d been there all week, and they were also there during our entire stay.)
Our first excursion was to El Yunque Rainforest, where the truck came in handy. The many potholes on the winding mountain roads that led up to the rainforest were no match for our chubby Caucasian truck. We saw a few small waterfalls, one of which we got close to by climbing over rocks in an area clearly marked by a sign reading “DO NOT CLIMB THE ROCKS.”
There were many marked areas at which we were able to park and gaze. The views were spectacular from our height.
On the second day, we drove about an hour east to Luquillo Beach. The sand was like tan powdered sugar, and the water was calm and blue. This was genuinely the nicest beach I’d ever been to. The water was crisp, cool, and toted absolutely zero weird debris. I’m not used to nice things, so I definitely expected a jellyfish, some seaweed, at least a beer can or a condom wrapper. There were none to be found. Just beautiful palm trees, pleasant waves, and cute kids. Luquillo Beach also has a stand that serves pina coladas, rum punch, beers, and empanadas. We went all in (which later came all out, of me, into a hole I dug in the sand). Cheers to discrete public vomits!
On the way back from the beach, Krystal drove. She misinterpreted a road sign in Spanish, and thought the speed limit was 65 mph, with a minimum of 55 mph. We found out after getting pulled over and ticketed that the speed limit was ordinarily 65, but 55 for heavy vehicles, i.e. our big body Ram.
The next day, we went to Old San Juan. We’d read that parking was difficult in this area, and that turned out to be correct. Street parking is virtually nonexistent. The roads are narrow and cobbled, and it looks like a place where once you find a street spot, you never, ever move. We ended up parking in a lot with a 7-foot height clearance, which barely missed fucking up the top of our truck.
Old San Juan was gorgeous, full of colorful buildings and historical sites. We visited El Morro, a 400-year-old fort by the water. We also saw the Santa María Magdalena de Pazzis Cemetery, which is apparently the final resting place for a number of Puerto Rico’s most prominent residents and natives.
From Old San Juan, we headed west to Arecibo to visit Cueva Ventana, a large cave atop a limestone cliff that is a popular tourist attraction for both Puerto Rican natives and visitors. Tours are all guided, and our tour group appeared to be mostly Puerto Ricans. We were the only non-Spanish speakers, which required our guide to explain everything twice. Oops.
The guide explained that the caves were full of wonder, in the form of cockroaches, bats, spiders and snakes. We entered with hard hats and flashlights, and were instructed not to shine our lights at the ceiling of the cave, where bats slept in clusters. The guide shone an undisturbing red light up to illuminate the bat clusters. They were far less appetizing than pecan clusters, as far as clusters go.
When we finally reached the famous window cave, we took turns taking photos. I asked the guide if anyone had ever fallen out of the cave, and he said no, but let me know that if I wasn’t careful, that day could be the first.
On our last day in Puerto Rico, we spent the morning at Isla Verde Beach, which was not as nice as Luquillo but walking distance from our condo. It began to rain after about an hour, so we packed up and headed to San Juan’s botanical garden. This was a pleasant, peaceful conclusion to our time in Puerto Rico. The highlight of this excursion was definitely the peacock we saw, but the sad part was that it was caged.
The weather in Puerto Rico was similar to Miami - rain storms that hit hard but last just a few minutes. The weather sat around 85 degrees every day, and I returned browner than before, for sure.
If you are planning a trip to Puerto Rico (from the U.S.), remember: no need for a passport! Here are a few tips that might come in handy!
1: Learn basic Spanish - This would’ve saved us some heartache when interpreting road signs. Between Krystal being half Panamanian and me taking 3+ years of Spanish in school, we managed alright. But I did witness a few instances of “stupid Americans” being totally lost in the sauce when asked a simple question in Spanish (”What time is your reservation?”).
2: Go off the beaten path to save money - Compared to the trip I took to Mexico, all prices in Puerto Rico seemed pretty much comparable to prices at home, i.e. NOT cheap. The farther we got from the capital, the better the prices seemed to get for basic things like food and water.
3: Try food native to Puerto Rico - My favorite dish was seafood mofongos, which is mashed plantains with garlic and butter, served with shrimp, scallops and octopus.
4: Be prepared to pay tolls - They’re pretty much on every highway to every city in Puerto Rico. Our rental car was equipped with an E-Z pass, which you will definitely need if you plan to drive ANYWHERE.
For me, reading a novel is not just entertainment, or sustenance for a hungry mind, it is an exercise in observation. Each word in a book was contemplated, decided upon, and strung together with all the right friends. Series of calculated sentences comprise a piece of a person, the author, that they are vulnerably releasing to the world to analyze as they wish. I've read great books and not-so-great books, each impacting my thoughts and ideas and goals as a writer, a published author, a woman, a lover, a humanitarian, a human.
Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha seems bulimic at just 122 pages, but conveys the impression that the author was wise enough to understand that more pages were unnecessary to convey many beautiful and useful points. As Siddhartha tells his close friend Govinda near the beginning of the novel, "Let us not waste words." Siddhartha is Hesse's most famous novel, and, like much of his other work, contains many autobiographical elements. Originally published in 1922, the book is loosely albeit largely reflective of Hesse's educational and religious upbringing, of his anger and discontent with his life as a young man. Siddhartha is the story of a young Brahmin's son by the same name who leaves a noble and enriched life, against his father's wishes, to become an ascetic. He later shirks this lifestyle of deprivation for one of traditional wealth, familiarizing himself with both monetary and sexual conquests. This lifestyle, too, is shirked for the most important move Siddhartha makes - becoming an apprentice to an enlightened ferryman, listening to the river and to nature as a whole to eventually achieve enlightenment himself.
In the reflection of the river, a weary and distressed Siddhartha sees visions of his father, his only lover, his unhappy son, and every element of his life that led up to that point, all swirling and intermixing indiscriminately. His ability to achieve the complete peace and understanding of Nirvana through this experience was based on his realization that the world is perfect and complete at any given time; everything, both good and bad, is necessary to the function of the world. There is a perpetual balance of all things at all times; nothing exists independently. Nirvana is a state that already resides within us, and it is up to us to determine the route that leads us to that victorious destination.
As I sit down and set out to write fiction, I mentally battle with a number of superficial issues that ultimately box me out of whatever zone I need to be in to actually start writing. I am thwarted by issues of time and reality. How can I write in a way that transcends time? How do I negotiate my disdain for this tasteless era in society when I am unable to truly grasp the idea of life in another context? Where will my characters exist? Will their movements and ideas be genuine, convincing? How can I create something that is real and true to me, without also capturing the elements of common lifestyle that I detest? How do I successfully mold this idea of a perfect world, a perfect character existing in the plot of a perfect story? The answer is easy, that the story already exists, that all I need to do is fashion a tap to release it from my thoughts like slow-moving sap from a tree trunk. I waste more time dismissing ideas than writing them down. The beauty of writing is that it can be done any way you like. It is an art. There are rules to writing, but there are no real rules to writing.
The great piece of work I wish to produce is not elusive or mythical, it is a collection of thoughts not formally acknowledged, undocumented, not yet honed into words that transcend a simple self-understanding. The hardest part is choosing the words, and as Siddhartha tells his companion, the old ferryman Vasudeva, "Words do not express thoughts very well." For a writer, that's a huge challenge to surmount: migrating the grand, illustrious images in your mind into black and white text that can do the color justice. However, the frustration I experience when presented with the idea of such a grand task is not much more than an illusion, a temporary distraction, a way to avoid doing what is actually pertinent to my ultimate goal. And that doesn't just go for writers. It's for any passion, any pursuit, any previously procrastinated item about which you feel strongly.
Siddhartha teaches that there is more than one way to achieve a goal, and that we must be self-reliant in our life's travels. He believes in the unity of all things, that our interconnection blurs the lines between life and death, good and evil, happy and sad. Siddhartha was able to achieve Nirvana, having consistently chosen the off-beaten path. Though we can learn much from others, as I do by constantly absorbing other writers' work, we have the most to learn from ourselves.
International travel ideas often seem lofty, unattainable, reserved only for posh socialites with daddy’s bread to blow. I know I’m not the only 20-something who ever felt relegated to perusing Wikitravel or thumbing through the pages of an issue of Afar Magazine to get my affordable adventure fix. Admittedly, successful and seamless international travel also requires a decently-paying job and some tenacity for saving (at least one or the other). Before working at my current job and having both a salary and bountiful PTO, travel was not impossible, but far more limited by time and money. That said, the place I’d always had my eye on, the place that seemed overflowing with natural and spiritual wonder, was Bali.
The most popular travel destination in all of Indonesia, Bali is a quirky little anomaly of an island within a country with a notoriously harsh governmental regime. The people of Indonesia began to elect their president just 13 years ago in 2004. The penalties for drug crimes are harsh. On the trip, we only uttered the word “ganja” once, to a tatted-up taxi driver with ear gauges. His reply: no. As a man vacationing from Jakarta told me on Kuta Beach, cracking open a can of Bintang (Indonesia’s Heineken), “You know Bali, but you don’t know Indonesia.”
The people in Bali practice Balinese Hinduism. In fact, they are the only part of Indonesia that is not predominantly Muslim. The women wore colorful three-quarter lace shirts, patterned sarongs, and sashes eloquently tied around their slim waists. They walked with baskets on their heads, babies slung round their shoulders. Guys wore patterned headbands and also wore artfully tied sarongs around their waists. Frangipani and incense offerings in stapled banana leaf trays litter the sidewalks and windowsills of nearly every building we passed in Bali. The Balinese women prepare these at multiple times throughout the day, a pleasant floral reminder of this island’s unique culture.
I paid for my flight in early October, for a trip I took in late January. I was able to find a roundtrip ticket for the 10,000 mile journey for $750. (That’s only 7.5 cents per mile!) Tickets can run an upwards of $1,200 from D.C. to Denpasar, so I grabbed these before the weird online airline algorithm and Big Brother saw hearts in my eyes and hiked up the price before I could click submit. Reminder: always browse flights on Incognito Mode.
Before traveling, my research was limited. Basic research is necessary, of course, such as what the currency and conversion rate is (Indonesian rupiah [IDR], roughly 13,000 per USD), or where your hotel is in relation to the airport, or what season and general climate it will be during your stay. I talked to my friend Claudia, who’d been to Bali a few months before. I checked out a few major tourist destinations online (the must-sees), and left the rest up to fate, as I tend to do.
We departed from Ronald Reagan Airport in Washington, D.C. I traveled with my ex-boyfriend, the awkward result of planning for trips in super advance but not planning on a breakup. It worked out, though. I was glad to be traveling internationally not just with another person, but a man. I never felt endangered at all during my trip, but I had no idea what the general atmosphere would be like. There were a few notable times I was relieved to have had his male presence (i.e. when I panicked over a lizard in the hotel room; when we wanted to travel by motor scooter through congested streets; when I had to carry a bowling ball of a fresh coconut through Ubud). Major media would love to have you believe that, as a traveling woman, you’ll be kidnapped and sold into sex slavery. I feel you run this risk at equivalent levels no matter where you go. TBH. No need to be scared or paranoid, but also remember: a little common sense and alertness go a long way when traveling.
Our flight was 22 hours, collectively. The route was D.C. to Detroit to Incheon (South Korea) and finally to Bali. The meals on board the Korean Air flight from Detroit to Incheon were hit or miss. Bibimbap was a hit. Everything else (seafood and potatoes, beef and vegetables, etc.) was an extreme miss. During one meal, I opened an applesauce-cup of the softest tofu I’d ever seen in my life - it was almost liquid. I looked around to see if the Asians on board were on board with this virtual tofu smoothie. It looked like no cup was left uneaten, besides mine.
When we arrived in Ngurah Rai Airport in Bali, we were approached immediately by a seemingly friendly and helpful taxi driver. It was past midnight and he stuck by us quite adamantly as we fumbled with our phones as they attempted to pick up Indonesian cell service. He offered his phone so that I could call my hotel and arrange an impromptu middle-of-the-night check-in (which I hadn’t prepared for). I watched the driver, Norman, wave away other people also appearing to be in need of his assistance. What I figured was that he had an eye for Americans, or rather, our American dollars. In my limited experience, the most money you will spend on transportation whenever traveling internationally, is the cab ride from the airport to your lodging destination. Norman charged us $55. We didn’t ask the price prior to departing, but we’d assumed it was cheap because of the way he described pricing of hostels and homestays. This was the single most expensive charge during our time in Bali; it is an unheard-of taxi price once actually anywhere in Bali besides the airport.
When searching for hotels prior to the trip, I saw that the average price of a pretty nice hotel over there was not much more that what you’d pay for a shitty hotel here. I used Expedia points (earned from flights over the past few years) to get a discount on already-affordable 4-star resorts. The first hotel we stayed at was Blue Karma Resort in Ubud. They were very accommodating and welcomed us in at nearly 2 in the morning, showing us to a very lovely hut-style room with outdoor shower and cabana. In the morning, we also saw that there was a beautiful shared infinity pool, and a nice on-site restaurant with yummy breakfast and fresh fruit salad.
The hotel was in a somewhat remote area, but shuttle/taxi/scooter service was abundant. In Ubud, there are many street markets with cool pants (I bought three), keychains, native trinkets and the like. Ask “How much?” but be prepared to be given a price marked up with the Gringo tax. Counter with a reasonable offer, and they’ll most likely be glad to accept. It’s cool to negotiate with vendors and taxi drivers - do not expect to negotiate in restaurants with posted prices, or anywhere else where you are actually billed.
Also, tipping is a nice gesture, but service fees are generally built in to all charges, especially at hotels and restaurants. I did, however, leave tips for the cleaning staff at each hotel - just a dollar or two, which I’d read is the equivalent of many of their entire day’s salaries.
In Ubud, we walked down a busy street to get to the Sacred Monkey Forest. Taxi drivers beckon for your business every three steps. Stray dogs dodge pedestrians skillfully, while others nap between scooters and storefront steps. Entry to the monkey forest is about 3 USD, and vendors inside sell bunches of bananas to feed to them. If you hold banana above your head, they’ll climb up your body to grab it. If you aren’t vigilant, monkeys will snatch any loose items from your pockets or hands. We lost a pack of rolling papers to one stealthy monkey, who then pulled it apart like an accordion and abandoned it upon discovering it was inedible.
On the second day started at 2 A.M., when we left in a shuttle to go on the Mt. Batur sunrise trek. Mt. Batur is an active volcano that has erupted as recently as 2000. It’s highest point is about a mile up, and the ascent takes about 2.5 hours. The tour company fed us a banana pancake and strong coffee for breakfast, and the hike began in quite the anticlimactic fashion as we stumbled along behind a 19-year-old Balinese guide, criss-crossing paths with many other tour groups. I began to sweat and lose my breath after about 45 minutes, before the hard part even started. Several parts of the path are dangerously rocky, while others are sandy, slippery, and almost impossible to navigate without falling straight down on your ass. When we reached the top, we were given banana sandwiches and an egg boiled in volcano steam (still liquid and almost raw - I fed it to a stray volcano dog). The view was incredible, despite our guide having doubted the sunrise would be visible on such a cloudy day.
The walk down was easier but still not easy. Our guide held my hand to help me down tricky areas, and asked my ex, “You jealous?”
Food in Bali was delicious and cheap. It seemed that most of the warungs (Indonesian word for small restaurant/eatery) had similar menus, and at most, you could get appetizers, entrees, and beverages for under 15 USD. We ate enough curry, satay, and sambal to last a lifetime.
The next morning, we rode on the backs of scooters to the hidden treasure that is Tegenungan Waterfalls. The ride was pleasantly risky. There’s nothing like accepting a motor scooter ride from a stranger in a foreign country. We passed a butterfly farm and lots of places that sold Buddha statues and carved stone items. We reached the waterfall at about 10 A.M., and a long set of stairs led down to a gorgeous sight.
At that time in the morning, only a few people were there already. The crash of the waterfall was thunderous and humbling. I approached with caution, wading at a respectful distance, enjoying God’s beauty.
The scooter ride back into Ubud was hectic, because we happened to run smack dab into the Saraswati festival, which happens twice a year. Saraswati is the goddess of knowledge, music, arts, wisdom and learning. My kind of gal. People were flocking out of temples en masse in traditional Balinese dress, and there was a scooter traffic jam amidst the celebration. My driver was incredibly skillful and brazen, getting through the traffic by any means, sidewalk driving, and truck blocking necessary.
Back at Blue Karma, we packed our bags and headed to Nusa Dua to check into our second hotel, Jimbaran Cliffs Private Resort and Spa. The pictures online for this resort looked amazing, its primary draw being the private infinity pool on the terrace of each room. The first thing I did was jump in with a plate of complimentary fresh papaya, pineapple and watermelon.
The area where we stayed in Nusa Dua was a lot different than Ubud, a lot more like a “regular” city. Our hotel, however, was so hidden in the cliffs that we got a taxi driver stuck in a narrow brick alley trying to find it.
We heard that Aussie surfers and locals at Kuta Beach had the best and easiest access to Bali’s famed magic mushrooms. Though marijuana is highly illegal, shrooms are pretty much normalized. Officially, they became illegal a few years ago, but its availability in Bali is akin to the availability of weed in D.C. On Kuta Beach, we were offered shrooms in Coca-Cola, which we tried but didn’t feel too much. Kuta Beach was extremely dirty, with trash lining the shore and stray dogs snarling at each other. Little old lady vendors won’t leave you alone until you agree to a henna tattoo or a foot massage or a black stone bracelet that’s “cheap, cheap for you.”
The shopping malls near Kuta Beach are nice, and it was kind of comforting to browse through Zara and H&M while halfway across the globe from home. On our last day, we rented a scooter and took it solo through the city, filling up our tank from a lady on the side of the road with an Absolut bottle full of petrol.
We had a big seafood dinner by the beach on our last night, and headed to the airport for a 1 A.M. flight back to Incheon, and then Detroit, and then D.C. Aside from a slight fiasco with Customs in Detroit over a dragonfruit I’d tried to bring back with me, the journey was alright. This was the second stamp in my adult passport and well worth the extreme jetlag.
It’s a trip I recommend for anyone with any shred of a sense of adventure to go on, and somewhere I’d definitely consider returning to by myself. If you are considering planning an excursion to beautiful Bali, here is a summary of what I’ve learned, some handy tips based on my experience:
1: Search flights often and purchase flights early - You can also sign up for price alerts through most travel websites. Remember to browse flights in incognito mode!
2: Know what to expect, but know that you won’t know what to expect - Do SOME research, but more importantly, just be openminded with common sense.
3: Plan ahead for transportation from the airport upon arrival - Check with your hotel before your trip to see if complimentary shuttle/taxi service from the airport is provided! You may also want to call and arrange a taxi ride beforehand if possible, to avoid the higher fees at the airport.
4: Stay in more than one hotel and explore multiple areas while in Bali - Each place has a different vibe. Stay in at least two areas. DON’T stay in a Hilton or other American chain hotel - you’ll be cheating yourself.
5: Negotiate prices, and check multiple options - It’s ok to negotiate prices in most instances. Vendors will always start off high.
6: Do everything, immerse yourself in the culture, be kind to locals - It would be a good idea to download Google Translate and download the Indonesian language library, just in case you don’t have service and need to translate something for a local.
7: Be careful with shrooms and DON’T check for weed - Weed is a no-no in Bali, but shrooms can be risky (especially if you are unaware of the potency and dosage).
8: Don’t try to bring a dragonfruit home with you - CBP will be on that ass.
It’s finally here! I had no idea that I’d been working on this book for almost eight years before it finally came to fruition as a book in these past few months.
Click here to purchase your copy of ‘Men.’ Thank you to everyone who shares my work via Tumblr, Facebook, Instagram, Twitter or by word of mouth. Special thank you to my friend Wale for designing not just the book cover, but also the lovely promotional flyers :)
‘Men’ is a collection of personal writing about love and relationships from 2008 to 2016. It is 56 emotional pages of my life.
My first book ‘Men’ will go on sale on Wednesday, April 20 at 12 noon EST!
This has TRULY been a long time coming. Thank you to everyone who’s been reading my blog(s) throughout the years, supporting me, and encouraging me to do something like this. HERE IT IS! For just $11 plus S&H, you can own a huge chunk of my life in writing.
When I came I felt it was in the face of everything decent, white sperm dripping down over the heads and souls of my dead parents. If I had been born a woman I would certainly have been a prostitute. Since I had been born a man, I craved women constantly, the lower the better. And yet women--good women-- frightened me because they eventually wanted your soul, and what was left of mine, I wanted to keep. Basically I craved prostitutes, base women, because they were deadly and hard and made no personal demands. Nothing was lost when they left. Yet at the same time I yearned for a gentle, good woman, despite the overwhelming price. Either way I was lost. A strong man would give up both. I wasn't strong. So I continued to struggle with women, with the idea of women.
I had a cat named Lewy. He was one of four kittens born in a Baltimore trap house, completely covered in fleas when I took him home, an hour away in Hyattsville. He was not domesticated, not quite feral, but had a wild streak in his heart that never quite dissipated. He had no hesitations about chewing through a bag of sandwich bread or knocking a half-filled wine glass onto the ground. He’d watch it shatter and then scratch my ankle as I walked past him to grab the broom. I’d never had a cat as a pet, and was spoiled by the simplistic, affectionate nature of dogs. I could never lift Lewy onto my lap and just pet him, without being bit or scratched as the inevitable escape ensued. The more I squeezed him to me and tried to trap him in my love, a la Elmira from Tiny Toons, the greater the disaster became. Sometimes, though, when he was seeking a suitable place to nap, he’d walk towards me with squinted cat eyes and find a place on my reclined body—chest, belly, or legs. He’d knead my skin like dough with his little paws, spin in a few slow circles and settle in place. He might even crawl up to my neck, smash his head into the crevice beneath my chin, and fall asleep for hours as I just let him lay and breathe. I could pet him, too, but once he was startled out of his sleep and into the realization that we were nestled so nicely, it was back to bites and scratches and general kitty chaos. Despite how often I fed him, played with him, or repaired his health when he was on his cat-deathbed, he wouldn’t show me love barring the scant times he actually felt like it.
As with Lewy, such is life and love. There is a distinct sinking sickness of the stomach associated with the realization that force and control have no place in love. Lewy is just a cat, but he is also everything else in the world. Everything is everything, with or without our consent. The voracity with which one loves and adores flowers has no bearing whatsoever on floral growth. That can only be accomplished with soil and water and sunshine, none of which we can produce instantaneously, at will. It is when we relax, give love without the expectation that it will be returned, and stop trying to police feelings that everything settles into place and the garden flourishes in an array of colors and scents. A controlled, manipulated, or curated love is not love at all, even if you believe that to be the ultimate goal of all that you do. The end result is the sickly bastard baby of possessiveness and obsession, laced ever so lightly with streaks of romance.
Squeeze a heart until it is misshapen, and it cannot beat the same, cannot pump blood through the body the way it needs to. The primary function of that critical organ has been compromised. Circulation suffers.
You can’t drink the ocean or put a tornado in a headlock. Feelings are fleeting, can’t be bottled or kept on tap. Love is about taking the wheel but surrendering control, capitulating to the natural forces that will always be stronger than you. It’s no high-speed chase, no joy ride down Route 66. It’s a bumper car game, electrically tethered to the roof. Guide and steer as much as you can or like, but understand the limits of your control. Sometimes you will coast smoothly and unbothered, but most times you will slam into your surroundings.
I miss Lewy. I got so used to having intricate scratch patterns up and down my arms, the product of fucking with him when he made it clear he only wanted not to be fucked with. Even when I owned him, he was not mine. He was his own damn cat, reacting as any human would or should to the prospect of being jailed in an unequal, irrational rendition of love.
You were the catalyst. You helped me, you hurt me. I am forgetting what we ever said, what we ever did, if any of it ever meant a thing to you.
I battle with feelings of regret, lamenting my haphazard excursions to your faraway slice of seeming paradise. You assisted in demolishing the rickety building I had been squatting in for years. Then I was homeless. I could never quite live in your heart. I was always meant to roam, just not with you. You were a pit stop on a higher journey, a rest stop where I could splash my face with cold water or grab a slice of pizza. The best thing you gave me was hope. The worst thing you gave me was hope. You liked being high around me. The lows were not worth it.
I have more memories of you than I thought we had time to collect—visual and audio reminders of a time that could not fit on any timeline. Our mental keepsakes are fading fast but will always linger. They are lodged in my spine like the residuals of an acid trip. You told me I would be happy, and I am.
You were the bright sun in the blue water. We fought more, and it got harder. We were one of many casualties in a great battle within me. I can’t tell you these things anymore. So, I’ll write it, and hope that because I wrote it, you’ll read it. And I hope that although meaningless, my words are still some kind of beautiful to you.
