Graceful

Today is a big deal. At least it is for me.

(And maybe it is for you, too. If I’m sharing this on your birthday or something, a thousand pardons.)

Today is an anniversary of sorts. Today marks one year since I learned that I have multiple sclerosis.

. . .

For anyone wondering “what even IS multiple sclerosis?” I see you. Multiple sclerosis (MS) is a disease in which the immune system eats away at the protective covering of the nerves (called the myelin sheath), resulting in lesions. The nerve damage from these lesions disrupts communication between the brain and the body.

How did I figure it out? I had an “episode.” The condensed version is this: what started as numbness in my pinky toes quickly spread from the littlest toes to all the toes, to my feet, my legs, my pelvis. I had a complete lack of sensation from the waist down. I went to my doctor and was immediately sent to the ER. They ran some tests, and I was admitted into the hospital.

I had an MRI of my brain and 3 MRIs of my spine… spending upwards of 3 consecutive hours in that barely-human-sized tube. I had a lumbar puncture, several good cries, and a lot of vanilla pudding. 3 days later I went home.

I have about 20 lesions -- 14 on my brain and about 6 on my spine.

So what does that mean for me now? After a high dose of steroids and about 3 months of recovery, I’m feeling better. I have only had 2 episodes since last June (including the one that prompted my diagnosis). I take medication to prevent future lesions, and I go for regular MRIs to make sure that medication is effective. I have periodic flare-ups where my hands and feet tingle or “fall asleep.” I am exhausted all the time.

June 8, 2018

. . .

I haven’t told many people. This is for a few reasons.

1. I don’t know much about MS, and I’m not sure what the disease’s path will be. It’s different for everyone. Will it affect my ability to walk, my motor skills, my strength, my muscular control, my vocal cords? I don’t know. And it feels frustrating (and unproductive) to share something I know so little about.

2. There is no right thing to say, meaning there is no correct response to “I have MS.” It still feels very raw. I feel fragile. My diagnosis is really challenging for me to discuss. There is very little that makes me feel better, and a lot that makes me feel worse. And when people don’t know what to say, they say some pretty upsetting shit.

3. I was worried that someone might say something truly ugly about my diagnosis, even if it was just behind my back. I was worried someone would say I deserved it. Or it served me right. Or I needed to be taken down a peg. This was my biggest fear… which I’m sure says more about me than it says about other people.

   . . .

Despite these fears, I have shared my news with a handful of friends and family. And while lots of people say the wrong thing (because let us remember there is no “right thing”), most people say something to the effect of “you’re handling this with so much grace.”

GOOD GRAVY. I have never felt LESS GRACEFUL in my life.

I feel sad. I cry more often and more easily. I want everything to go back to “normal,” whatever that means. My heart hurts… for myself, for my family, for my boyfriend. I feel grief. I feel “homesick”… like I’m so far away from the way things were before, I want to get back to that place. I’m disappointed. I understand that MS isn’t a death sentence, but the thought of my brain and body not communicating terrifies me. I feel like I took a healthy future for granted. I feel foolish.

I feel angry. I (already) have a deep fear-of-missing-out, and I’ve already missed so much. I have let people down. I have hurt feelings. I have been bitter. I have felt misunderstood. I’m still learning about how and when to push myself… but I haven’t cracked it. I seem to have 2 speeds:

1. I stretch myself, running on fumes just to be physically present and mentally elsewhere. Sometimes I martyr myself because of it… which is a real treat for everyone!
   or

2. I’m all in, exerting all of my energy in one short burst. Laughing, dancing, jumping, singing… only to become so physically fatigued I can barely move, sometimes this lasts for days. (Last October I even landed myself back in the hospital after sharing my gifts on the dance floor.)

October 25, 2018

I don’t know how to talk about it, but I also can’t handle the NOT-talking-about-it. I’ve ignored friends who have reached out because I don’t feel like pretending I’m fine and being “on.” I’ve flaked on dinner invitations. I’ve hidden from former teachers in grocery stores. I’ve practically run away from old boyfriends I’ve seen on the street. All because I don’t want to be asked “how are you?” Even as I write this, I can think of people I’ve spent time with in the last year. We talked about everything except my MS. They asked “how are you?” and “what’s new?” I said “really good!” and “no life updates!”

I feel ungraceful.

. . .

But I should (and will) give myself some credit. For as many things as I missed in the last year, I also made a lot of things happen. Rallying for my sister’s wedding is something I am truly proud of... I threw her a bridal shower and a bachelorette party. I was able to stand next to her. I danced with her. And I hate to toot my own horn, but I gave an excellent speech. ::toot toot::

And... there may have been a few teeny tiny windows of grace.

Once I left the hospital, I had to move in with my parents for a few weeks because I couldn’t climb the stairs in my apartment building. I also couldn’t shower alone or standing up. Believe me when I tell you: this changed me.

For many years I have felt completely out of sync with my body. I have felt that my body was NOT good enough, like everything about it was wrong. But there was something about that first (seated) shower at my parents’ house. I remember looking down at myself, at my numb legs, and thinking “you’re so small, and you’re doing your best. It’ll be okay.” It was like someone had flipped a switch in my brain. I couldn’t believe how tiny my body was, how hard it was working, how helpless my legs seemed. They felt entirely separate from me, but I loved them so much.

Maybe it was due to the unique humility that comes from showering seated (and with assistance). Or perhaps it was because I realized what my body had been through. 20 lesions don’t appear overnight. They accumulate over years. This whole time my body was attacking itself from the inside, and I didn’t even know it.

Don’t misunderstand me, I didn’t completely recondition myself through bad news and some seated showers. (If only!) It’s a process. I run my fingernails over my legs multiple times a day to test the sensation, just to know they’re there. They’re with me. I can feel them. I love them. It’s a big deal.

. . .

So why am I sharing all of this even though I don’t actually want to talk about it? I guess it’s because I want this to be something that you know about me. I feel like it’s a piece of the puzzle that you need, that I want you to have.

When I initially returned to work, I would frequently leave early or come in late so that my body could rest and recover. People said things to me like, “wow… leaving early again? Must be nice to be you.”

And while it didn’t feel nice to be me (and I think that’s an extremely obtuse thing to say to someone who was mysteriously out sick for 3 weeks), that was exactly what I presented. I smiled, I laughed easily. It was (and usually is) completely sincere, but it wasn’t (and rarely is) the whole picture. I projected that I was not only fine, but GREAT. I do it all the time. It’s like armor.

Please understand this is not an invitation to discuss my diagnosis, I just couldn’t carry the secret anymore. It’s a weight lifted, because armor is heavy. I have multiple sclerosis. This is a thing you know about me.

I’m trying to be graceful.

. . .

ignis aurum probat, miseria fortes homines

Gio Genuino

You may have noticed that I haven't written anything for public consumption since I got home from Europe.  I wrote this whole longwinded post on social media about how much I love writing and how it feeds my soul, and then I just STOPPED. It's 6 months later and I'm still recovering from my trip mentally, emotionally, physically ( ...I think we all remember A Denim Emergency). I mean, I've written posts, but they're all sitting in Squarespace purgatory, a virtual box of drafts. I couldn't bring myself to publish any of them. "Wait, why is she writing about all her old boyfriends?" People would ask. "BECAUSE THAT IS ALL THE MATERIAL I HAVE!" I'd scream. Then I'd bow my head and flip the double bird. 

I felt... I FEEL... like I wasn't living a life worth writing about. I work out, I bake, I take a bunch of photographs of my artfully arranged mise en place, and then I exercise some more. I wander my neighborhood looking for beautiful homes and old cars to photograph (and don't get me wrong, it is definitely paying off - my Instagram game is quite strong). But none of that is REAL. I'm not having any new experiences, I'm not learning anything, I'm not doing anything that scares me.

And then last week, all of a sudden... I WAS. 

. . .      

About two months ago, I was walking home from a spin class and I heard someone call out to me. "Hey lady, hey ginger lady!" Ginger lady? Blegh. I was mortified. I didn't stop or slow down to see who it was, I just kept on walking. Having a conversation with a stranger during or after a workout is easily one of my least favorite things. Beet red and out of breath with sweat pooling in my sports bra is not how I want to exchange pleasantries. I simply won't have it.

The next week, it happened again. "Excuse me, lady... LADY, where-ah you going?" I could tell that whoever was shouting at me was a safe distance away, so I turned to look. Across the street, sitting in a folding chair in his garage was an old man. He looked small and frail. I felt bad for initially ignoring him and paused. He tried to wave me over, but I shook my head and yelled across the street, "HOME! I am going HOME!" I turned and kept on walking. 

The old man and I did this dance for weeks. I got into a pretty healthy habit of waving back to him and continuing on my way. Then about a month ago, I noticed he wasn't alone in his garage. A young woman was sitting with him. She was surrounded by grocery bags and her yoga mat was propped up next to her. Clearly she too had been called over on her walk home. I realized I wasn't the only person the old man wanted to chat with and I thought to myself "what is wrong with you? He is OBVIOUSLY lonely. You are a NICE person... and you have literally NOTHING to do. Talk to him!" 

Last week when I was walking home from the store, I got my chance. He called out "Hey lady, where-ah you going?" I stopped and smiled at him. "I'm on my way home!" He patted the empty folding chair next to him. "Sit with me!" It's now or never, I thought. I put down my bags and he held out his hand to introduce himself.

"I..." he paused dramatically to take a bone-rattling breath, "am GIO."

. . .      

Gio* has a very heavy Italian accent and when I finally stopped to look at him, I realized just how old he actually is. The lines in his face are very deep and his eyes have a cloudy quality that suggests he has some wicked cataracts. He has oxygen tubing running out of his nose and into a small tank, and a wastebasket full of bloody tissues and his saliva is never far away. Gio is clearly NOT well... which made me feel like a REAL a**hole for not stopping to chat with him sooner. 

"I... am Italian," he said.

What a cool opener!

"I can hear it in your voice!" I said. "I am too!" 

"Yes... I can-ah tell." 

Liar.

"Can you really?" I asked. "What gave me away? The red hair?" 

"You have-ah NICE hair," he said. 

Cataracts shmataracts, he was right. I do have-ah nice hair.

We went back and forth for a while, and he asked if I wanted to stay for lunch. I declined and said that thing we all say when we feel guilty about turning down plans but don't actually want to reschedule: "Maybe another time!" Here's the thing about the elderly - they don't get that. 

"Okay! Another time! You give-ah me your number, and you come-ah have-ah breakfast next week."

Gio fumbled with his phone and then placed it in my hand. This is where I had some cause for pause... To sit in a folding chair in an open garage with a stranger is one thing, to enter their home and eat their food is quite another. Little alarm bells were going off in my head and I felt a tightness in my chest normally reserved for panic attacks. 

"I make-ah fresh Limoncello every week. I show-ah you my backyard! With lemon trees! We can-ah watch-ah Price is Right." 

I felt like an idiot. He wasn't creepy, he was lonely. 

"Okay," I said. "How about Tuesday morning? At 9?" 

He agreed. I put my number into his phone and he called me to make sure it worked. It did. We shook hands and I headed home. 

. . .      

I called my sister. I texted my mom. I told my friends. I have been SO BORED since I got home, and I thought FINALLY, I am going to volunteer my time and watch TV with an elderly Italian man. I am going to feed my soul! I don't want to say I romanticized it... I still understood that he was a stranger and that I should be cautious. But did I text "I'M KATE WINSLET IN THE HOLIDAY" to multiple people? I SURE DID. 

Kate Winslet and Eli Wallach in The Holiday... This could be US.

My mom texted me back and told me to be careful. She literally wrote: "I don't know, he'll probably ply you with limoncello and then... he's still an Italian after all!" I was annoyed. I've been to Italy. And was I accosted in the street and kissed on the mouth by an aggressive stranger more than once? YES. But Gio has an oxygen tank and he is literally spitting up blood. I think it'll be okay.

My sister cautioned me in a different way. She suggested that while feeble, Gio may have hidden cameras in the bathroom. I was horrified. He would NEVER! He barely knew how to use his cellphone. 

Even though I was irritated by the jubilee of warnings, I did start to get anxious about our breakfast plans. What if Gio really was an adorable, frail frontman for some kind of underground human trafficking ring? I knew that if it came down to it I could fend him off, maybe even use his oxygen tank against him, but what about any and all goons he had waiting inside his apartment? Surely they would overpower me... 

I know this seems ridiculous, but "stranger danger" was a very real fear in my household. My parents always warned me and my sister about being abducted. These were the days of Polly Klaas and Amber Hagerman, and my family was NOT f***in around. Mary and I were even enrolled in a karate class, the sole purpose of which (I'm almost positive), was to teach children how to fend off molesters and murderers. There was one exercise I remember specifically called Not My Mommy, Not My Daddy. The sensei would grab our arm and we would practice wriggling out of his grip while screaming "Not my mommy! Not my mommy! Not my daddy! Not my daddy!" Even as a little kid, I remember feeling absurd and thinking the exercise was absolutely bonkers. 

But 2016 is a different time! I get into cars with people I've never met almost daily. I give them money when they get me to wherever it is that I need to be. It's standard business practice to blindly trust strangers. They give me rides, deliver my dinner, bring me groceries, and even do some small home repairs! I'm savvy and I'm smart. It was going to be FINE. 

. . .      

On Tuesday morning, I got dressed and walked over to Gio's building. The garage door was open and he was sitting in his folding chair. He turned to look at me and I waved. His face lit up and he carefully lifted himself to his feet. He looked so small. He had obviously dressed up for the occasion, wearing slacks and a collared shirt. His oxygen tubes were gone, the basket of bloody tissues... was NOT. 

"I think-ah you-ah not going to come! But you here!" 

You called me four times to confirm. 

"Yes! I'm here!" I said. "How are you?" 

He held my hands in his and looked at me. 

"Good, good... I did-ah not realize you-ah so beautiful!" 

That's because I look like a menopausal prison guard after I work out.

"Oh, thank you! I like your outfit today! You look very dapper." 

He beamed. Look at us, I thought. We ARE Kate Winslet and Eli Wallach. This IS The Holiday.

"You-ah ready for breakfast? We can-ah go-ah upstairs!" 

We walked to the back of the garage. "Go ahead," Gio said pointing to the staircase in the corner. Gosh, it was dark. What was behind the door at the end of this? Visions of some kind of sex den started percolating in my mind. I began to ascend the stairs and heard the click of a button. The garage door started to close behind me and we were about to be in total darkness.

I made a horrible mistake. This was actually a terrible idea. 

I reached the top of the stairs and paused before opening the door. 

If there are any surprises on the other side of this, I told myself, you f***in run. 

I turned the knob and gently pushed open the door to reveal... the cutest kitchen I'd ever seen.

If I told you the thought "maybe we'll become BEST friends and when he dies he'll leave ALL THIS to ME" didn't cross my mind, I'd be lying.

"Oh, wow!" I said. "This is lovely!" 

Gio shuffled into the kitchen behind me and closed the door to the garage. His apartment is bright and quiet. It hasn't been updated since 1978 (I asked), but it's very charming. He gestured to the table and pulled out a chair for me. I sat down. 

He went to work at the counter behind me and then presented a plate with one raisin danish wrapped in plastic and one cracked mug of very pale coffee. How'd this guy know I like my coffee to look like horchata? He joined me at the table. 

"Are you eating?" I asked. 

"I did-ah not think you-ah come, so I eat-ah already." 

"Aw, no! Of course I was going to be here." 

"It's okay," he smiled. "How's the coffee?" 

I took a sip and it burned. My eyes filled with tears.

"WOW... What is IN this?" 

"I put-ah the limoncello in-ah the coffee. It's very good, I make it-ah with the Everclear." 

"It's... REALLY strong." 

His eyes flickered and I could tell I'd hurt his feelings, but it felt so weird to be drinking something produced by a stranger that he himself was not drinking. I'm no fool. I've seen movies.

"But it's also REALLY good..." I said trying to salvage the moment. My performance was just short of saying "MMMMMM..." and rubbing my tummy in a circular motion.

This seemed to please him. Gio smiled and we started chatting. We talked about politics; he jutted out his chin and did a pretty good impression of Donald Trump. We talked about Italy, Switzerland, and his time in the military. He told me about his children and his 6 brothers and sisters. We wandered into some pretty horrific territory when, without any prompting, Gio told me ALL about his mother's illegal abortion. This was quickly followed by a very awkward exchange where he continuously used the word "p***y" instead of the word uterus and I attempted to correct him several times. At one point he volunteered the word "ovaries" as a more accurate option and upon thinking better of it, quickly said "no... no... they cut-ah open my mother's p***y."

This was starting to feel RADICALLY different from the Kate Winslet/Eli Wallach plot line I'd grown to love. I asked if he wanted to watch some TV instead. 

We walked into the living room. Every wall was covered in pictures of his daughters, his grandkids, his wife and old family photos from winters in the Swiss Alps. I felt better because it was obvious that Gio is clearly very loved. He seemed much less alone than I had initially thought. He turned on The Price is Right and placed two limoncello glasses on the coffee table. He filled my glass and left his empty. He sat down and stared at my jeans. I knew where this was going - old people HATE pants with the knees ripped out. It's just a fact. 

"You-ah need-ah patch!" He exclaimed. 

Nailed it.

"Ha! I know, I need two! And I bought them this way!" 

We laughed and he touched my bare knee. That's... not right, I thought. Then his hand was on my thigh. THIS WAS NOT THE HOLIDAY, it was sexual harassment!

"Oooooh, nope... Nope, nope..." I said. Then I physically picked up his hand, removed it from my leg, and placed it firmly on the couch. He looked disappointed but not even remotely embarrassed. 

We sat in silence for a while, watching Drew Carey high-five the various contestants. 

"You not-ah drinking the limoncello?" Gio asked. 

"I'm NOT... And I sure don't want to if YOU'RE not having any!" I said this in the most chipper way I knew how. 

"I had it in my coffee!" He said. "I have it EVERY morning." 

This explained SO much. 

"Gio, how old are you?" I said. When I retold this bizarre story later, I wanted to be sure I had his age right. 

"I am... 62." 

"NO. NO YOU'RE NOT." I blurted out. There was no way. THERE WAS NO WAY. 

"You think-ah I'm old?" 

"NO... no, no... Um, it's just... you're younger than my dad." 

This comment seemed to delight him and I immediately regretted implying that Gio was young in ANY way. We sat in silence until the program ended. I checked the time and quickly made up a lie. 

"I have a meeting downtown in half an hour, so I have to leave soon." 

"Oh..." Gio looked crushed.  "Okay... Can I show-ah you the house?" 

We stood up and I carried my limoncello glass into the kitchen. I poured it down the drain and half expected it to bubble up and remove the finish from the porcelain sink. (It didn't.) 

He showed me all around the apartment. 

"This is-ah the kitchen, the bathroom, the linen closet, the bedroom... those stairs go-ah down-ah to another room..." 

Underground sex den. I f***in knew it.

We ended in the front room, a formal family room. It has floor to ceiling windows, a piano, and a shocking amount of life-sized animal figurines.

"Well," I started. "Thank you so much for having me today! It was very nice getting to know you, but I have to go now..." 

"I like-ah you so much," he said. 

F***, f***, f***, f***, f***, F******CK

"Aw... that's... nice," I said. 

"You have-ah a nice smile, and you so nice." 

"Thank you..." I trailed off. "Never had braces..." ARE THE WORDS I ACTUALLY SAID. 

I headed back to the kitchen to grab my stuff. I was calm and totally silent, but inside I was screaming: The Holiday is GARBAGE! It's ALL LIES!

He walked me to the door and held out his hands. Against my better judgement, I placed my hands in his. 

"You call-ah me next week?" He asked. 

"We'll see..." I said. 

"When-ah you call... if-ah my daughter answer, you hang up." 

"Say it again?" I said, CERTAIN that I had misheard him. 

"If-ah my daughter answer, say you-ah telemarketer. Hang up." 

"Now... uh... Why is THAT?" I said. 

"You know... WOMAN... THE WOMEN." He responded. 

"Too true... too true... we are all CRAZY." 

"It's just-ah... she-ah don't like me to share-ah my dinner, to have-ah A GIRLFRIEND." 

"A GIRLFRIEND?!" I squeaked. 

"You know, a girl... that's a friend." 

Girl that's a friend, MY ASS. I tell you what, men can be dogs. It doesn't matter how old they are or how much oxygen they have pumping into their body... some of them are the literal worst. 

"Right, right... OKAY, I gotta go." 

He held onto my hands and started to pull them towards him. He wanted a hug.

My mind's tellin' me NO, but my body... my body was ALSO TELLIN' ME NO.

Gravity took over and I stiffly stumbled forward, leaning into him. He wrapped his arms around me and just as I was thinking I am absolutely taller than this man, I could totally take him, everything is FINE... he reached around and weakly pawed around my bra line. 

I pulled away fast and said "DON'T... don't do that." He looked at me and smiled. He had semi-successfully touched my breast and he was SO pleased with himself, but not in a chilling way - he looked more like a little kid on Christmas morning. I wriggled out of his grip.

Not my mommy! Not my mommy! Not my daddy! Not my daddy!

I turned and started down the stairs, but he grabbed my arm and tried to pull me back towards him. He puckered his lips; he wanted a kiss. 

"Not today, Gio... NOT TODAY." I said this with a smile (because I am a terrible feminist and, for some ODD reason, I didn't want to be rude). He released my arm and waved goodbye. 

"I call-ah you this week!" He said. 

YOU BETTER F***IN NOT!! I wanted to shout back.

I reached the bottom of the stairs and shut the gate behind me. I was furious. I looked at the mailboxes... what was this guy's last name? I needed it for the TIRELESS internet research I was about to do. I was going to go home, look him up, and take him down.

There it was above the mail slot: Genuino... GENUINE in English.

"But not actually," I muttered under my breath. 

What a name... So ironic, so Italian... so perfect for the script I was suddenly considering writing: The Holiday 2: Unwanted Advances From My Geriatric Boo. Armed with this new information, I did go home and I did look him up, and I was right: he's not 62 - he's 83. I was so mad. I am so mad! This experience was supposed to feed my soul, not leave me feeling forever unclean. I fumed for a few days. I replayed all of the moments in my head and rationalized all of my actions. I patted myself on the back for never losing my cool, proud because I didn't hurt an old man's feelings... or kick away his oxygen tank in a fit of rage... but I still didn't feel better. 

This was supposed to be like the movies! This was supposed to be the beginning of the most adorable and fulfilling friendship! He'd be the grandfather I never had, and I'd heal myself through daytime television and companionship! I couldn't sit alone with this story anymore, I was going to lose my mind.

Gio Genuino... I thought. You're a dirty old man. You touched my body and you ruined The Holiday for FOREVER. I am totally gonna write about you.

So I did. 

. . .      

*Name has been changed... because for some bizarre reason I feel a moral obligation to protect this elderly pervert's privacy. 

You in Danger, Girl

I know I say this a lot, but this post was especially difficult to put together. I had to confront some tough stuff... and for that reason I think it may be difficult to read. I hope you'll stick with it. 

I've been debating whether or not to write about what happened in Brussels for a while because speaking from personal experience, I find it REALLY irritating when someone links themselves to a tragedy they did not endure firsthand. The fact is I wasn't in Brussels. I have no idea what those poor people went through, how they felt in those moments, or how they must be feeling now. I want to make it very clear that I don't claim to. Instead I want to talk about what goes on in my brain when something horrible like that happens, how it impacts my thoughts and my behavior. I want to preface the next few paragraphs by telling you that I know this kind of thinking is not rational or productive, but it's my reality... so GET ON BOARD. 

In order to understand where I'm coming from, you need to know that a little over 5 years ago a gas line in my neighborhood exploded; my house started to erupt with my family still in it, and we literally ran for our lives. I realize that last sentence reads a little crudely, but without getting into the gory details, that's what happened. When so much you love is destroyed and death seems imminent (even if just for a few minutes), something happens to your brain. I call it my "Final Destination Complex," but it's actually PTSD. I wish I had the poetry of language to describe it in a better way, but essentially I walk around with a sense of impending doom lurking in the back of my mind. Sometimes it looms large, sometimes it's barely noticeable... but it's there. I've written quite a bit about my internal monologue and while I wish very much that the natural voice inside my head was Tim Roth telling me to "be cool, Honey Bunny" or a young Vince Vaughn saying I'm "SO money, and I don't even know it" ... it's not. Those are places I force my mind to go so that I can calm down. No, no, my inner monologue can be most likened to Whoopi Goldberg as Oda Mae Brown in the movie Ghost. She says "Colleen, you in danger, girl," and she says it all the f***in time. 

If you know me personally, you know that this doesn't keep me from leaving the house or from seeing my friends, but it does keep me from things. Like have you invited me to do a winter sport in the last 5 years? I can guarantee I didn't go. This is because I tried skiing once in high school. It went horribly, and now I'm convinced that if I hit the slopes again I will be tempting fate; I’ll end up like Sonny Bono. That sounds dark. Let’s take it a step further. If I'm listening to music on an airplane and we experience violent turbulence, I will switch the song to make sure I’m pleased with what’s playing. I do this because I’m positive I am about to die, and I refuse to go down in flames with Toto’s “Hold The Line” being piped into my ears. (I deserve a much more poetic end than that… like a Peter Gabriel song or something.)  And finally... When that New Yorker article about the Cascadia subduction zone and the “earthquake [that] will destroy a sizable portion of the coastal Northwest” was all over social media, I couldn’t fall asleep for weeks... literal WEEKS. I would just lay in bed, shed a few tears, and wait for it. I think for a lot of people, damage and devastation of that magnitude can be very abstract. It’s difficult to picture what that kind of destruction would even look like. But it doesn’t take much for me to conjure up images of broken streets, twisted homes, people screaming and crying. I have that shit ready to go; it’s coming up hot and fresh straight from my memory bank. 

Staggeringly accurate photo of the inside of my brain. 

As you can imagine, this makes living in the moment nearly impossible. I would be a f***ing terrible buddhist. I’m always planning my next move, worrying about whatever is hurling towards me, and attempting to mitigate any and all risk. I do this even when I’m looking forward to something. Here's a recent example: almost the entire time I’ve been in Europe, I’ve been planning a trip to Los Angeles. My friend Erin and I have grand plans to reunite on the dance floor at a Prince & Michael Jackson inspired evening. I’ve been a woman possessed. I’ve been dreaming up outfits, style-stalking the LA based women I admire most, and wondering if there’s a world where I can pull off a red moto jacket and a single white glove. I’ve been all over Instagram - mapping out restaurants, coffee shops, concept stores, and I've been keeping an exhaustive list of the things I want to do while I’m there: breakfast at Winsome, see a UCB show, Infinity Room at the Broad, lunch at Terrine, find Ben Schwartz, seduce Ben Schwartz, marry Ben Schwartz... The list goes on. You get it. I’m a planner with a thing for Jean Ralphio. Whatever.

Here’s the thing: looking ahead is all well and good, but I’m in EUROPE. I’m living something I planned right now. I’m in it. I know that I'm always ten steps ahead of myself and worrying about what's next, so I’ve made a conscious effort to be present and appreciative of this experience I created. It’s consistently been a bit of a challenge for me, but in the few weeks following the events in Brussels, it became nearly impossible. 

. . .      

As Alli and I stood in the lobby of our Amsterdam Hotel waiting for a taxi, I watched the TV screens next to the front desk. It was CNN and they were continuing their coverage of the bombings. Two suspects were still at large. TERRIFIC. Our cab arrived and we made our way to the train station. I think I kept it together on the surface (Alli, you can correct me if I'm wrong), but internally I was a wreck. Every wild-haired old man on the platform wearing a lumpy sweatshirt suddenly looked like the unabomber. 

We boarded our train and I tried to calm myself. We were in 1st class and the attendants were handing out free desserts. I settled down and tried to read my book, Anne Frank’s “The Diary of a Young Girl.” (It's the clear choice for someone attempting to relieve anxiety and self-soothe.) After about an hour, the train came to a stop at a small station just outside of the Netherlands. The conductor made an announcement in Dutch, German, and English. Something Alli and I both noticed about these announcements is that the English version is always noticeably shorter than the other languages. The English message over the intercom was quick and concise. 

“There is difficulty in cars 11 and 12. The guests in these cars will evacuate and move to cars 4 and 10. Thank you.” 

That same message in Dutch and German went on for at least an additional 30 seconds. Now I don’t understand either of these languages at all, but I imagine the Dutch and German messages went something like this: 

“There is difficulty in cars 11 and 12… we’re not going to tell you what it is, but everyone will be evacuating and moving to cars 4 and 10. We’re going to sit at this tiny station for the next 45 minutes with no further explanation... But please know that the train attendants will be running frantically from car to car, and the police will be present. We're signing off now... maybe for FOREVER. Thank you and buh-bye.” 

You in danger, girl. I had a panic attack. My heart felt like it was going to explode out of my chest and I couldn't breathe. I wanted to lean over to Alli and say “ya know what? F*** this noise. I’m going home. I don’t want to die today.” Obviously that’s absurd, and there was no reason to be terrified. If it had been a legitimate emergency, I’m positive the situation would have been handled much differently. Looking back, I’m sure the real issue was something gross like the septic tank used by cars 11 and 12 malfunctioned. When I get far enough away from incidents like this one, I’m able to tell myself these things and calm down a little bit. But in the moment, when I'm in such an escalated mental state, it is SO difficult for me to bring myself back down to earth. I can't fully relax... and most of the time, I have no intention of doing so because being at peace kind of freaks me out.

. . .       

I have a very clear memory from the day of the explosion. I was in the living room with my sister. We had just cleaned the whole house. I was sitting in our blue and white striped chair, and my cat Tony was asleep in my lap; we were putting on a movie so we could wind down a little bit before starting dinner. I remember being so content and relaxed. My sister and I had had such a good day together. I was really HAPPY and I remember being very aware of how good it felt. A few hours later everything was gone. The living room, the striped chair, my sweet Tony-No-Bologna… it was all ash. To be totally candid, I think those two moments in time are so intrinsically linked in my mind that I’m afraid to take a deep breath, relax, and let myself be completely at peace. I associate contentment with devastation; in my mind, one comes right before the other. If I am totally happy and at ease, it’s a sign that the other shoe is about to drop; everything is about to go horribly wrong. 

F***... that's actually really brutal to see in writing. 

This can make it super challenging for me to go out, embrace the day, and enjoy life when sitting in my apartment with a cup of tea and some Netflix doing NOTHING seems like the safest option, the option least likely to tempt fate. But here’s the thing - personal experience has taught me that staying home, putting on your pajamas and watching a Brad Pitt movie doesn’t necessarily make you safe. Suddenly, purple sweats will be the only pants you own, “Meet Joe Black” will be the last thing you watched (I wish that was a joke SO badly), and that will be all you have to show for your day. I know deep down that there is nothing to be gained from sitting at home in hiding, and that if something terrible happens, it’ll be much more satisfying to know that I was out bettering myself, feeding my soul, and wearing real pants... But it can be hard to keep that thought at the top of my mind when things like terrorist attacks are happening in the country next door. It makes the world seem so scary and it makes my fears seem rational.

. . .      

I wish I had a way to tie up this post in a neat little bow and tell you that I've learned a lesson and I'm good now. I'm living in the moment and I'm a CHILL girl who can totally hang with winter sports... but that wouldn't be true. It's certainly who I aspire to be, and it's one the reasons this trip has been so important to me. After the fire, so many people said "well, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger!" I wish that phrase rang true for me, I truly do. I wish a brush with death made me feel INVINCIBLE, but it doesn't. When my mind says "you in danger, girl," of course my automatic response isn't "well, fire couldn't defeat me and neither will THIS," because that's not how that moment in time played out. It's the most vulnerable I've ever been and I just happened to live to tell the tale. 

This trip is totally different. This trip has become my way of showing myself that I can handle what life throws at me. I'm reminding myself that I can take risks and survive (and dare I say... thrive?). It's a conscious effort to put myself out there, to be vulnerable and see what happens. It's on my terms, and I'm hoping that next time my brain says "this is different, and it's scary, and you'll probably die," I'll be able to say "I went to Europe for 3 months by myself and I was fine. Calm the f*** down." This experience gives me the chance to create a personal best, a marker to show myself what I'm capable of. Is it skiing with friends or listening to a lesser known Toto hit during a bumpy airplane ride? No... but I'm sure I'll get there. 

Party of One

I've been trying to write about eating alone for about a week now, and it's been incredibly frustrating. My words weren't flowing the way I wanted them to and I didn't know why. I realized this morning that it was difficult because I was trying to write as if eating alone in public is something I've mastered and that "initially it was hard but I've learned to love it!" But that's not even remotely accurate. Is it easier? Totally... But that doesn't mean I enjoy it. Dining solo has consistently been one of the most challenging parts of this trip. It's when I'm most aware of the fact that I'm alone. 

This photo is here mostly so that the following photo wouldn't be the thumbnail image... 

I don't mind the physical act of eating by myself. In fact, I prefer it if I'm about to get down with a particularly saucy dish. When I eat alone at home (in my apartment, where no one can see me), I might as well lay down a drop cloth. And I'm certainly not above wearing a ratty t-shirt over my clothes in lieu of a napkin. It's just easier. But make no mistake, I eat like a delicate flower when I'm eating alone in public because I'm delusional enough to think someone is paying attention to me. 

It's incredibly narcissistic, but I think fellow diners think it's odd to see a young woman eating dinner alone in a nice restaurant.  I'm sure I think this because I am always very aware of people eating alone in public. I always operate under the assumption that the person is alone because they have suffered some kind of tragic loss, and they are alone not just at dinner but IN LIFE.  I'll keep a close eye on their left hand to look for a wedding ring. I instantly feel better when I see that they're married, or become further devastated when I see that they're not. My sister does this too. We'll leave a restaurant and one of us will say "did you see that old man eating his sandwich alone? That was so sad." And the other one will say something to the effect of "no, but did you see his hand? He had a wedding ring on." 

A few things have happened along the way that lead me to believe that it's not only me who feels pity for solo diners. I say this because I've been on the receiving end of some looks and comments. Obviously no one means any harm, but it still makes me think "F***... do I look as pathetic as I feel?" It's like that scene in Forgetting Sarah Marshall where Peter is offered a magazine because he's about to eat alone and "it's gonna be boring." If that ever happened to me, I'd have to say "oh, it's cool... I brought a book from home." Because I did. 

A delicate flower. 

. . .      

When I was in London, a salesgirl at Sweaty Betty realized I was traveling by myself and told me all about her experiences doing the same thing. She said the two keys to curing homesickness are regular exercise and eating well. "Don't be afraid to take yourself out! Put on a cute outfit and go somewhere nice! Have two starters, have a few glasses of wine, get dessert and then treat yourself to a cab home. You'll realize life isn't so bad." I love this advice. I love the idea of steering into the skid. If you don't like dining alone, do it BIG and make it special... then see how ya feel. I decided to do exactly that. I went home and booked myself a spot for lunch at Nopi the following Friday, the first day of London Fashion Week. Nopi is the newest restaurant from Yotam Ottolenghi. I am obsessed with anything and everything Ottolenghi (his cookbook Jerusalem speaks to my shiksa soul), and I'd heard nothing but good things about his newest endeavor. 

When I woke up on Friday, I felt like it was Christmas morning. I picked out my outfit, I heated up my curling iron, and made my coffee. I listened to the American Hustle soundtrack for some hair inspiration, took some poorly lit myspace selfies, and headed for the tube. I arrived right on time, and I was SO proud to be showing up somewhere SO hip and feeling SO fresh. 

"Hi, I have a 1:15 reservation? It's under Colleen?" Both of the things I said were statements, but I end sentences with question marks when I'm feeling a little anxious. 

The hostess ran her pencil over her notebook. "Yes, party of one?" 

Oh my gawd, that sounded SO sad.

"Yup... that's me." 

"Great, we will seat you in just one moment." 

I stepped to the side so that the next group could check in. Once that was done, we were all led downstairs. 

"Here we are..." the hostess said and pointed to a row of 5 seats at a communal table. Now, I don't want to take too strong a stance on the concept of communal tables, but F*** 'EM. They're the literal WORST. We all eyed the seats and muttered a collective "oh..." but no one immediately spoke up. After what seemed like an eternity of standing and staring at our chairs, I said "um... we're not together. I'm not with them." 

"Yes, I know," said the hostess. 

My eyebrows jerked up and my chin jutted out. I could not believe that the 5 of us were supposed to sit together in a row at an otherwise empty table for 12. Whatever happened to the buffer seat?! The party of 4 looked at my party of 1.

"Um... You can talk to us if you feel weird," one of the women said.

Well if I didn't feel weird before, I do NOW...  

You know that scene in Bridesmaids where Kristin Wiig meets Ellie Kemper's character? Ellie mistakes a stranger for Kristin's husband, and in an attempt to remedy the awkwardness Ellie says "this is my husband... you don't have a HUSBAND."  It makes things exponentially worse. This woman was the Ellie Kemper to my Kristin Wiig. 

I sat down and pretended to peruse the menu, but really I was just eavesdropping on my neighbors' conversation. (It sounded like a mutual friend of the group was going through a devastating break up.) Eventually the waiter came over and asked if I had dined at Nopi before. I said no, and he offered to explain the menu. "For 2 people," he recommended that I "order 3 small plates designed for sharing." I stared at him blankly. 

"Okay, um... and how much would you recommend for one person? Cause it's just me..." 

"Oh! Well, probably 3... so you can try more things." 

When my food arrived, I realized that it was still enough for multiple people. And for some reason it arrived all at once; the starter, the entrée, and the main were all on the table in front of me. The people next to me needed to move their beverages so that there was enough room at our table for my food. There I was, a solo lady, surrounded by enough food for 2 (if not 3) people, some orange wine from Italy that came highly recommended, a giant bottle of sparkling water and a glass, plus a personal bread basket. After I was done, I ordered dessert and a coffee, because in the words of Louis C.K., "the meal isn't over when I'm full. The meal is over when I hate myself."

Steer into the skid.

. . .      

Perhaps what makes dining alone in Europe even more difficult is the incessant need for reservations everywhere you go. The majority of the time I enter a restaurant, it has usually JUST opened and I am the first guest to arrive. I've noticed I eat earlier than almost everyone else on this continent; for some reason my body never adjusted to the slightly different meal times. I am almost always asked if I have a reservation, and with the exception of Nopi (and a few meals with Alli), I almost always DON'T. "Well," I want to say, "it's 6:15pm on an arbitrary Wednesday, so NO... no, I don't have a reservation." More often than not the host will take their pencil, run it over their notebook while looking physically pained, and then say "hmm... one for dinner... one for dinner... No... It is not possible." At this point in my trip, I will scan the empty restaurant, take a deep (albeit disgruntled-sounding) breath, and volunteer to "eat super quick," because shoveling food into your mouth can be a pretty speedy activity when there's no one to speak to in between bites. But please know that when I first made my way over here, being turned away from a restaurant would crush me. It reduced me to tears. It made me feel not only alone but LONELY, so I've come a long way. 

When I was in Zurich last week, I was running on fumes and needed a break... apparently I also needed a reservation. I had walked 13 miles so far, it was starting to rain, I had several shopping bags and I had 3 more miles to walk back to my hotel. I ducked into a restaurant that was clearly open and clearly empty. 

"Hi, table for one?" I said. 

"Do you have a reservation?" The host asked. 

If this blog was a movie, this would be the scene where we cut away to an alternate universe where I say exactly what I want to say: "C'mon man... we're the only people in here. Are you f***ing kidding me?" 

In reality I said, "I do NOT..." 

He flipped violently from page to page in his reservation book. 

"Are you eating?" 

"I hope so..." 

I chalk up this odd question to the language barrier because I'm still not sure why my wanting to eat at the restaurant would further complicate my need for a table. 

"Ugh... okay, please hold," he said as if we were speaking on the phone. 

He went back to scouring the pages of his book and mumbling angrily to himself. I wanted to kick over his podium and then flee the restaurant. He looked up from his book triumphantly, he clearly had a plan. He pointed to a table for 2 right next to the front door. Not my first choice, but it would do.

"You can sit here and then we can serve you after 6," he explained.

Had the confusion this whole time been that I was too early for dinner? He asked me if I wanted a drink while I waited. Up until this point, I had been fully committed to doing a sober month simply to see if I could, but the thought of sitting in an empty restaurant for 45 minutes while waiting to be served dinner was too much to bear. I ordered an Aperol Spritz. 

As I sat sipping my drink and reading my book, I noticed that every other table was being set and each had a small sign that read "reserviert" on it. A waitress approached my table and said something in German. I said I was sorry and she repeated her question in English. She wanted to know if I was ready. I said YES and ordered the fish. She looked at me confused. I repeated my order but this time in butchered German while pointing to the words on the menu. 

"No, are you ready to CHANGE?" 

"Wait, WHAT?" 

The host who had seated me earlier rushed over and explained what was going on. The restaurant needed my table for a 6:15pm reservation, but if I still wanted to eat (I did...), I could move to a table that would not be needed until 8:00pm. The host gestured to the center of the restaurant. Anything that wasn't next to the front door sounded GREAT, so I agreed. He lead me to a set table with a reserved sign on it and pulled out a chair. The table sat 8 people... EIGHT PEOPLE. I sat down. I thought I had known pity from fellow diners before, but I was SO wrong. This was worse. There I sat in the middle of the restaurant, at a beautifully set table "reserviert" for 7 additional guests, I was surrounded by my shopping bags and had my bright orange cocktail in my hand...

It looked like it was my birthday. It looked like I threw a party for myself, invited 7 of my closest friends, and NOBODY SHOWED. 

A waiter approached the table and asked something in German. I apologized. He spoke again in English, "Do you want another spritz? Or should we wait for your friends?" 

"Um, just water for now." 

I realized that not only did the guests who were trickling in think that I was waiting for friends, but most of the staff did as well. And here's the fun part about a lot of restaurants in Europe - any/every member of the staff will attend to you at some point during your meal (like 2 different people will ask to take your drink order, a third will ask about your meal, and then someone totally new will bring out your food). I took another look at the menu, and after assuring myself that the fish was definitely the best choice, I tried to flag down a waiter. I realized no one was taking my order because they assumed I'd want to wait for my 7 friends. I finally got the attention of a waitress. 

"May I have the fish of the day?" 

"Okay... Do you want to wait for your party? Or should I bring it out whenever?" 

"Oh, I'm not waiting for anybody, it's just me... so you can bring it out whenever it's ready."

She tilted her head to the side in sympathy. "Aw... sure thing." 

It sounds contrived, but I started to laugh. The whole image was so pathetic. Waiters started placing their hand on my shoulder or kneeling next to the table while speaking to me. I felt like the whole restaurant wanted to give me a hug. Part of me wanted to order a REALLY big dessert and then ask them to put a candle on it... maybe they'd even sing to me in German, and then I could blow out the single candle and pretend to dab tears away from my eyes... But I didn't do that. There's a difference between steering into the skid and doing donuts.

. . .      

Obviously, when I started writing this post, I really wanted to be in love with the idea of eating alone in public because for some reason that marks some kind of success to me. But the fact is I DON'T, and what's more is that doesn't mean that I'm failing in some way. I think that's the lesson to be learned here. It's OKAY that I don't like eating dinner in a restaurant crowded with groups of friends and families, and that it makes me miss my own. It's fun to share food with people. Do I also love being able to be as messy as I want when I'm eating alone in my apartment? UhDUH, but that's at home... and I have Netflix and most of the people I love are in the same time zone; a friend isn't more than 20 minutes away.  I've made a deal with myself: I have to eat at least one sit-down meal in public a day. I'll usually have a coffee in my apartment or hotel, head out to explore, grab a big beautiful lunch somewhere pretty, and then for dinner I get to do whatever feels comfortable.

About 2 months ago, I wrote that this trip is about doing exactly what I want to do, and that I don't have to force myself into any situation that makes me uncomfortable. Somewhere along the way, I seem to have forgotten that. Is going out to dinner alone different than staying in a youth hostel surrounded by a bunch of creepy dudes? Of course it is... but if my being at dinner solo makes me feel lonely and miss my family, why would I continue to push myself to do that? It doesn't make me happy, in fact it makes me actively unhappy and that's not what this journey is about. 

What I need to do is make a conscious effort not to let my loathing of eating alone in public get the best of me. I will not let a fear of dining by myself keep me from going to the restaurants I've read all about in Bon Appetit and Food & Wine magazines, and I won't let it keep me from seeking out all the photogenic cafés I regularly stalk on Instagram.  I'll steer into the skid when I need to... I know when I need a push and when I don't. And in order to avoid further disappointment and embarrassment, I will make a conscious effort to make reservations when I can. I still hate the way "party of one" sounds when someone else says it out loud while leading me to my table, but that's what I am right now. I'm a party of one and that's totally okay. 

Charizma & Peanut Butter Wolf

It has been so long since I've written, I'm almost embarrassed. For the past couple of weeks I have been on the move every 3 days or so, and writing time has been at a minimum. It's extremely difficult to be inspired in a hotel room. They make me feel so unsettled. I found a condom wrapper on the floor of my Amsterdam accommodation, and I couldn't even bring myself to pick it up and put it in the garbage. I just stared at the word "Durex" with my nostrils flared and said a silent prayer that housekeeping would find it the next day. It was such a cruel reminder that a stranger had slept in the same bed... and that something else had (most likely) happened there too. 

I prefer to do my writing in the apartments I've booked for my longer stints in certain cities. They've all been chosen for their natural light and cozy qualities; they make me want to say "I am living my best life!" out loud in the mirror and then wink sassily at myself. I had a super expensive thought the other day: when I get home I need to move. I need white walls, I need cacti and a Fiddle Leaf Fig tree, I need lots windows. I need a writing ROOM. You know what I need first? How 'bout a job. Writing has also taken a backseat for the past 14 days because I had a travel partner! Unloading all of my thoughts and emotions into this Squarespace page seemed much less necessary because I was unloading them all onto a real person in real time instead.

My travel buddy's name is Alli. 

Alli emailed me while I was still in London and asked if she could join me for 2 weeks. She was supposed to travel through Thailand with a girlfriend, but plans changed and now she had a few weeks of PTO scheduled and nothing to do with them. Of course I agreed! Drinking cocktails at 4pm alone is called a disease, drinking them with a friend is called Happy Hour. We settled on 3 days in Paris, followed by Brussels, Bruges, Amsterdam, and Berlin. Armed with Eurail passes, we traveled by train exclusively. Only a few things of note happened on our travel days: I nearly fell backwards out of a train and into 'the gap' while boarding due to the weight of my pack; on one ride the bathroom door slid open revealing an elderly woman on her back, with her pants around her ankles, screaming for help; and perhaps the most traumatizing, we were served some kind of rectangular, marigold-colored fish mousse for lunch on our way out of France. (Alli had one small bite... I embarrassingly had several). Alli will be a part of the next couple stories, so I wanted to make sure that everyone has a clear understanding of who she is as a person. 

. . .     

I have known Alli since I was 5 and she was 3. Even as a toddler Alli was a force. I don't mean to say she was a chatty kid who took up all the air in the room, I mean it more in the way that she didn't accept defeat (like if defeat meant eating her vegetables, she was NOT going to accept that). After watching a group of us play, my mother used to say that Alli had "management potential." You could just tell that one day she would be running shit. Lo and behold, she is. Alli has an eye for design that can't be taught... or learned (believe me, I've TRIED). If I could turn Alli over, give her a shake, and sprinkle her aesthetic sensibilities everywhere like fairy dust, I WOULD. Her taste is flawless and I wish everyone could share it. The world would be a much prettier place.

Berlin was our last city together. On our first full day of exploring, we were in search of a brunch worth instagramming. We were wandering around our neighborhood and walked by a music store. There in the front window for a cool 45,95 € was an album I'd been introduced to by an ex-boyfriend: Circa 1990-1993 by Charizma & Peanut Butter Wolf. Let me run that back for you. CHARIZMA... and... PEANUT - BUTTER - WOLF. Are those not the best two names you've ever heard? I can't tell you the title of a single song on that album, and it's not like I've ever heard these guys on the radio (even if I did, I wouldn't be able to identify them), but I have NEVER forgotten their names. Has there ever been a better-named duo?! (No. The answer is NO, there has not.) As soon as I get my shit together and buy that hypothetical house with the writing room, I will also be treating myself to a duo of kittens whose names will undoubtedly be Mr. Charizma and Mr. P.B. Wolf. 

Think of the kittens.

Alli and I continued down the streets of Prenzlauer Berg and talked about C. & P.B.W. "I would be DELIGHTED to be called EITHER of those things," I said. Alli agreed. Peanut Butter Wolf sounds a little fierce, but also sweet... and kind of slow moving. Charizma is charisma; engaging, compelling, charming. I'd be totally proud to have either pseudonym. But after 2 weeks together, it is abundantly clear to me now which of us would be P.B. Wolf and which of us would be Charizma. 

. . .      

Let me be clear - Alli and I are both engaging ladies. That said, I can be engaging in a way that gets me into trouble sometimes. An example from our time at the Antwerp train station comes to mind. Making reservations for European train travel is a mixed bag. It is either not necessary, not even remotely possible, or so critical you end up waiting hours for a seat. I am sure there is some way of figuring out which of these scenarios it will be before arriving at the train station, but I DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT IS YET. 

In order to get from Bruges to Amsterdam, we had to make a stop in Antwerp. Upon our arrival, we headed to the international ticketing office to book our seats for the final leg of the day's travel. Initially Alli and I dealt with a cranky bald man who somewhat resembled Vladimir Putin. He declined to help us because he was "kind of closed." I'm sure the actual issue was that he was 'kind of a d***.' He sent us to another window at the end of the counter with a young man behind the desk. We never said it out loud, but I think Alli and I had a mutual understanding that dealing with a male peer was going to be exponentially easier for us. We approached the counter, flashed all our teeth, and asked for two seats on the next train to Amsterdam. We wanted a direct route, we wanted seats together, and we wanted 1st class. 

He looked us up and down. It wasn't our strongest outfit day, and we had just witnessed that elderly woman sprawled out on the floor of the train bathroom. He had every right to be skeptical of us.

"Oh, really... First class?? You ladies certainly look like first class travelers!" 

"It's the backpacks," I said. 

He laughed pretty hard, and I thought "step into my web, ticket guy." This is where we start to have a problem. What web? Why is that a thought that I had? It makes no sense. 

"Okay then!" He said. "Two tickets to Amsterdam. A ladies weekend in Amsterdam! I can get you on the 14:33 to good ol' Amsterdam!" 

This guy must've said "Amsterdam" at least 6 times while making our reservation, so you can imagine my surprise when I looked at our tickets 30 minutes later and realized he had sold us tickets to Paris. Alli and I had been camped in the station Starbucks waiting for our train, and we still had 20 minutes before the actual Amsterdam train departed. Alli guarded our luggage, and I headed back to the ticketing office. The young man that had assisted us was helping someone else, but I refused to talk to a different ticketing agent. I stood to the side and waited. He caught my eye and winked. He handed the other patron his receipt and I stepped up to the counter. 

"Hi..." I said in a sing-song way that took not one but two syllables. "I'm back."

"You are back. Realized you forgot to give me your number, did you?" 

Oh, ew. C'mon, man. Don't do that.

"Ha, NO... I realized you sold us tickets to Paris. We want to go to Amsterdam. Remember? 'Ladies weekend in Amsterdam...'"

"And I booked Paris? Do you want to go to Paris instead?" 

"Nope. We do NOT... we've already been." 

"Ah. So you two must be pretty upset with me! Where's your friend? She couldn't even face me?" 

"Totally. She's crying in Starbucks as we speak," I said dryly. 

He laughed again. 

"Well... f***..." He said. 

This actually made me laugh. I felt bad that he felt bad. I smiled. 

"Ah," he said. "THAT'S what must've happened." 

"What's that now?" 

"Your laugh must've taken me up to heaven. I was in the clouds and I was distracted." 

Gross. GROSS. 

"Yeah, that must've been it." 

"I truly am sorry about that. That was my fault. Lucky for you, I'm still here or you'd have been out 30 € and on your way to Paris!" 

No. No we would NOT have been. Believe you me.

"Okay," he said, "so I will exchange that free of charge, of course. I can get you on the 15:30, and HERE."  He opened up the cash drawer and handed me 10 €. "Your next coffees are on me." 

"That's very nice of you. Thank you." 

"Okay! So here we go! Two tickets to Paris it is." He held out my receipt and I finally got a look at his hands.

"AMSTERDAM." 

"Of course! Ha, you'll have to give me your number so I can make sure you make it there okay!" 

"Totally. Question for ya - when you wear that ring on that finger on that hand, does it mean the same thing as it does in America?" 

This guy was married. MARRIED. 

"Well, YUP. Have a safe journey," he said. 

"Thank you SO much for your help." 

Now this guy was definitely a flirt, but do you see where I went wrong? I do. I wanted to make him laugh. I liked that a stranger thought I was funny. I wanted to be interesting. Alli and I talked a lot about the difference between being interested and interesting. We agreed that it's better to be the former rather than the latter. Being interested in others is something I place a lot of value on, but sometimes I have trouble putting it into practice. Alli is not that way at all. I noticed that whenever we were in a cab, at a bar, near other English speakers, Alli displayed such a genuine interest in whoever we were with. Whenever we got into a taxi, our driver would ask where we hailed from and we'd proudly say "San Francisco!" The majority of our cabbies had never been to San Francisco, but they were happy to tell us about all the other cities in America that they had visited. "I have never been to your city... but I have been to Los Angeles and Portland." My follow up question was always a yes-or-no number, a conversation ender. 

"Oh, Portland! Did you like it?" 

"Yes..."

"Cool." 

Alli didn't do this. Alli asked thoughtful questions that kept things moving. "Wow! And what brought you to Portland?" THAT. That is how you continue a conversation. That is how you show you are interested in others. Alli is the Charizma. I am the Peanut Butter Wolf. We were at a bar one night and she flat out asked the bartender "are you from the Bay Area?" I nearly fell out of my chair. Here I was, sipping literal gin and juice, monologuing loudly about San Francisco hoping that he'd turn and say "now, hold the phone! I'm from that city too!" Alli simply asked.

. . .      

I hope I've given you an idea of who Alli is as a person. She is interested in others, she does not accept defeat, she has a gift for interior design that I would pay stupid money for. She is always ready for a chai latte, a cocktail, or a good time, and she is literally there to catch me when I start to fall backwards out of a train. She's the Charizma to my Peanut Butter Wolf, and I'm so glad she was able to join me on this adventure. 

This post is for you, Alvin. Love you very much, fambly. 

Be Cool, Honey Bunny

Leaving London was exceptionally difficult. I think I may have allowed myself to spend too much time there. I got comfortable, and that's not really what this trip is supposed to be about. What made my departure easier was the fact that I got to see a friendly face only 48 hours later. I spent 4 days in Dublin with my friend Christine, and it was exactly what I needed. 

The Motherland.

Christine and I travel the same way. We do not feel any sense of accomplishment from checking tourism hot spots off our lists, from running ourselves ragged trying to see EVERY site in the guide book. Instead we take it slow and do exactly what we want to do. In Christine's words, "we live our best lives." I won't dive into everything we did and everything we talked about, but I will tell you that it brought me back to neutral and mentally prepared me for the remaining two months of this trip.

A quick shout out to Christine - she is unfailingly supportive, wildly funny, and her sense of style is bananas. (For example she has a super delicate, rose gold nose ring. It's so bad ass yet SO chic.)  Above all of this, Christine knows herself. She picked up her life and moved to Portland, and she did it all on her own. She didn't move for a man or for a job - she moved because that's what she wanted to do. She is one of my very best friends, and she was such a welcome addition to this journey.

As you can imagine, saying our goodbyes was a total breeze.

I hugged Christine and got into my taxi. I burst into tears as soon as we pulled away from the curb. If you've ever had a cabdriver in Ireland, you're familiar with the volume of questions they ask. I think every driver I had in Dublin knows three things about me - I am from San Francisco, I am single, I am not voting for Donald Trump. They know all of these things because they explicitly ask about them. If you've ever wished that a driver would give you some peace and just stop talking, here's a hot tip: cry until your breathing is uneven and your inhales sound like an AK47 being fired. When I finally calmed down and found a tissue at the bottom of my purse, my driver pointed out a rainbow that had formed over the city. (If I hadn't been so emotional, I probably would have instagrammed it.) 

"Where're ya from, dear?" He asked. 

"San Francisco," I sniffled.

"And all alone? Oof, you're a long way from home."

This f***in guy. I dissolved. He knew what he had done and turned up the radio. I kid you not, it was the instrumental break at the end of Eric Clapton's "Layla." This song reminds me of my family, particularly my dad, so much. I was overcome with homesickness. I cried. I just let it all out. But this would pass. I was off to my European home away from home, and it was going to be great!

. . .      

As you may have gleaned from social media, I've been in Paris for the last 10 days. As you may NOT have gleaned from social media, it could be going better. 

This is the view from my apartment... as you can see, my crankiness is clearly warranted.

I posted a photo of this beautiful city the other day; the caption read "second only to dairy, Paris is the greatest unrequited love affair of my life." The word unrequited is key here. To be totally candid, this is the most difficult leg of my journey thus far. At the risk of sounding completely inarticulate, Paris is hard. I love it here. I do. It's magic and it's effortlessly special. But it does not feel the same way about me. Paris cannot and will not love me back. It refuses to reciprocate my feelings. I walk down the streets and I am totally in awe of everything around me. It's the kind of place that motivates me to speak to it under my breath like I'm in a movie.  "I love this," I say staring up at the architecture. "How about you lean down and bite the curb," the buildings whisper back. 

I lived in Paris about 8 years ago. It was only for a semester, and I never truly felt like I belonged, but it became comfortable. With that said, this feeling I'm experiencing, the feeling of being an outsider, it's something I had forgotten about. It has always been my understanding that all Parisians really want is for visitors to give the language a shot, to break out the pocket dictionary and give it a go. I wish I could remember who I was talking to about this. We agreed that it's the attempt that counts. Parisians will warm up to you, as if to say "thanks for trying... A for effort." And I agree, that's always seemed to be the motto. However, I'm not sure this statement is still accurate. As of right now, the motto seems to be "thanks for trying... Go f*** yourself."

Totally unrequited. 

I am doing my best not to become frustrated. I am trying to be patient not only with the Parisians, but with myself. It is insanely challenging. Last Saturday I went to brunch and nearly set the café ablaze. After being abandoned in a side room by the hostess and sitting alone for 32 minutes without a second glance from any of the staff, I got up and walked out of the restaurant.  Had I been in San Francisco, I never would have allowed that to happen. The hostess would have gotten SOMETHING from me. Nothing too day-ruining, maybe a stern talking-to or a strongly worded Yelp review, but she would have known I was upset. Instead I resorted to a sassy eyebrow raise upon exiting. 

. . .      

On the other end of the interactions-with-Parisians spectrum, we have some people who are SO warm and friendly they try to follow me all the way home. They are almost always men. (Except for this one persistent panhandler. She now has 5 of my precious euros even though "10 is the minimum." Whatever the hell that means. What's that saying? Beggars can't be choosers? Turns out in Paris, THEY CAN BE.) I had an experience with one of these 'friendly' Parisians at the post office the other day. I'm still processing it. I want to let it go, but it's proving difficult. 

As I accumulate gifts and treasures (read: new clothes) from each city, I send a box of the items I no longer need (read: wear) back to San Francisco. Yesterday I went through my closet and pulled out some pieces I had brought specifically to wear during fashion week: a floral print dress, a pleated leather skirt, my camel coat with the fox fur collar. I also grabbed my sports bras and SoulCycle tanks because cardio is just not a thing that is happening over here. I put all these things in a shopping bag and walked across the street to ship them home. When I entered the post office, I must've looked so confused and lost that help simply presented itself to me. A man pointed his finger in my face and rattled off something in very rapid French. I closed one eye and curled my lips back as if to say "I'm sorry... WHAT?" He laughed. "What can I help you with today, mademoiselle?" I smiled. 

"I would like to send THIS," I said and lifted up the shopping bag for him to see the size of it. "It needs to go to the... États-Unis." 

"You have a beautiful smile," he said. 

Personally I think I have a smile like Mr. Dink, neighbor of 90's Nickelodeon cartoon character Doug Funny. (Now that I've told you this, you will never be able to un-see it.) So kind words about my teeth are almost always welcome, but in this case his compliment was not an appropriate response to what I had said.

"Thank you so much... um, so should I pick one of these boxes? If it fits, it ships? Or how does this work?" 

He took my shopping bag out of my hands and over to the counter. He placed it on a scale, made a note of the weight, and grabbed a collapsible cardboard box. He asked what was I sending home. 

"Just some clothes. I don't have room to pack them!" 

"Of course. I will help you," he said and began to open the bag.

"Oh, no, that's okay! But thank you!"

I did NOT want this man handling my clothing. Something about it seemed so intimate, and I was already getting a little uncomfortable. I held out my hands so he could give back my shopping bag and hand over the cardboard box. But as we have already established, this man did not seem to be a great listener. Instead of handing me my clothes, he proceeded to lift each item out of the bag, tell me what he liked about it, and then place it into the cardboard box. He pulled out the leather skirt. 

"Oh! I would like to see you in this dress!"

He held it out in front of me like he was trying to picture it on my body. 

"Ha... No, no. It's a SKIRT."

I'm still not sure why I chose to correct his word choice instead of the sentiment behind it. He raised an eyebrow at me and then clutched the skirt against his chest.

"Skirt... SKIRT. Very nice. And YOU are very beautiful!"  

He folded the skirt in half and put it in the box. This was becoming so painful. I felt like I needed to go home and take a shower. But instead of saying anything, I scrunched up my nose and clenched my teeth.  I didn't know what to do. He had about $500 worth of my clothing and 100% of my power. He finished packing everything and looked at the shipping label I had written. 

"Colleen... Oh-Nell... I have your phone number now. And you live very close - Rue Pierre Lescot!"

"Kind of! It's my boyfriend's house! I'm just visiting,"  I lied enthusiastically.

"Oh no! So you cannot get a drink with me tonight? How else do you know your clothes will make it to America? What if they disappear?" He winked.  

My face reads like a book. I've been told it's like Kabuki Theatre without the masks. My mouth opened and my eyebrows furrowed involuntarily. My head jerked back so far that I had not one but two chins. "Haaa..." I said. This particular "ha" lasted about 2 whole seconds. I think it was weakness leaving the body. "Are you serious? Well... I guess I just have to trust you to do your job! May I have a tracking number please?" I smiled again but this smile didn't say "please help me!" This smile said "I'm capable of ruining a life, and it might be yours." His energy changed and he handed back the appropriate paperwork. 

"Ms. Oh-Nell... your receipt, here is your copy, and there is your tracking number. You are all done. Bonne journée." 

"Ah, merci beaucoup! Thank you! BUH-BYE." I said loudly. 

I'm fairly confident that my bitterness surrounding this experience will only subside if/when I know my clothes have made it safely from Paris to San Francisco. Until then, this post office employee will continue to be on my shit list. And you know what, even after my clothes arrive... he'll still be on my shit list.

. . .       

I've been texting my mom about my recurring frustrations with this city, and she suggested I take myself out for a "royale with cheese." This made me feel better. My mother knows I have the tendency to turn to a certain line from Pulp Fiction in times of need, and it's not "English, motherf***er, do you speak it?"

No. Instead it's what has become a kind of personal mantra for me: "Be cool, Honey Bunny." 

This is something I say to myself a lot. Like last month when I got lost in the dark, armed only with a phone at 4% battery and a light jacket? Be cool, Honey Bunny. This past Thursday, when I was almost run over by a speeding motorcyclist on the sidewalk while I was walking home? Be COOL, Honey Bunny. And, as you probably know, when I split my jeans open and wound up halfway across town in a misguided effort to replace them? TELL THIS BITCH TO BE COOL. (If you haven't seen Pulp Fiction, I probably seem mildly psychotic. But I promise you these are Quentin Tarantino's words, not mine, and they work.) 

I think I'm having such a hard time with the language barrier because it makes me feel so powerless. I feel powerless when people don't talk to me and I feel powerless when they do. Words are everything to me; I am going to sound so foolish right now, but I just realized this. Not being able to say exactly what I want to say is painful; not having language as a tool is like being a toddler or having unbridled road rage on a fast paced highway. I have all this frustration and I can't express ANY of it sufficiently. I have to rely on broken sentences, unintelligible sounds, and exaggerated gesticulating and pantomiming.  I pride myself on representing my thoughts and my feelings well, and it's rarely an ability I have to live without.

I am truly embarrassed by how naive I sound.

This post has been so challenging to write. I keep reading it back to myself and thinking "how the hell can I publish this? I sound so ignorant." But perhaps I sound that way because I can be ignorant. I have friends with grandparents and mothers and fathers, PEOPLE THAT I KNOW, who walk through life like this every day. They don't speak the native language of the country they live in and they simply handle it. And what's more, they handle it with warmth and a smile. I am in awe. Trying to overcome a language barrier is extremely difficult. It's emotionally draining. It's verbal cabin fever. I've dealt with it for less than two weeks, and to quote the movie French Kiss, "it makes me COMPLETELY INSANE." 

It's like asking "can I just say something?" Without fail, someone who is undoubtedly a twerp will respond "I don't know, can you?" But the thing is I CAN'T. The answer is NO because je ne parle pas bien Français. I am trying to handle my frustration with poise and I am trying to handle my frustration with grace, but right now... Ugh. It's just really difficult. 

I've always known that communication is a luxury, but I've always looked at it through the lens of censorship, a matter of freedom of speech. I never stopped to consider that for some people it's a matter of personal capability. It's the difference between may and can. May I speak my mind? Sure. Can I speak my mind? Nope, not even a little bit. So I take a deep breath and do my best to let it go. Be cool, Honey Bunny... just be cool. 

A Denim Emergency

Last Thursday was my final full day in London. I checked out of my apartment at 11:00am, and as soon as I closed the door behind me I felt homesick. My tiny studio was exactly what I needed for those first 3 weeks. It was so colorful and full of light, centrally located and cozy; I never felt lonely in it. I wish I could collapse it into a tiny box and take it home with me.

Before I shed everywhere and let my suitcases explode. 

I spent my last night packing my bags. It was a little emotional. Even with the knowledge that I'm continuing this great adventure, my heart ached a little bit. It wasn't until I was looking around the apartment, attempting to pick strands of my hair off of my sweaters and dresses, packing all the odds and ends, that I realized I actually lived here. I had reached a point where I no longer felt like a guest, because the apartment was no longer pristine. I felt that comfortable in it. There were tiny pieces of me everywhere - coffee mugs, receipts, and loose change on every surface. It was kind of a mess and it was kind of mine.

. . .      

The Tuesday before I left, I woke up at 6:30am (for no real reason other than anxiety). I was already sad about leaving my little London life; I needed a boost. I washed my face. I made some coffee. I put on The Essential Céline Dion. (I'm afraid people might think I'm joking when I talk about what music speaks to me, but I promise you I am very serious.)

I took my clothes out of the dryer, put another load of laundry in, and prepared for a day of getting organized. As I picked out the outfit I would be wearing for the next 2 days (I was packing the rest), I eyed my jeans. I hadn't meant to put them in the dryer. They looked... smaller. This made me nervous. I've inhaled every kind of cheese in my path while I've been away, and if I'm being honest, it's starting to show on my body. Still I like a tight pant, so I was sure it'd be FINE (or that's what I told myself). I put my legs into my jeans and went to pull them up around my waist. I do this move when I'm putting on pants - I pull them up as high as they can go, I squat down, then jump up as high as I can while straightening my legs, and then give the pants one final tug up around my waist. It's never failed me... until now. I'm sure you can guess where THIS "no fail" process (and my pants) fell apart.

The squat... It was the squat. 

I had no sooner bent my knees, that my pants ripped about 4-5 inches right down the crotch and up the back. The tearing sound was short and deafening. It was like my pants screamed "NOPE!" And then attempted to depart from my body. As my pants said "NOPE," I said a soft, high pitched "whaaaaat..." Suddenly the plans for my day completely shifted. I wear SPECIFIC jeans. I have found what works and I stick with it because, like any woman, buying anything else is a living nightmare. I was not about to spend one of my last days in London wrestling with UK sizing and throwing my self-esteem into the garbage. My mission was clear: I needed to find a J Brand Denim store. 

I threw on some leggings and headed out the door. I didn't feel up to navigating the tube, so I jumped into the first cab I saw. I Google-mapped the store, and directed my driver over to J Brand in Oxford Circus. But there was an issue; he wasn't familiar with my destination.

"The J Brand store on Margaret Street? It's just off Regent Street..." I said. 

"I can't picture it. That's a very quiet side of Margaret Street... can't say I know J Brand. What's sent you on this trek today?" 

I paused. Do I tell this guy that I split my pants straight up the back? Is that a nugget of information that I need to share with a stranger? Probably not.

"What's sent me on this trek?" I asked back. "Well... um... it's a denim emergency." 

I have a knack for attempting to reveal very little information and then giving an answer that prompts additional (and totally warranted) inquisitions. A denim emergency? Definitely not a thing that exists. Of course this guy is going to have follow up questions. He's going to have several of them. I broke down and told him everything: my pulling-up-pants secrets, the 4-5 inch tear, the fact that I've left no wheel of cheese untouched in the last 3 weeks. He couldn't have been kinder. He began to launch into a story.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better..." 

I have to pause here and say that the majority of the time someone says "if it makes you feel any better," whatever follows that phrase does NOT make me feel any better. It makes me think "you're right. That sounds f***ing awful... I'm so sorry that happened to you! Now back to the meltdown I'm currently having." I realize this isn't a healthy (or humble) line of thought, but in the interest of being unapologetically myself, I wanted to acknowledge that little truth about me. But back to my driver's story...

"I had a similar experience the other day. I had just picked up a woman and we were headed to Heathrow when my tire blew out. I had a flat. I had to flag down another taxi for this woman, so I lost the fare. I was in a horrible mood. I got out of the car, grabbed the spare, and kneeled down to check the damage.

"As I bent down, I heard a *riiiiiip* and I knew what I had done. I stood up to see where my pants had split and found nothing! I don't mean to offend, but I thought perhaps it was a bit of flatulence sneaking out? And it had simply caught me by surprise? I continued changing the tire, finished up, and went about picking up fares. But I was uncomfortable for the rest of the day! I felt like the Princess with the pea under her mattress. I couldn't get settled in my seat!"

At this point, I was convinced my driver was going to reveal that he had accidentally shat himself.

Not the case.

"I rounded up my day and headed home. When I began to undress, I realized what had torn. There, in the seat of my pants, I found my boxer shorts. They had ripped in at least six different places and into a few separate pieces. They'd exploded away from my body. They couldn't wait to be rid of me! Throughout the day they had collected into a flattened ball of fabric tucked right under my ass... that's what I had been sitting on. As you know, boxer shorts by their very nature are loose fitting clothing. You at least ripped something intended to be tightly worn on the body, something pulled taut. I ripped something that should be flowing. You can imagine the mental state I was in." 

I could imagine the mental state. It was (and is) one of the best stories I've ever been told by a stranger. It was one of those rare times when someone sharing their personal pain and embarrassment actually did make me feel better. We pulled up to the storefront reading "J Brand" and I began to count my cash, ready to give this man all my money in return for making me smile. 

As you can see, it is nestled among all the other clothing stores, mere blocks from Liberty London...

"Miss, you ARE in the market for pants, is that correct? Not an electrician?" 

These seemed like odd parting words. Was this some kind of pick up line? He pointed at the window of the J Brand store across the street, and I realized why he had asked such a bizarre question. J Brand in London is a contractor's shop - they do electrical installations and home repairs. They definitely don't sell jeans. Had this happened to me two weeks ago, I would have dissolved into tears in the back of the cab. But I didn't. Instead I handled it like the mature, sophisticated lady that I am, and I blurted out "are you f***ing kidding me?" 

After I let that expletive fly in the cab, I put my hand over my mouth. My driver laughed and turned off the meter. "Take your time finding a new denim shop. I'll get you where you need to be." 

I am 100% positive that this man was kind to me because I invited him to be. I was vulnerable, I let him in. If I had been conducting myself the way I do in San Francisco, the way I would have before I left on this trip, that cab driver wouldn't have known I was having a "denim emergency." He probably wouldn't have known anything about me. I would have been so mortified that I didn't do more research about my destination that I totally would have owned being in the market for an electrician and then waited for him to drive away. Once he was out of sight, I would have walked to the corner, flagged down another cab to take me somewhere else, and I never would have acknowledged out loud to a stranger that I am capable of making mistakes. In fact, I would have patted myself on the back for avoiding embarrassment.

. . .     

My driver and I sat in the cab together while I looked up which "posh" store might carry my jeans. He gave me a voucher for a free coffee, his phone number for the next time I got turned around in London, and he promised to get me "sorted."

We eventually wound up at Harrods. It's important for you to know that Harrods is 2 blocks from my apartment. I took a $50 cab ride through London to wind up 10 minutes away from my starting location. But I have to say, I wouldn't swap that expensive, time-consuming ride for any short walk in silence. I think being alone with my thoughts after ripping open my jeans would have been the worst thing I could have done. I would have fumed, I would have called myself names; I would have torn myself apart. Instead I was vulnerable with a total stranger, and it remains a highlight of my time in London. I opened up, so HE opened up. We made each other laugh and it was such a comfort to me. I know this all must sound so hokey, and a post about buying new jeans must seem trivial, but it was actually a very pivotal moment. 

I have been trying to be brave, and bad ass, and strong all the time, but I'm learning that raising my hand and asking for help can also be all of those things. I feel like I've been looking at the act of seeking assistance as some kind of failure. But it's not. Sometimes leaning on others is necessary. Part of me thinks I'd forgotten that, and part of me thinks I never knew it to begin with. 

Am I going to walk around being 100% vulnerable with every stranger I meet all the time? No. Of course not. But in this situation in particular, would there have been any benefit from NOT telling my cab driver that I split my pants? I don't know, but I don't think so. Worst case scenario he savagely sasses me about my cheese addiction or proper denim care... but that really doesn't seem very likely.  So here's to opening up and raising my hand, here's to asking for help, and here's to my new jeans. 

Between 3 and 7

Yesterday was the first day that I actually felt like myself. I woke up way too early, washed my face, and had my coffee. Then I made avocado toast, took a least 6 overhead pictures of it... and then I planned out my day.

The worst.

I decided to go to the suburb of Marylebone. I had seen some gorgeous pictures of it (read: a blogger I follow posted about it on Instagram, and I thought "I need that shot"), so I decided to explore it for myself. I was so proud - I took the tube, made not one but TWO transfers, and only had to shoot some side-eye at a stranger once. 

I'm only slightly embarrassed to tell you that I've gotten lost literally every single day that I've been here. I don't get lost like "oh, I should have made a right back there... let me go back a few steps." I get lost in the way that I will walk more than a mile in the wrong direction, and I will do it with total conviction. In the words of Mark Twain, "it ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that just ain't so."

As I made my way through Marylebone, I got turned around trying to find a store dedicated entirely to cheese. I eventually found it, but first I found a museum - The Wallace Collection. I had no idea this place existed, I wasn't even looking for it, but it was beautiful. It's a family's personal collection; they owned some noteworthy and impressive pieces. I walked into one of the drawing rooms, and there on the wall was Jean-Honoré Fragonard's The Swing. I thought it must be a copy (because how did I not know this was here?), but it's the real deal. I thought I would cry, but I didn't. This was very surprising to me because in addition to getting lost, crying has become the other thing that I do every day. 

Have you seen that video where Kristen Bell reacts to meeting a sloth? She tells Ellen Degeneres that "if [she's] not between a 3 and a 7 on the emotional scale, [she's] crying." She's crying if she's excited, she's crying if she's sad. I have never really found this statement relatable; unwarranted tears aren't my M.O. ... until this trip. Over the last two weeks, I've realized that if I'm not between 3 and 7, I am a MESS. The list of things that have made me cry on this trip is extensive and nonsensical. It includes quotations on greeting cards, a preview for a Jake Gyllenhaal movie, a dysfunctional metro card, a really helpful salesgirl in Sweaty Betty London, George Harrison's Ballad of Sir Frankie Crisp (which I definitely heard in an episode of How I Met Your Mother), and not one but two Gerry Rafferty songs. (I went to Baker Street yesterday, so sue me.)

You can practically hear that haunting sax solo. 

I'll tell you what I told my parents. I keep thinking that I'm okay and that I'm handling everything around me with some version of grace or poise, but I've realized it's all very fragile. I'm very fragile. It's a balancing act. As soon as the tiniest thing tips the scale, I become completely emotionally overwhelmed. It's not the kind of thing where I start to well up and think "dammit, I was doing so well! I really didn't want to cry today. " It's more like "what are these pools of saltwater collecting in my eyes? What the hell is happening to my face?" The tears are a total surprise to me every time.

The other day I was invited to lunch in Notting Hill by a friend of my cousin and while I could have walked to the restaurant, I decided to take the tube instead. I bought my Oyster card a day in advance and planned my route and timing accordingly (because I'm such a spontaneous and wild soul). The day of my lunch, I left my apartment an hour early. I walked into the station like the bad bitch I aspire to be and approached the turnstile with the confidence of a disgruntled commuter and swiped my card. The machine beeped loudly and flashed "PLEASE SEE STATION AGENT" on its tiny screen. I had been rejected. I remained totally calm (I thought) and walked around trying to find somebody, anybody that worked there. Finally I spotted a guy in a navy blue jumpsuit. This was clearly not a style choice, it was a uniform. He was definitely an employee.

As I approached him, I thought some combination of words would come out of my mouth... a kind of greeting or signal to let him know that I was present and needed assistance. This is not what happened. Instead I ended up staring at him for an uncomfortable period of time. When he finally turned towards me and made eye contact, picking up on whatever insane energy I was putting out there, he said "are you okay, Miss?" If I had been even remotely inhabiting my body, I would have said "oh, YEAH. Sorry, I just have a quick question." This is not what I said. He asked if I was okay, I paused for way too long as I came back down to earth and tears collected in my eyes, and I shouted "NO!" Then I exhaled super loudly. (As you can imagine, he was thrilled to assist me.) This whole reaction was a total surprise to me because I truly thought I was fine. This was not an emergency, and I knew that. No one was hurt, no one was in danger, no one was going to be late for their lunch commitment.

A few days later I was in Whole Foods on a mission for cheese... and I lost my sh*t. 

A sorority sister living in London invited me to a dinner party last Friday night, and I jumped at the chance to talk to people aside from my own reflection in the mirror. She asked if I could bring the fixings for a cheese board, and I was more than happy to... the cheese is just better over here. What surprised me is how overwhelmed I was by this teeny tiny task. It consumed me. I was literally at the store for 45 minutes sampling cheese, trying to contain my emotional flooding. As I exited the chilled room where they keep the dairy products, I was feeling extremely fragile. Then the worst thing that could have happened HAPPENED. I realized I knew the song that was starting to play in the grocery store. It was Florence & The Machine's "Shake It Out." If you've ever heard this song and can remotely relate to how vulnerable I was feeling, you know where I'm going with this. 

I said "Oh, F***" out loud in the produce department. I already knew what was about to happen and hustled towards the escalator to find the checkout line. This song cuts into my soul when I'm doing dishes after ordering takeout, so you can only imagine what it did to me in the South Kensington Whole Foods. The checkout line was at least 20 people deep, and I knew there would be no avoiding crying in public. I clenched my jaw until it hurt my entire face. I really wanted to keep it together, but it wasn't going to happen. I was already at an 8 or a 9. I think I've mentioned before that I have a VERY active imagination. As I stood there listening to that song (and becoming totally unhinged), it was not hard for me to produce the delusion that this song was playing for a reason. The universe clearly meant it just for me... standing there in the grocery store next to all the magazines and gum, carrying $40 worth of cheese. It was the universe saying "you are exactly where you are supposed to be right now."

I bought my cheese, collected myself in the taxi, and headed to the party. As soon as my fellow Delta Gamma opened the door and wrapped me in a hug, I felt better. 

I woke up yesterday thinking that I finally felt like myself because of my total emotional release in Whole Foods, but upon further review I think it was the party I attended. I know I made a point in an earlier post about loving my alone time, and that is still 100% true, but there is something to be said for meeting generous strangers and being totally welcomed into an established circle of friends. I woke up the next morning feeling so hungover my hair hurt, but I was also really happy. Do I think a good ugly-cry in public helped? Yes. Would I ever have dared to do that at home before this trip? Probably not. That aside, there is something about meeting new people and having the opportunity to put what I talk about here into practice, to unapologetically be myself in person (as opposed to say, a blog); it was so rewarding. I don't mean to imply that I'm not totally myself at home with the people I know and love, I am... but I think I have the tendency to fall into certain roles that I'm accustomed to playing (and some that I no longer enjoy). It can be hard to change or break out of them. It feels so good to start fresh and set the tone for who I am right now. Does this version of me well up when she hears Gerry Rafferty's Right Down the Line? Yes... BIG TIME. But even so, she's genuine and I am really enjoying getting to know her.

I Like Nice Things

In an effort to mitigate any loneliness I might be experiencing my first weekend away, I decided to book my first Friday and Saturday nights at a hostel. When I studied abroad in 2007, I stayed in hostels almost exclusively; I never had a bad experience, but back then I was still in college. (My usual living arrangements consisted of a sorority "sleeping porch," where I slept in a cold, dark room with 19 other women. A room with only 4 bunk beds was a step up.) I did my research and found a beautiful hostel with great reviews and a slightly older (meaning 25-32 yrs old) clientele. It advertised a bar and restaurant onsite, and the architecture looked gorgeous. If Hogwarts and Downton Abbey got together and produced a tiny mansion, this would have been it... It. Was. Perfect. I booked everything in late November and then I waited. 

. . . 

I arrived on February 5th at 12:30pm. I left at 6:30pm. I lasted 6 hours, that's it.  I don't want you to think that there was some grand disaster. There wasn't. It was more like a barrage of red flags. 

The pictures didn't lie. The building itself was beautiful, but something about it felt off. Do you know that scene in Elf where Buddy is sent to the mail room? He arrives and says, "This place reminds me of Santa's Workshop! Except it smells like mushrooms and everyone looks like they want to hurt me." This was just like that, except Santa's Workshop was the Gryffindor common room. This place did smell like mushrooms and everyone did look like they wanted to hurt me. Still, I thought, maybe it'll be okay. 

They couldn't check me in right away, but the staff invited me to wait in the sitting room. "It's a great place to relax, have some tea, and read a book." This proposed relaxation scenario didn't seem to account for the DEEP house music that was thundering throughout the establishment, but I still sat down and tried to read. After about 30 minutes, I looked up from my book and realized that I had a couple pairs of eyes on me. As a woman alone, this is never a comforting sight, but I still rationalized it. I thought "maybe these guys are just curious about who I am. Maybe we'll all have dinner together, maybe we'll become friends, maybe we'll end up meeting in Zurich or something 6 weeks from now. Maybe one of them is my future husband." Then another thought snuck in... "You've dealt with scary men before, you IDIOT. You've seen that scene from The Accused. You know what's up. This could all end with a pinball machine downstairs." I'm sure reality can be found somewhere in the middle of these two scenarios, and it's likely these guys were mostly harmless. That said, I was surrounded by strange men, all of whom seemed to have no issue looking me up and down for an extended period of time, and my imagination got away from me. I couldn't help but wonder if any of them were in town for that horrible "Legalize Rape" meet-up that had been all over the news.

I could go on and give you a laundry list of the other reasons this place didn't feel right, but I won't. I know I made the right call. What I will tell you is this: I didn't feel safe, there was nowhere to lock up my luggage, and as I sat in my itty-bitty top bunk, the girl below me opened a bag of chips (unmistakably sour cream & onion flavor) and proceeded to chew them loudly in bed while she hummed.  

. . .   

Tourists ready to physically fight one another for a photo in front of the Notting Hill Bookshop. Thanks a lot, Hugh.

As you may have gleaned from social media, I Hotwired my way the hell out of Dodge and ended up at the Hilton. I spent the weekend in Notting Hill, and while you can rest assured that Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts have ruined that neighborhood forever, it's still very sweet and beautiful. There's a tourist trap on every corner and the shopping is insanely expensive, but the vintage finds are gorgeous and the homes are adorable and candy colored. 

Ice cream paint jobs.

I've given it a lot of thought, and regardless of whether or not I was in any real danger at that hostel, what matters is that it wasn't the right choice for me. I love having a space that is all my own, and what I love even more is feeling safe in that space. I like my alone time. I have a routine that I value very much. For example, when I get ready in the morning I spend 20-30 minutes putting myself together, and then I spend another hour or so lip syncing in front of the mirror and letting my shoulders belong to the music. It's just the way I like to start my day. When I was in college, some fraternity friends dubbed this act "Party Practice." I've never forgotten that. People frequently ask how I know the words to "all the songs." It's because I practice every gah-damn day. That's how.

I should tell you this has been very hard to write. At first I was embarrassed. It's a joke among some of my friends that I like nice things. Sometimes I'm on board with that statement, and sometimes that statement bothers me; I think it makes me sound like a snob. I was so nervous that if I left the hostel and went to a hotel, the perception would be that I'm some kind of princess who can't hang. I wasn't sure what people would think or how it would make me look. Now I don't mean to be crass, but in the interest of being totally and unapologetically myself, f*** that. As I sat in the common room of that hostel contemplating sleeping behind a door with no lock on a mattress that smelled like sharp cheddar, it occurred to me that it doesn't matter how my departure looks or what people might say. I've gotten myself into plenty of trouble that way, and I wasn't about to add "my first weekend in London" to the list of things I wish I'd handled differently. My opinion on the matter was enough. It is enough. I've been struggling to finish this post because I've been so concerned about how this is all going to be perceived... but that's not what this website, or this trip for that matter, is about. I need to keep reminding myself of that. 

Before I left on this adventure, I told myself that I don't have to do anything that I don't feel like doing. If I arrive at a hotel (or hostel) and hate it, if I enter a bar and I'm not feeling the crowd, if I sit down at a cafe and realize I'd rather have a glass of wine at home, I don't have to stay. I can change my mind. It's allowed. I don't have to prove that I am brave. I know I'm brave. I've survived horrible loss, I've had a brush with death, I'm alone halfway across the world (and living to tell the tale), I use my phone in the bathtub sometimes, and I go to the Pacific Heights Whole Foods with no mascara on... In one way or another, I am living on the edge. I'm being brave all the time. 

Upcycled fashion and Twiggy wallpaper by 55 Max London at One Vintage in Notting Hill. Image via @onevintagedesigns.

You're Money, Baby

I'm writing this post from my hotel room in London. I'm kind of numb. None of this feels real.  I think the choice I've made will sink in about 4 days from now when I move into my temporary apartment, and THEN I'll have a meltdown.  We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. 

As if San Francisco could have put on a more dramatic display for my departure. 

Monday and Tuesday were my big travel days. I thought I would cry when my parents dropped me off at the airport, but I didn't... probably due to the aforementioned numbness. It's like I blacked out. I barely remember saying goodbye. (As it turns out, I had saved my tears and emotions for takeoff. I softly sobbed on the plane during the safety presentation to ensure those around me were extremely uncomfortable.) 

Security, which is usually completely uneventful, ended up being kind of awful. I had been talking to this Mumford & Sons-looking guy about how I tuck my jeans into my socks to keep them from riding out of my boots (he seemed pretty into it), but when it came time for him to go through the metal detector (or whatever it is) he pitched a fit about taking off his shoes and he was taken down by TSA. I still feel a little bit odd about having an attraction to a could-be terrorist.  I saw him later in the United Club and I think he was on my flight, but we didn't speak. We mutually understood that there was no coming back from what had happened.

When we began our descent into London, I was NOT doing well. The flight attendant announced over the intercom that Big Ben and the River Thames could be seen on the right-hand side of the plane, and it was kind of a "what the f*** have I done" moment. I literally (and I apologize for the overshare) choked back a little bit of puke. I had such a visceral reaction. I broke out in a cold sweat, saturating the wool sweater I was wearing, and then I consequently became super pissed about forgetting to pack my tiny bottle of Febreze. 

This was the view that made me throw up in my mouth. It's actually gorgeous. 

I didn't feel any better when I got off the plane. When I was at SFO, I had been so excited to see what the United Club was like (I'd never been before, it was just okay) that I forgot to get cash out. So when I landed I had no money, my ATM card wasn't working, my phone was out of commission, and I was overheating under my many layers of clothing. I had thought that wearing my vintage camel coat with the fox fur collar would make me feel glamorous yet cozy, but really it just made me feel sweaty. I was in HORRIBLE shape and not at all emotionally prepared to face the task at hand... the task being getting money and taking a taxi. (Super daunting, no?) I needed some encouragement. 

Snowballing off of that...

In the interest of being totally myself, I should tell you that when I'm upset and alone, and I need to calm down or be given a pep talk, I say things to myself that I would NEVER say to another person. This isn't something I've always done; it's something I recently discovered. 

When I was solo in Australia last November, I had a small panic attack. I was taking deep breaths and trying to talk myself down, and what I meant to tell myself was "you're okay. You got this." But those aren't the words that came out. What I actually said was, "You're money, baby... You're so money and you don't even know it." This was very odd to me. I think I've seen Swingers once. I'm not 100% sure how I even retained that sound bite, but that's what I said. I became the Vince Vaughn to my Jon Favreau, and IT F***IN WORKED. I thought "YEAH... I am money." 

I've realized that's what it takes for me to bring myself back down to earth.  Telling myself "you're okay. You got this," might slow my heart rate down for a few minutes, but that's only because I know that's what it's supposed to do. It's like a placebo effect. After 5 minutes, I'll be back to rattling off worst-case scenarios in my mind, with my heart in my stomach, wondering if I'll ultimately be sold into the sex trade. Telling myself I'm "okay" is white noise, it doesn't register. It doesn't mean anything. Unfortunately, I'm not great at being my own champion... at least not yet. I have to channel someone else; a stronger voice has to come through to ensure that I feel less scared and less alone. I'm as shocked as you are that the voice belongs to Trent from Swingers, but what can ya do. He seems truly excited about what I have to offer. 

That said, I took some deep breaths, told myself I was "SO money," placed a collect call to Wells Fargo, and I was able to get my ATM card working. (Mind you, I did set a travel alert. The dysfunctional card is TOTALLY not on me.) After an hour and a half at Heathrow Airport, I was finally able to take the 60 minute cab ride to my hotel. (Tackling the tube is for another time, I have to walk before I can run.)

I'm hoping that this trip makes being my own champion more instinctual. This is so new, and it's so unfamiliar, and underneath that thin veil of numbness is fear. I'm not worried that something horrible will happen to me. I'm worried that I will let that fear get the best of me. I'm worried I was wrong and that I won't be able to do this. So if what I need right now is to speak to myself with the conviction of a young Vince Vaughn, that's what I'm going to do. 

Year of Colleen

One New Year's Eve ago, I ran around Fort Mason like a jackass telling everyone that 2015 was going to be the "Year of Colleen." Those are words that I said out loud to people I know. I was wearing a glitter romper and metallic wayfarers with the lenses punched out. 

2015 was good to me, but it was hardly my year. I had a thankless job that consumed literally every hour of daylight (plus some), my social life was lacking; I was emotionally and/or physically exhausted like 97% of the time. Sometimes I'd come home and cry about it. I don't want to say I cried a lot, but I cried enough. Enough that I ugly-cried at the office once or twice, enough that people noticed. One early morning in May, I was in my first car accident. It was borderline terrifying. I knew I had injured my back, and I incurred more than $4,000 worth of damage to my Honda... but I thought "Hold the phone, this means I don't have to go to work today!" Some may call that finding the silver lining, I call it a LOW POINT.

When someone I love is in crisis, I talk a lot about life being short and doing what feeds the soul. In the very recent past, I haven't applied this philosophy to myself. Here's the thing: change is very hard for me. I won't say it scares me, but I definitely struggle with it. Change, for me, is like a stomach bug. I am consumed with it, debilitated for one or two days. It gives me the mouth-sweats and makes me want to stay in bed. Eventually, I do what I need to do and take care of myself. I make my body rise to the occasion, but initially I hate it.

For the reason stated above, this 3 month European adventure is a REALLY big deal for me. It's going to be a lot of change, and that change will be fairly constant for about 90 days. That thought scares me, but I think that's okay. I think that's what I need to do right now. I need to learn how far outside my comfort zone I can be pushed, and how well (or how poorly) I handle certain situations.  I don't want to say this trip is about getting happy - I'm generally a happy person (you've seen my Instagram). It's about growing, and it's about becoming more of who I already am. 

The reason for this website (I can't even bring myself to call it a blog) is twofold. The first reason I am writing about this experience is to practice producing something for public consumption, something a little grander than an Instagram post. I want to see if I enjoy it or if I'd ever consider doing it in exchange for money. The second reason is this: I care a lot (read: too much) about what people think, and for that reason I can lose my voice when I'm feeling vulnerable. I want to have 90 days of being myself, totally and unapologetically, and I want to document it in a genuine way (not just through overhead shots of beautifully plated breakfasts for one). 

I promise not to post for the sake of posting. I promise not to publish 9 paragraphs about a day that I will ultimately conclude was "uneventful." I want this to be entertaining, I want it to be funny, I want it to be relatable. And even after telling you that I want to be more mindful of valuing other people's opinions at the expense of my own, I sincerely hope you like it.