“I’m tired and I’m hungry,” she grumbles in response to me asking how this diner makes her feel.

Not exactly the inspiration I was going for, but…fair. It’s the morning after a night in Vegas and everyone is just a little sleepy.

I’ll have to rely on my own emotions, which at the moment are elated and hopeful.

I knew from the moment we rounded the parking lot in this downtown strip mall and saw the orange and olive Winnie & Ethel’s sign that we picked the right place.

My excitement grows as we slide into a brown leather booth. It smells of fresh coffee and maple syrup - hope and charm baked right into the table.

My eyes pinball from the patterned silverware to the lace window curtains to the mismatched pendant lights. The Americana essence drips from the ceiling.

Our waitress arrives with bright eyes and a hair bow. She greets us with a slight southern accent and smiles as she highlights the drink menu.

“…and all of our coffee is sourced from local, women-owned businesses,” she beams.

Obviously, I order a coffee. (Decaf, I’m on a break from caffeine.)

My cup of josephine arrives in a Minnie Mouse mug with a mini pitcher of cream. I’m convinced that’s why it tastes even better than expected.

Our waitress takes the time to talk about the menu and tells us the daily specials.

“…and we use malted pancake batter,” she explains.

Obviously, Madison orders a pancake.

Megan and I can’t decide on one dish, so we order à la carte.

The plates arrive and my cheekbones lift. I’m staring at a table full of classics, dressed in their Sunday best (even though we are in our Thursday travel clothes).

The sausage patties have that crinkly edge, a sign they are hand-made rather than factory spun.

The eggs are fluffy, a vibrant yellow.

Cane butter syrup accompanies the malted pancake. (Madison is team butter, not team syrup, so I add the syrup to my sausage patties)

The home fries - flawless.

I could write an entire opinion piece about potatoes. Nothing is more disappointing than an under-seasoned, improperly-textured potato. These potatoes, though, are everything.

Crispy. Hot. Salty. Satisfying.

Different shapes and sizes too, so you know they weren’t lying about hand cutting those taters.

This is the kind of meal I obsess over, when passion and skill are evident not only on the plate but in the soul of the restaurant.

I love seeing people in their element. I love being surrounded by people who are incredible at what they do.

And I love eating good breakfast food.

As it comes time to leave, I take a coffee to go - bringing a little taste of joy with me on the road.

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What surprises me most about Winnie and Ethel’s is it opened in 2021.

I did some research on the owners and they are a husband and wife team - one a chef, the other with a background in design. They won a million dollar contest - part of an initiative to revitalize a historic neighborhood - that allowed them to create this diner.

I’m so impressed with how they executed their vision. They could have chased the newest trends or purchased the shiniest espresso machine, but they didn’t.

They made the best version of a classic diner.

Money can make dreams possible, but personality is what brings them to life.

I’m curious to see if contests like this will pop up in the future and what dreams people will bring to the table.

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“I’ll give it another 4 and then I’ll start climbing,” I respond. (I’m only half-joking.)

Our destination is on the 106th floor and we’re all in heels, but I’m rather impatient and I am hungry.

Thankfully, only 3 minutes later, the elevator arrives and the crowd of people waiting for their reservations pile in like sardines.

We stand in awkward silence as we ascend, feeling the pressure change in our ears.

I should use this time to tell you that I have relatively low expectations for the food. I’ve been to enough restaurants to know when the ✨razzle-dazzle✨ is meant to distract from the details; however, I am excited for the overall experience. We spent two hours getting ready and this is the first night of our Girls Trip. We have 8pm dinner reservations at Top of the World, a rotating room with views of the Las Vegas skyline, and then plan to hit the town.

When we arrive at floor 106, we’re met with a tiny waiting room that leads up to the hostess stand. No windows, but I can appreciate them saving the view for the dining room.

Little did we know, we wouldn’t get to see the dining room for another half hour. Apparently, the $75 reservation fee was only to hold us accountable, not the restaurant.

The hostess tells us we can go to the bar upstairs while we wait. Except…the upstairs bar is closed for a private party.

The elevator attendant tells us we can go to the observation deck instead. This was both the best and worst decision for the dining experience.

On the one hand, the views from the deck are what we came for. The sun has dipped below the horizon, we have unobstructed views of the city, and Megan and I got to watch Madison attempt to hide her fear of heights.

On the other hand, when you give me the main event as an appetizer, I don’t have as much to look forward to.

We spend as much time as we can on the deck before the wind and the heat become too much, and mosey back down to the (tiny) waiting room.

It’s almost 8:40pm by the time we’re seated at the table (that we PAID to be at at 8pm!)

No apology. No fanfare. Just a standard welcome and some menus.

The view is nice, but as I mentioned, I just saw said view and I saw it unobstructed by tables and windows. Also, maybe I’m growing a little cynical, but looking out at all of the lights and the giant Sphere, I can’t help but wonder how much energy this city is using.

All I remember about the service was that our waiter brought out our food as promised.

All I remember about the food was it was fine and it was expensive. Oh, and they didn’t even have the decency to serve my salmon with a veggie. I know it’s trendy for fancy restaurants to sell the main dish separately from any sides, but if you think I’m going to pay $16 for a side of carrots, you are sorely mistaken.

I know I’m walking a delicate line here. I don’t want this to be a complaint piece about an objectively privileged experience, it’s meant to set up a commentary about the travel/tourism industry as a whole using fancy labels to throw unnecessary price tags on experiences that, in reality, are lackluster.

Social media doesn’t help this dilemma either. We see everyone posting curated images and photos of well-styled food, but we don’t know anything about the stories behind those photos or if the elegance actually equated to something meaningful.

I’m not against luxury experiences as a whole (I happen to love nice things), I’m simply against people treating expensive and quality as synonyms. They are NOT SYNONYMS! (Said with emphasis).

Anything can be expensive, not everything can add value to your trip.

I want the emphasis to be on EXPERIENCE, not adjectives.

The best part of the entire dining experience was the time I got to spend with my friends, which could have taken place anywhere else.

Often, when talking about travel, people (including me) talk about getting out of their comfort zone and trying new experiences because you never know what will spontaneously change your life.

Unless you have an unlimited budget and time though, it is important to consider what you already value in life and use those principles to help guide your itinerary.

Think back to the last time you were truly happy - what were the circumstances that led you to feel that way? Can you find activities that mirror that situation?

How do you like to spend your money at home? On food? On clothes? On novelties?

Maybe you do want that perfect photo op (and that’s okay!)

Maybe you want to focus on culture or dancing or resting.

There isn’t a wrong answer, it’s simply a matter of preference.

Fair warning, sometimes even the best plans don’t work out, that’s just a fact of life. We can’t plan for everything, but we can minimize the risk of over-paying for disappointment.

It’s our responsibility to look past marketing and labels and the “top travel guides” and seek out experiences that truly speak to us.

Food-related experiences that cost me less than Top of the World that were 10x better

1. Sitting on any patio in 75 degree (F) weather with no wind and no bugs

2. Lunch on an olive oil farm

3. A vibrant tomato topped with feta

4. Literally any meal eaten within earshot of the ocean

5. A turkey sandwich on a lake

6. A granola bar eaten at the top of a hiking trail

7. Japanese-style small plates at a counter-top restaurant that only seats 20 people

8. The fourth glass at a wine tasting

   ---

Hearing the alarm go off is almost physically painful. It was midnight before we fell asleep, but a once in a lifetime experience implies we might not get a second chance, so we roll out of bed and stumble to find light. Madison, Megan, and I are committed to the mission. I put on a rather ridiculous outfit for the occasion, but at least I’m sticking to my signature color.

By 5:20, we tip toe into our car (literally, the rental car place upgraded us to a Bronco) and hit the road. It’s so early, no one is in line for the park nor is anyone at the gate to check our pass. (We had it with us anyway!)

As we enter the park, I’m suddenly grateful for the cover of darkness as I’m sure it’s obscuring a steep drop off next to the road as we wind up the mountain.

By 5:45, we park the car next to another group that is outfitted with proper backpacks AND headlamps. I look down at my flashlight (aka my phone) and a slight bubble starts to form in my stomach.

Have we miscalculated what we are about to do? I was told this was only a half-mile walk!

Normally, I research every aspect of a trip before I go, but this time I wanted to try to ~exist peacefully~ without as much of a plan. As it turns out, that’s just not my personality and I’ve decided that’s okay.

I walk up to the professional hikers,

“Excuse me, are you hiking the Canyon Overlook trail?” I ask, formulating a plan to follow them if necessary.

“No, we are going on a different trail,” they respond.

Phew.

I start to turn away, but realize we don’t actually know where our trail starts. We can’t see the signs anywhere.

“Would you happen to know where the Canyon trail starts?”

I can only imagine what they think of us girls right now, fully fitting into a stereotype that I actively try to avoid.

Thankfully, they are incredibly nice (most nature people are, I’ve learned) and pull up All Trails to show us where to go (we are close).

Armed with our phone flashlights and the confidence of The Little Engine That Could, we start to climb the stairs that are carved into the trail.

We brush our shoulders along the rocks as the trail narrows, not wanting to risk getting too close to the outer edge, the soft light of dawn revealing just how high up the mountain we are.

We climb and weave and maybe whisper a few profanities, but as I said, we are committed to the mission.

We are going to catch the sunrise over Zion National Park.

And we do.

The overlook faces west, which means the sun is rising over our shoulders. The wash of light over the rocks slowly reveals their true colors

The shadows that linger deep in the valley remind me that nothing in nature experiences life the same way. We all have different perspectives. We all thrive under different conditions.

I read the sign that states the names of each mountain top and silently laugh when my eyes reach The Altar of Sacrifice. A future Google search will tell me that this is so named due to the red streaks that pour from the peak. I take it as an apropos reminder that nothing worth experiencing is ever easy.

We gave up time, energy, money, and sleep to get here, but in return we are rewarded with awe and wonder. With inspiration and clarity. With the satisfaction of crossing something off the bucket list. With community and memory. With joy.

100% worth the sacrifice.

The thunderstorm that passed through last night left the chair cushions a little damp, so I’ve opted for the concrete. I’m sitting with my legs dangling in the pool, hoping the salt water will heal the slight ache in my muscles. The sky is a little cranky from the neighbor’s late night fireworks, the sun barely peaking around the clouds. This is appreciated, honestly, as yesterday was quite eventful and I could use the brief delay in starting the day.

Looking out at the scene around me, with the air still and the water calm and no one but the birds having a conversation, it’s nothing like yesterday’s story.

If someone stumbled upon this backyard, would they see the charred grill off to the side and know that it burst into flames and almost caught the deck on fire? Would they see the frisbee on the grass and know that I got hit in the head with said frisbee (I’m fine, don’t worry, it was comical). Would they look in the Skimbot that’s cleaning the pool and see the dog fur and grass and know that 5 dogs and 20 people were running around the party? Would they know my friends named the bot Marty (aka The Real Skim Shady)? (That was George’s idea.) Would they see the heap of rubber lying in the grass and know that it’s an inflatable Slip n Slide and that Laura jammed her finger because she went full send down the slide and wasn’t able to stop? (She had a great time.) If someone saw the two water dishes, would they know that Misty (12 year old Husky) stood guard over one bowl (relentlessly), so Erin and Jack had to get a second bowl for Roman (7 year old* German Collie) (*He’s just a pup though, Erin will yell at you if you call her dog old).

And what about the events that didn’t leave a trace? Would anyone look at the empty table and know that it was filled with love and homemade treats? Would anyone look at the pool and know that Laura and I floated around at 10pm, long after the party ended, because we needed to discuss my dating life?

No one will ever truly know our stories unless we tell them.

Even as I write this, I catch myself questioning if it’s worth it to write my stories for the world. After all, if you look at most things on the internet, people are always telling you to compete for attention, to add value, to ✨dazzle✨

It’s all for the views, they say.

But what about perspective? Fun? That is value.

Why are we discounting our lived experiences? Why are we discounting the joy of remembering? Of sharing?

What a privilege it is to create art and memories.

I want to remember and be proud of a life well-lived. Not a perfect life. Not a life without difficulty or pain or bad decisions, but an interesting life. A life full of connection and joy and memories. I want other people to share their stories too - for community, for inspiration, just for fun. Even if that story is “just” a party recap.

So, yes. On Friday, July 3rd 2026 my friends hosted a pool party and it was full of energy, wine slushies, hot dogs, regular dogs, minor injuries, and those little torpedos that you throw into the water and dive to find them. A few of us turned it into a sleepover and for a brief moment I got to pretend I was one of those people who has a summer home. It might not be by an ocean, but the pool uses saltwater so that’s basically the same thing.

Summer is fleeting. If June is Saturday morning (9am, to be specific), then July is Saturday night - a party in full swing. Like any good party, before you know it the clock ticks past midnight and Sunday is upon us, whether we are ready or not.

I want to remember the stories. I want to remember the heat.

I am here to write about it.

(Ope, I hear some thunder.)

As I move inside, the rest of the house is waking up. My stomach rumbles, which can only be remedied with one solution - a leftover slice of pizza, eaten cold, straight from the fridge. No plate, only a paper towel to catch the crumbs. I will eat my slice while standing in the living room, debriefing the party with my friends.

First of all, how dare they tell me what to do.

Second, I strongly believed that anyone who floated through life without a care in the world could only do so because someone else was following along behind them, blocking the rubble from burying them.

I’m using past tense, because I have slowly, somewhat reluctantly (and imperfectly), loosened my grip on this opinion.

I think the biggest issue with fun is I spent the majority of my life believing a person could either be successful or fun, but not both (and I slightly resented those who chose fun). Fun was for designated moments, after the work was done. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that’s a terrible way to move through life.

(Side note: I’ve had plenty of fun moments in life, I’m not painting a tragic picture here. I’m setting up the argument that we can be having more fun in life without ruining anything.)

I still believe in hard work and responsibility and making difficult choices. (If you want certain results, you can’t ignore those principles.) However, those principles don’t have to equate to serious and fun does not have to be an afterthought.

I knew I was in trouble when I noticed I was holding my breath and clenching my jaw while scrambling eggs. I actually caught myself saying it’s not that serious.

On a practical level, I knew that, of course. I knew that the weight of the world wasn’t riding on my ability to cook eggs, but I’d created an overall habit of seeing everything as critically important and I’d lost the ability to enjoy the little things.

I’d be willing to bet I’m not alone in this situation.

Looking back, it’s easy to see how we got here.

Anyone who turns down an activity to put in hard work is met with “you’re no fun.” Social media preaches 37-step health routines and 100-books-a-year reading goals. The news thrives on negativity and rage bait. Outdated systems make it difficult for certain groups to find success unless they put forth extreme effort.

Do more. Focus more. Try harder. Be better, then you can have fun and be happy.

This.is.a.TRAPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

After the hard work, after the success, after the “I’ve made it”… then what? It’s that scene at the end of Finding Nemo: we’ve escaped the tank, but now we’re just floating in the ocean. Life is one thing after another. If we don’t know how to seek joy now, what makes us think we’ll be able to find it later?

We can choose to create joy in everyday moments.

We can blast music and dance while responsibly cooking dinner (follow/subscribe to for more thoughts on dancing).

We can choose a gym with a high-energy coach.

We can write a Substack article by the pool at a friend’s house.

We can call a friend while folding laundry.

We can choose to study topics that we truly find interesting and then impress our friends with fun facts.

We can fit in dance clubs, birthday parties, and brunches in between our day jobs and hobbies.

We can sleep.

We don’t have to be afraid of fun or silly or joy, none of these things threaten our success. People might judge us a bit, but that’s on them and has nothing to do with us.

We’ve tried choosing stress. Maybe it’s time we see what happens when we choose fun.

I know, I’m just as shocked as you are. Yesterday, I was moving into my college dorm and today I am somehow in back-to-back corporate meetings, trying not to stress-sweat.

I’m mostly indifferent to turning 30, despite what society tells me I should feel. I’ve learned so much about myself over the past decade, I can only assume that another year will bring even more exploration 🦋

However, there is something intrinsically motivating about a milestone birthday, especially one that society deems the “end of youth.”

(You’re a real adult now) (Ugh, lame !)

My motivation to have a FANTASTIC summer is not a “now or never” situation, it’s more so a “do it now, so you don’t forget what it feels like to be young and free” situation. I want to give my twenties a proper send-off AND set myself up for an epic start to my thirties.

So. Without further ado, I present:

My Send-off Summer Bucket List!

When making this list, I dug deep into the memory bank for things I either wanted to do when I was younger and didn’t OR things I loved doing and want to rediscover)

1. Join a recreational volleyball team (In process! I’ve never really played before but I’m loving it)

2. Try a new ice cream shop (Duh, it’s summer)

3. Paint tote bags (I used to do summer crafts all the time and it’s time to bring that back) (I’ve also had the supplies since last summer and haven’t touched them sooo, it’s definitely time)

4. Play a game of HORSE (As a tall person, you would think that I would have played basketball competitively, but no. The most basketball I ever played was driveway HORSE)

5. Decorate cupcakes (or a cake) (I used to have cupcake books that taught me how to decorate cupcakes to look like other things [e.g. pie])

6. Watch a sunrise (I need to soak up every ounce of sunshine and WARMTH)

7. Go to the batting cages (Idk this just seems like a vibe)

8. Spend a day on a boat (I am actually the best version of myself on a boat and therefore must find one for a day this summer)

9. Go watch a community theater show in the park (I love free activities and I love supporting the arts. I also love parks)

10. Play laser tag (Middle school me thought this was the coolest activity ever, and I think it’s time I validate that I was right)

11. Have a sleepover at my friend’s house (Movies, snacks, pizza - full commitment to the bit)

12. Perfect an in-pool handstand (Look, I am TALL. This is not as easy as it sounds when the water is shallow)

    ---

    (Before you call out that the cover image photos don’t really pertain to this list, I needed recent photos and that’s what was on my camera roll.)

    What would you put on your list?

    Leave a comment

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Part 3

Friday, May 29th - 9:30am (Wakefield, MA)

The path to hotel breakfast is paved with good intentions. I sit with my well-balanced meal of powdered eggs, fried potatoes, and open notebook. (I have some extra time with my thoughts this morning as Laura is not an early riser.)

I have big plans. After breakfast, drive to Salem —> Spend a few hours walking around —> find a cute restaurant for lunch —> drive back to the hotel —> get ready for the wedding —> be on the shuttle by 4:30pm —> celebrate.

Seems TOTALLY reasonable to me. How is this a bad plan??

Friday, May 29th - 10:52am

lol. I am the only one who is vertical, but we’re making progress. George has Door Dashed coffees and the energy is on the rise. I sit down with my book, assess the time, and mourn my plan for the day.

(Now, if you’re reading this and screaming but how often are you THIS CLOSE to Salem? How are you just not going to go explore??? I hear you. That was my internal monologue as well. However, for the sake of time I’m going to skip the 5 stages of grief and go straight to the positives.)

1. The objective of the weekend: celebrate our friends getting married. Anything else is just a fun bonus

2. Even if we had left bright and early, we still would be cutting it close on time and we would be TIRED

3. Efficiency is overrated

4. Often, travel is about who you connect with more than how much you can do in one day

5. Making any type of new memory is never a waste of time

   ---

Friday, May 29th - Noon(ish)

I have a lot of rules surrounding meals when I travel because food is something that lights my soul on fire. I find the stories/culture/artistry/nature of food deeply powerful and I’m always chasing that next emotional high. Howeverrrrr, sometimes, occasionally, when necessary…practicality far outweighs novelty. Which is why we are sitting on the patio at Yard House. Their food is good, it’s 3 minutes from our hotel, the menu is big enough to please everyone, Laura can order a half yard of Harpoon, I can order an Aperol Spritz, George can mix a Liquid IV in his water, and there is a Barnes & Nobel across the parking lot. I am relaxed and I am happy and that is the biggest blessing while traveling.

We walk off our meal with a jaunt around B&N. I packed in a carry-on, so I am limited to one (1) stunning hardcover (Ruins by Lily Brooks-Dalton, if you were curious. Let me know if you’ve read it!).

Friday, May 29th - 2:33pm

It is difficult to explain the beautiful chaos of two women getting ready in a hotel bathroom. It’s anticipation, it’s joy, it’s “does this look even” - all unfolding to a Taylor Swift playlist. Between the makeup, the hot irons, and the toothbrushes, there isn’t an inch of free counter space.

If you’re concerned about George during all of this, you can stop worrying about him. He has his noise cancelling headphones and is keeping busy by steaming our dresses.

“My curling iron is on, fair warning!” I announce to the room (although, mainly to Laura and myself because George can’t hear us). Roughly 20 minutes later, I am wandering the hallways with my hair half-curled, looking for an ice machine. My pinky didn’t stand a chance against that 330 degree iron. I am resilient though, and the show must go on (lol). I alternate between wrapping a strand of hair around the iron and dunking my pinky in a cup of ice.

As the clock approaches 4:30, we scramble with the finishing touches. I shove travel-sized bug spray into my purse while Laura loads Fireball shooters into hers. We are miraculously on time as we file onto the shuttle bus with the other wedding guests. Rain begins to dot the pavement as we pull away from the hotel and head toward the venue.

Friday, May 29th - 5pm (Beverly, MA)

We are surrounded by natural elegance. Venue sounds a bit insulting, we are on an estate. A country estate, to be clear, not a city mansion. Looking around, I see more green than anything else.

The welcome house is quaint. The sitting room with papered walls makes me feel like I’m stepping into a grandmother’s house. Stepping out of the house, I am nothing short of enchanted. Paved with brick and outlined with stone, the back terrace is a lovely gem. Not in and of itself, but in what lies beyond. Bushes studded with pink flowers sit in-between knobby trees, nothing but wild flora surrounding a lake.

The rain intensifies.

I retreat to the cover of the house, but I can’t help but admire how the rain complements the scene. It’s soft and kind. The type of rain that lends itself to growth rather than devastation. The crowd is unbothered as we settle into the (massive) tent for the ceremony.

Friday, May 29th - 5:30pm

Liz and Nathan wrote their own vows (to no one’s surprise). Tears of joy are falling all over the room, but my tears are laced with guilt.

I shouldn’t feel this way.

Despite my best effort and the unconditional support I have for Liz and Nathan, I can’t escape the green, envious vine that’s wrapping itself around my heart.

Stop stop stop! This isn’t about you.

My inner monologue is a tug-of-war between the gratitude of getting to share in this moment and the overwhelming sadness that I’m nowhere close to my own confession of love. I’ve spent years searching for my forever person, yet only ever attend weddings alone. I’ve made mistakes, I’ve learned, I’ve grown, I’ve thrown myself into all that life has to offer, but I go home to my one-bedroom apartment.

The guilt of feeling these emotions while I watch such a beautiful moment is hard to process. Have I not done everything right?

That’s the thing about emotions, though, there is no right or wrong. There is no immunity, no matter how much armor you wear. All you can do is feel, then choose how to react.

In this moment I can allow the sadness to take hold or I can acknowledge that I’m allowed to feel multiple emotions at once, put a pin in anything that isn’t serving me at present, and choose to pursue joy until I have the space to address the the longing in my heart.

I choose joy.

Shame and guilt surrounding emotions are a waste of time, and we have a party to attend.

Liz and Nathan say “I do” and we all cheer.

The rest of the night is a whirlwind of adventure.

We have cocktail hour scallops and chicken skewers (honestly, who can think about anything else when there are hors d’oeuvres floating around?). We raise our glasses to toast the happy couple and chow down on a delicious dinner. On the dance floor, Nathan breaks out his saxophone and plays along with the DJ. We dance and dance, only taking breaks to refill our drinks (I’ll let you guess who ordered the French 75, the whiskey on the rocks, and the rosé between Laura, George, and me). We party until they shut us down, then load up the shuttles for the after-party.

Friday, May 29th - 11:15pm

“Hey girl are you okay?” Laura asks while we sit on the shuttle.

My mind filters through the events of the night.

I could choose to focus on any number of emotions, even the ones that scare me. But I am more than just one moment, one feeling.

I’ve cried. I’ve laughed. I’ve danced. I’ve witnessed. I’ve lived a whole life tonight and I used my whole heart to do it. That’s the most I could ever ask for.

“Yeah, I’m just………content.”

PART ONE

Friday, May 29th - 11:15pm

It is one of those nights where I don’t want the festivities to end. I drag my finger through the condensation on the school bus window, drawing a little smiley face. It seems fitting, after all, that’s what I used to do when I was a kid on dewy mornings on my way to school.

Tonight looks a little different than all those years ago. Tonight, I’m in a floor length dress and sparkly heels (yes, my heels made it the entire night!!), on my way to the after party. I look around the bus, allowing the sea of voices to wash over me. In this moment, I disassociate from the wedding crowd and start swimming through the plethora of emotions from the weekend. Which emotion to choose? The obvious one? The one that’s hard to admit? The easy one? The one I’m ignoring? All of the above?

Laura taps me on the shoulder, “Hey girl are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just……..content.”

Thursday, May 28th - 9:30am

Flying first class is a very rare occurrence for me. I am ecstatic (!!!) to report that I am sitting in seat 3c for this lovely trip to Boston for Liz’s wedding. I adore Liz, I adore Boston, and I adore the fact that George switched seats with me so I could sit next to Laura for the flight. (Don’t feel bad for him, he literally moved across the aisle to 3b and looked quite happy with his book.)

We order glasses of bubbly (I felt obligated! How often do I get the chance to do this??) and Laura puts on her 3-hour face mask.

“I think it has salmon sperm in it or something,” Laura says casually (regarding the face mask, NOT the prosecco).

I CACKLE as Laura takes a sip of her wine through the mask.

Never a dull moment.

I barely notice the plane take off as we chit chat. Eventually, we settle into our own books (Every Summer After for me, if you were curious) and I take a moment of gratitude that my legs have space to stretch out (I fear I have now been spoiled).

I’m almost a little sad when it’s time to land. (Almost, it’s still a plane and I’d much rather be at my destination. But wow. What a treat.)

Thursday, May 28th - 2:00pm

This is where my brain starts to short circuit a little bit.

We deplane at Boston Logan and I instinctively enter “airport dad” mode. It’s usually me, myself, and I when traveling, so I know how to move with a purpose and navigate an airport.

But this time, I’m Laura and George’s adopted child. So I can just..sort of..relax?

Huh.

I struggle with this concept until we get to the rental car. You mean to tell me I can just sit in the back seat and stare out the window and say “ooooh look at all the brick!!! That’s a cool building.”???? A remarkable concept.

Old habits do die screaming though, as I offer sunblock while we walk through Boston Commons.

The sky laughs at me and mere minutes later, rain plummets toward us. We seek shelter in the Uncommon Corner under a large (large) tree (I’d give you more specifics but unfortunately dendrology is not my area of expertise). I should be bummed, but it somehow feels rather…poetic? This particular corner happens to be a beer garden and Laura is bouncing off the walls because they have her favorite beer (Harpoon). George orders us some chips and dip and we pass around the containers, shielding the food from stray raindrops with our bodies the way the tree shields us with its leaves - not flawlessly but good enough. We see a family walking across the park, drenched, clearly having accepted their fate and carrying about their day.

I exhale.

Wow. Is this what it’s like to not worry about it? Noted.

Soon, the sun reclaims the sky and we take the long way out of the park. George gives Laura a piggy back ride to the parking garage. I reclaim my window seat and sing along to the music as we head an hour north to Wakefield.

Let the parties begin.

PART TWO

Thursday, May 28th - 7:00pm

My brain does not want to recognize Salem as a real place. It sounds like a city from a novel, something fictional rather than historical. As we drive from our hotel in Wakefield to Salem, past A-shaped roofs, brick-lined streets, and a literal witch museum, I feel like I’m on a movie set. It’s the kind of place I would love to explore on foot so I can get a good look at all the details.

As we arrive at the brewery for the welcome party, I drop back into reality. We make a beeline for Liz (it’s the first time we’ve seen her in months) and jump over the chain-rope-barrier-type thing to give her a hug (who needs doors anyway?). Liz is stunning in white, effortlessly bridal in a sheath midi dress. She has a lacy red shawl wrapped around her arms, a nod to the blending of cultures. We greet Nathan through a crowd of friends and it’s impossible not to feel joy in this moment. I flash back to living three doors down from them. To the Friday morning coffees before work, to passing them on the street as they walked their foster-turned-adopted dog, to the yoga classes that Liz taught, and the impromptu snow day board game tournament. To know Liz and Nathan is to know that love exists in this world.

We say our hellos, then step aside to allow the next surge of guests to have their moment with the couple.

Somewhere between the hugs and standing in line for drinks (this brewery has a GF blood orange radler that tastes like a liquid sunset!!), my adrenaline bubble starts to break. When I travel, I always seem to forget I’m not immune to fatigue and the full spectrum of human emotions. I want to believe that the limitations that hold me back at home magically disappear in a new city (on occasion, they do, but that’s rare or temporary).

Inside, the brewery is one giant box of conversation. I love being social, but I’ll admit that finding a place to squeeze in amongst strangers can be a bit overwhelming. Laura, George, and I slip onto the patio - choosing a slightly cooler air temperature in favor of the quieter volume. We find a smaller group to mingle with before sliding into an open table, none of us willing to admit we’re running on empty. I sit across from Laura and George, noting the entire bench for just me. I divert my eyes from the empty space and turn to the celebration happening around me.

This is fun, say something fun, be FUN.

I swirl gratitude around in my heart and take a small sip of my liquid sunset.

I truly am so happy to be here, why am I hitting a wall?

I know why, of course, but I’m choosing not to answer that question tonight.

Instead, I dig deep for the positivity because I refuse to be anything but happy at someone else’s party. I pass the evening by asking other people questions and smiling and it really does help me forget about the fatigue and other inconvenient emotions.

Night shrouds the brewery by the time we make our way back to the rental car. I quietly sigh as I climb into the backseat.

I just need some sleep and tomorrow will be beautiful.

I keep my eyes peeled for signs of magic as we weave through the streets of Salem and back towards our hotel.

It is one of those nights where I don’t want the festivities to end. I drag my finger through the condensation on the school bus window, drawing a little smiley face. It seems fitting, after all, that’s what I used to do when I was a kid on dewy mornings on my way to school.

Tonight looks a little different than all those years ago. Tonight, I’m in a floor length dress and sparkly heels (yes, my heels made it the entire night!!), on my way to the after party. I look around the bus, allowing the sea of voices to wash over me. In this moment, I disassociate from the wedding crowd and start swimming through the plethora of emotions from the weekend. Which emotion to choose? The obvious one? The one that’s hard to admit? The easy one? The one I’m ignoring? All of the above?

Laura taps me on the shoulder, “Hey girl are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just……..content.”

Thursday, May 28th - 9:30am

Flying first class is a very rare occurrence for me. I am ecstatic (!!!) to report that I am sitting in seat 3c for this lovely trip to Boston for Liz’s wedding. I adore Liz, I adore Boston, and I adore the fact that George switched seats with me so I could sit next to Laura for the flight. (Don’t feel bad for him, he literally moved across the aisle to 3b and looked quite happy with his book.)

We order glasses of bubbly (I felt obligated! How often do I get the chance to do this??) and Laura puts on her 3-hour face mask.

“I think it has salmon sperm in it or something,” Laura says casually (regarding the face mask, NOT the prosecco).

I CACKLE as Laura takes a sip of her wine through the mask.

Never a dull moment.

I barely notice the plane take off as we chit chat. Eventually, we settle into our own books (Every Summer After for me, if you were curious) and I take a moment of gratitude that my legs have space to stretch out (I fear I have now been spoiled).

I’m almost a little sad when it’s time to land. (Almost, it’s still a plane and I’d much rather be at my destination. But wow. What a treat.)

Thursday, May 28th - 2:00pm

This is where my brain starts to short circuit a little bit.

We deplane at Boston Logan and I instinctively enter “airport dad” mode. It’s usually me, myself, and I when traveling, so I know how to move with a purpose and navigate an airport.

But this time, I’m Laura and George’s adopted child. So I can just..sort of..relax?

Huh.

I struggle with this concept until we get to the rental car. You mean to tell me I can just sit in the back seat and stare out the window and say “ooooh look at all the brick!!! That’s a cool building.”???? A remarkable concept.

Old habits do die screaming though, as I offer sunblock while we walk through Boston Commons.

The sky laughs at me and mere minutes later, rain plummets toward us. We seek shelter in the Uncommon Corner under a large (large) tree (I’d give you more specifics but unfortunately dendrology is not my area of expertise). I should be bummed, but it somehow feels rather…poetic? This particular corner happens to be a beer garden and Laura is bouncing off the walls because they have her favorite beer (Harpoon). George orders us some chips and dip and we pass around the containers, shielding the food from stray raindrops with our bodies the way the tree shields us with its leaves - not flawlessly but good enough. We see a family walking across the park, drenched, clearly having accepted their fate and carrying about their day.

I exhale.

Wow. Is this what it’s like to not worry about it? Noted.

Soon, the sun reclaims the sky and we take the long way out of the park. George gives Laura a piggy back ride to the parking garage. I reclaim my window seat and sing along to the music as we head an hour north to Wakefield.

Let the parties begin.

Yikes. That seems highly impractical. I hope she makes it to where she’s going..

It was certainly not an ideal outfit for running, but the lightening streaking across the sky called for a little pep in the step.

I was two blocks from home when the rain caught up to the lightning. A few drops at first, then a torrential downpour. It was not unlike standing beneath one of those giant, tilting buckets at a waterpark.

My lungs were already at max capacity, but slowing down wasn’t an option because the wind decided to join the party. I’m pretty sure I would have been pushed backward had I slowed down. The wind was so strong that the rain was falling horizontally, pelting me in the face. I used my water bottle to shield my eyes (unsuccessfully) and tried not to pay attention to the debris that was stirring around me (thankfully(?), as I mentioned, it was hard to see).

My feet started to slip around in my sandals and I knew that one wrong step was going to send me tumbling down, but I couldn’t tell if the rain was switching to hail, so I kept pushing forward.

After what seemed to be an eternity, I stumbled into my apartment complex - panting, shins ablaze, and absolutely soaked.

“Thanksfor —— opening —— thedoor,” I squeaked out to the nice man who saw me fumbling with the key fob.

It took a hot shower and a full bottle of water to finally get my heart rate back to normal.

How did I get in this situation? Well, 25 years ago I decided I WAS NOT going to dance class and now here we are.

When I was little, I refused to take a dance class because that was a girl sport and I didn’t want to do a girl sport. I only wanted to do whatever sports my brother was doing (I know, I know, a lot to unpack there. It was the early 2000s). Consequently, I became an adult with the flexibility of an 80 year old man and the spatial awareness of a caffeinated toddler.

I am now on a mission to change all of that. Ironically, I learned that I LOVE to dance. It’s fascinating, it’s fun, it’s social, it’s a sport full of talented, incredible people. I’m obsessed.

It took me a long time to work up the courage to sign up for a class. I kept telling myself it was impractical.

Why not pick something I already know how to do and just improve on existing skills?

What if I get hurt trying to learn something that I should have learned as a kid?

What if I look like stupid?? And what if everyone else already knows how to dance?

Practicality has a time and a place (I stand by this, it’s a huge part of my personality), but it’s also wayyyy too easy for me to use it as a defense mechanism.

If the goal is to create an interesting life, then the most practical option is the option that allows someone to be interesting and fun and happy. I don’t mean to ignore necessary responsibilities or neglect the future self, but a lot of times practicality really is a matter of perspective.

It’s practical to challenge yourself. It’s practical to expand your skill set and your social circle. It’s practical to enjoy life.

When I finally took my first class, it was HARD.

I left with bruises. I got half the moves wrong, but the instructor had the biggest heart and my classmates were so supportive. I couldn’t believe I’d been missing out on this kind of fun for my entire life.

Could I have spent those two hours doing something else? Obviously. That “something else,” though, wouldn’t have necessarily been “more practical.” Also, who says practical is the point??? Who says easy and pain-free is the point???

I’ve taken that dance class about once a month for the past year now. I’m still a bad dancer, but I’m getting better (!!!) and the experience is more energizing than I ever could have imagined.

Yes, it can be exhausting going after a long work day. Yes, the lingering bruises can be a bit tender.

And yes, I did get caught in a thunderstorm on my way home from class last week, but I needed to shower anyway.

Two other ways I was “impractical” this week:

Somehow, my pursuit of an interesting life is becoming my antidote to perfectionism (…slowly) (very much a work in progress).

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Sunday, May 18th - 5:03pm

By definition, this lounge is interesting. My experience, though? A little rough.

The exterior is so subtle that you’d drive right past it if you didn’t know where to look.

When I walk in, I’m met with low ceilings and shades of walnut and moss - like a little slice of earth carved out just for this place (okay maybe not the best simile, but we’re sticking with it).

I grab a seat, leaving an appropriate number of chairs between me and the only other person sitting at the bar.

Behind the bar, hundreds (easily) of records fill the space and I think that I’m going to have the perfect atmosphere for relaxing and writing.

An album cover with childlike artwork (or tbh could be adult artwork if my art skills are any point of reference) takes center stage to indicate that’s the album currently spinning.

…Why is it so LOUD, though?

Oh, the record player is hooked up to a giant speaker that’s mounted on the wall. It’s honestly hard to focus on anything other than the sound coming from that speaker.

When the bartender switches out the record, the silence is aggressive.

I order their twist on an Aperol Spritz. It tastes… like an Aperol Spritz that someone added a few indiscernible ingredients to. I’m all for creative freedom, but sometimes we just need to leave well enough alone.

The bitterness starts to enter my bloodstream as the music resumes.

More people arrive, voices adding to the volume.

The bartenders keep switching out the record after one or two songs, giving my eardrums whiplash

I try to refocus on the positives, but when I take an inhale, I am hit with the smell.

Tinned fish.

Booooooo. Look, I enjoy fish as much as the next gal, but having a tinned fish board on your menu is a bold choice for a small (indoor) space!!

I cannot be here any longer.

I get my check - $17 (pre tip!!)

*Screams internally*

I have to walk off my frustration for a little bit, but I eventually come around to a better mood.

One, I feel better about my learning process because even really cool places still miss the mark sometimes. Not all ideas work for everyone, and that’s okay.

Two, I’m chasing an interesting life, not a perfect one. Interesting isn’t inherently good, it can be anything captivating or frustrating or curiosity-inducing. Pure joy is nice, but that’s unrealistic. Interesting creates challenges and new perspectives, stories that I never would have considered.

I will not be going back there anytime soon, but I will keep exploring 🦋

What I also find intriguing is how incredibly context-dependent food is.

Can good food be less enjoyable under the wrong circumstances?

Can mediocre food be made delightful under the right circumstances?

I consider a good meal to be about more than what’s just on the plate, it’s the experience as a whole. I will always appreciate a perfect bite, but sometimes that’s not all I am seeking.

Thursday, May 7th - 6:42pm

“Did she send us the right address? This is taking us to a tree,” I ask aloud as Erin and I search for Laura’s new house, a large bag of takeout containers in tow.

She did not send the correct address, of course. (A very Laura thing to do) ((said with love))

In her defense, she’s been under a lot of stress the past few weeks (hence the girls’ night and dinner delivery).

A few minutes and a corrected number later, we’re finally pulling into the driveway. Laura is waiting for us on the front steps.

We stash the food and our rumbling tummies on the far side of the counter (away from the dogs) and tour the new house. As someone who lives in an apartment, I “ooh” and “ahhh” over the size of the master closet and the skylight in the bathroom.

We take our time, conversing as we wander through each room.

As we return to the kitchen, we decide to move the food outside and eat on the back deck. It’s approximately 3 degrees cooler than comfortable to eat outside, but we don’t care. I love that I can see trees and grass and that I can’t hear my upstairs neighbor screaming into his gaming system.

We eat directly from the plastic containers and continue talking through the lows and highs of the week. Erin and I both look longingly at Laura’s salmon BLT, regret written across our mouths as we stab at our respective salads. (I love a good salad, but sometimes it’s just the wrong choice.) I switch to eating my side of sweet potato fries, which at this point I would call sweep potato mush. I know that fries don’t travel well, but sometimes cravings defy rational thinking. In this moment, I’m unbothered by the deflated, floppy potatoes. I am simply grateful to be here with my beautiful friends and the promise of summer on the horizon.

As our forks start to scrap the bottom of the containers (mmm, microplastics!), Laura calls for her fiancé to start a fire in the pit. The meal is far from over.

We gather up marshmallows and chocolate and graham crackers and blankets (plus a bottle of red). Laura can’t find her pink shoes, so she (5’3) slips on her fiancé’s (6’1) sandals. Like everything else in her life, she makes it work and struts across the yard.

The dogs try to join us around the fire, but we have to banish them to the house because they won’t stop eating the grass (plus open chocolate wrappers are risky business).

I wrap a blanket around my torso and sit back in the Adirondack; my shoulders slowly start to drop away from my ears. The flames have grown more comfortable with the wood and the conversation shifts to plans for the future. I’m always amazed by how good conversation meanders from one topic to the next, with leaving us with no recollection as to how a new topic started. It’s just a flow of energy with no expectations.

Erin adds another log to the fire.

I rotate my marshmallow carefully near the base of a log, away from direct flame. I want an even, golden brown crust.

Erin sets hers ablaze, then begins her passionate rant about the books she’s reading. They are all about billionaires (with a B!, she emphasizes) with ludicrous plot lines.

She has hated every single one (yet has read nine (9!) of these books).

We laugh through the smoke and reach for more marshmallows, making a huge mess in the process (s’mores are truly, highly impractical).

Laura sets up a chair in honor of our friend who moved to a new state and sends her a video to let her know we saved her a seat (we miss you, Liz!).

We stay, allowing the fire to become the only light before we finally say our goodbyes (and Google how to safely put out the fire).

Saturday, May 9th - 6:02pm

My senses are consumed, yet again, by smoke. Except this time, I sit alone at a restaurant bar. I ordered the smoked rosemary gimlet and was unprepared for the literal definition of smoked rosemary.

I had a full day, but an open evening, so I am treating myself to dinner. Nothing too fancy, but something nicer than what I wanted to make for myself. Plus, I wanted out of my apartment.

My drink arrives in a rocks glass, the rosemary sticking out of a mountain of shaved ice, perhaps as a warning to the danger below. I swirl my straw around the shrub and take a sip - it’s nuanced, tangy and herbal with a toasty finish. (If I’m being honest, the amount ice was a little inconvenient).

The bartender takes my food order without writing it down (I later find out he is the manager). I ask him some questions about the vault door leading into the kitchen (the building used to be a bank, he says) and the small barrel (literally, a barrel!) of bourbon sitting on the bar (we age it downstairs, he says).

I try to practice my observational skills, noting the neon Eat and Drink signs hanging on the wall (just in case anyone needed instructions) and the switch in music from soft jazz to a more modern, upbeat track - as if telling the story of the building.

Truthfully, I’m a little bored.

The writing gives me a sense of purpose when I dine alone, which is refreshing, but it doesn’t give me the sense of community that I crave. I love sharing meals, always have, always will.

My plate arrives and I immediately feel the warmth from the french fries. Visible black pepper flakes hug the crispy potatoes and the ketchup fills up a tiny silver bucket on the side. The entire dish is lovely, as expected, and evokes a sense of gratitude for the evening, of course, but it lacks an anchor, something to tie the experience down in my memory.

My mind returns to fire from Thursday night.

By all accounts, the food tonight tastes better than the food on Thursday, but Thursday’s meal is what I’ll remember.

A few crucial, clarifying notes:

I will always recognize the privilege of food on the table and I don’t discredit my solo dining experiences. I’m also not always seeking a multi-hour meal and non-stop conversation. Some days the sound of clanking metal is enough to feel content. My goal here is to provide some different perspectives and encourage conversation around how we approach food and meals (especially in America where I live). Cooking appears to grow in popularity as social media inspires more and more elaborate dishes, but are we actually enjoying our meals? Are we using food as a way to signal status or to bring people together?

In a society that is increasingly starved for connection, I want to advocate for using food not only as a means of creative expression or survival, but also as a catalyst for community.

I want to be the kind of person who loves every season, but there’s a level of contentedness that washes over me the moment May arrives that makes it clear I will never be a winter person.

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I want the warm sun, the blue hour walks, the fresh strawberries (for baking and eating from the carton), the lilac scented air, the patio wines, the softer rains (not the tornadoes, though), the fire pits, the outdoor runs, the art fairs, the open pools, and my comfy “Saturday dress” that I wear every week for errands.

At the very least, I just want to go outside without flinching.

SO MANY GOOD THINGS HAPPEN WHEN I LEAVE MY APARTMENT!

I am not a homebody, and I was reminded this week that my creativity (and happiness) is directly correlated to how often I can comfortably go outside.

This week, I took my writing everywhere - to an art museum, to a patio alongside a glass of sauvignon blanc, to a restaurant with a side of salsa.

Was it the most efficient? No. Do I care? No.

I have been struggling with setting a routine for writing. I keep trying to find a designated spot to write in my apartment or a designated time (after all, that’s what the research tells me to do), but there are too many distractions. (Also, not enough distractions??)

Each time that I wrote outside of my apartment this week, I had SIGNIFICANTLY more fun and more ideas. It felt more like an event rather than a chore. I’ve said before that I enjoy writing as the cherry on top of life rather than life itself, and I believe that now more than ever. The more life I experience, the more I want to write.

I think a summer series may be necessary - exploration and writing. How many random writing locations can I find? I’m very curious to see how happiness and creativity is impacted by this.

If you’re a writer/creative, where do you like to work on your craft?

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Have a great weekend 🦋

I decided to take the street car to my local art museum, intent on sprawling out on the front lawn with my notebook and pen, basking in the sun. Driving is much faster, but the street car appeared more adventurous and more “on theme” with an artsy afternoon (plus it meant I wouldn’t have to find parking).

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10 minutes into the ride, though, I was already annoyed. The car in front of us had broken down, so we were stuck for an undetermined amount of time while we waited on a fix. A man on board used this opportunity to recite his (seemingly unlimited) list of terrible jokes to anyone within earshot (i.e. everyone).

Why didn’t I just drive?? Does theme really matter??

When we finally jolted forward and arrived at the correct stop, I practically ran off the street car. (In my defense, it was an exceptionally beautiful day and wasting a single second of it felt sinful.)

Only a crosswalk signal and a half mile walk stood between me and that velvety lawn.

As I waited for my turn to cross the street, a woman who had gotten off the street car with me asked if I knew how to get to the museum.

I nodded, “That’s where I’m going as well.”

The light signaled our turn to walk and we started across the street.

It felt silly to give her directions and then sprint ahead, so we walked together.

She told me she was visiting the city with her daughter, she was out exploring while her daughter attended a baking workshop.

A baking workshop?!?!

I felt my energy shift as I heard this. I LOVE to bake. I love learning about baking almost more than actually baking (I have the books to prove it).

We dove into conversation and in no time at all, we reached the museum. We said goodbye as she walked to the entrance and I searched for an open spot on the lawn.

I took a full lap around the vast, green space, settling on a spot that hugged the tree line. One by one, I pulled supplies from my tote bag. I shook out my blanket and slipped off my shoes, plopping down with a sigh.

I took a moment to stare up at the sun, to take a breath of air that wasn’t laced with cement.

I thought about the people I passed carrying yoga mats and how I didn’t know the museum hosts yoga every Sunday. I thought about the woman I walked with and how she told me about restaurants and bakeries that I’d never even heard of. I thought about how fun it was going to be to try those new places.

I guess theme does matter.

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Would driving have been more convenient? Absolutely. But it wouldn’t have been memorable. It wouldn’t have added anything to my day.

The more I try to create an interesting life, the more I wonder if inconvenience is simply the price we pay to create something meaningful.

No one likes spending hours at the airport, but we do it because it allows us to see a 1000 year old sculpture or drink wine made from a grape that’s only grown in one specific region of Sardinia.

No one likes to be stuck on a stuffy street car, but it allows us to meet kind people and discover new things.

Not every inconvenience is going to be worth it, but I guess that’s part of the game.

Maybe someday I’ll have it figured out, but at least for now,

I’m so glad I didn’t drive.

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Sky diving? Motorcycle racing? Running without warming up?

Like most things in life, I’m sure the true answer to that question is a matter of perspective.

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My thought, usually, is to err on the side of caution (6 broken bones over the course of one’s life does tend to inspire a healthy respect for safety). I love back-up plans, exit strategies, and an online preview of a food menu.

Yet, when presented with the opportunity to fly 4,400 miles across the world, by myself, to meet up with 13 strangers, share a hotel room with one of those strangers, and spend a full week traveling around with those strangers, I said:

Sign me up and take my money 🤷🏻‍♀️ obviously.

I was desperate to travel internationally, this was my chance.

🔹🔹🔹🔹🔹

I had never seen a stack of Euros that tall. €770 roughly, a mix of whatever denomination everyone had on hand. It felt like playing Monopoly, everyone passing their money to the banker like it was all part of a game. In a way, I guess it was.

We handed the stack of cash to the waiter, settling our bill for the night. In addition to our meal, we had just witnessed the most spectacular Fado show I had ever seen (okay, it was the only Fado show I had ever seen, but I imagine it would have been the most spectacular amongst other options).

Nestled within the hilly Alfama neighborhood of Lisbon, this restaurante pequeno has hosted Fado shows since 1939. If you’ve never heard of Fado, it’s a style of Portuguese music filled with passion and nostalgia. The best way I can describe it is if an Appalachian folk singer with a banjo and a campfire fell in love with an Opera singer and they had a baby who grew up to play music and sings only in Portuguese, that is the sound of Fado.

It’s intense. It’s storytelling. You have no idea what they’re saying but you’re crying anyway.

In between dinner courses, the musicians fill the space between tables, their sound reverberating around the room. No windows, no place for outside thoughts, just emotion.

I still think about how I never would have been in that room had I not found my little group travel trip and taken a chance with a 13 strangers.

🔹🔹🔹🔹🔹

When I was little, I always assumed that when I was grown the only thing that would stand between me and travel was money. No one ever prepared me for how difficult it would be to actually plan trips with your friends. Everyone has different schedules, preferences, and priorities (shocking!!). Eventually, you have to make a choice between going it alone or waiting for all of the stars to align.

I hated both of those options, if I’m being honest. My life feels incomplete without travel, but some of my best memories involve other people.

In my search for a way around this dilemma, I found a group travel company that plans trips for people in my age group. Was it a perfect solution? Probably not. Did it give me hope? Absolutely.

I’ve since been on three trips with this company and loved every single one.

I also have these trips to thank (partially) for this Substack. My main theme with this newsletter is creating an interesting life. I don’t think I fully realized how much of my life I was putting in the hands of other people. (This isn’t to say we don’t need help, I actually have a whole other story about that). Once I realized I can get creative with how I build my happiness, it unlocked an entirely new way to look at my choices and how I spend my time. It’s definitely NOT easy and I’m still learning (struggling) to make the right choices, but I at least have a new perspective.

🔹🔹🔹🔹🔹

Is traveling with strangers really a risk?

Maybe, maybe not. I think that’s the wrong question though.

I think the real question regarding any risk is,

Is it worth it to chase your dreams?

Or better yet,

What do you risk losing by staying still?

A short and sweet note about “readiness” and changing your approach

Despite being involved in sports my entire childhood, lifting weights is still a relatively new endeavor for me. It’s taken a full year for me to not actively hate a barbell. (Still not a fan, but the emotion has downgraded to a mild dislike).

Yesterday, all the bars were taken, so I grabbed a set of dumbbells with the intent of holding them on my shoulders during my squats. The problem was the weight I wanted to squat with was heavier than what my biceps can curl. I could pick up the dumbbells, but couldn’t lift them up to my shoulders.

My coach saw me struggling and told me to rock back and forth a few times to get some momentum in my arms and then, when my momentum is moving forward, yank the dumbbells up like a clean (lifting term).

Worked like a charm.

It made me realize that I am ready for the heavier weight, I just needed some help and a new approach.

That little win got me thinking about all the other projects that are swirling around in my head that I haven’t been able to articulate just yet. The ideas are ready for action, I just need a new approach and some new perspectives.

Moral of the story: Whatever you’re working on, you absolutely can figure it out (and don’t be afraid to ask for help).

Also, get to class early enough to get a bar.

It’s a little annoying, actually, thinking about how the circumstances surrounding a pastry are nearly impossible to recreate and how the perspective earned from the situation is difficult to remember (even though it’s important).

As annoying as it is, I still think about it 943 days later.

Allow me to set the scene.

Late September, 2023 - It’s approximately 7:39pm and I’m standing on cobblestones in the middle of Praça do Giraldo - the town square in Evora, Portugal. The evening light has softened from golden to blue, casting a dreamy haze over the marble fountain.

I am unable to romanticize much more than that, because in that moment, I was…cranky.

Well, detached may be a better word as I was trying my absolute hardest to not be cranky. I know the first rule of travel is to be flexible and grateful, but that doesn’t mean it’s always easy.

By 7:39pm, I was at the last stop of a multi-hour walking tour and was fatigued, hungry, and cold. To be clear, I was having a great day (I love activities), but it’s exceptionally easy to overdo it when traveling. This is where a lot of travel blogs do us a disservice by leaving out the little inconveniences. I get it, the money is in the extremes and no one likes a whiner. But in reality, most travel frustrations don’t arise from major calamities, they come from little things stacking on top of each other. It doesn’t matter where you are, novelty and adrenaline will only carry you so far before you crumble. Trust me, “hangry” is the same in all languages. You must pace yourself.

Narrator: I believe you mentioned something about a pastry?

Ah, yes, back to the praça.

At this point, no amount of baroque architecture was going to save my mood. (Which, if you know me, you know I love ornate architecture). Most of the group was getting anxious to leave, when out of nowhere our trip leader appeared with a box from a local bakery. He started passing around a traditional Portuguese pastry called a queijada.

Not to be dramatic, but when I took a bite, time stood still. I was suddenly in a movie scene where dialogue cuts out, the orchestra crescendos, and the camera does a slow motion pan around the main characters while the chaotic action happens in the background.

This queijada was phenomenal.

And complex.

And perfect.

It’s not a cheesecake or muffin or tart, but somehow the best parts of all three? I might even argue that it’s better than a pastel de nata.

Have you ever had a queijada? A pastel de nata? Do you have a favorite?

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I always have strong opinions when it comes to baked goods, but my immediate obsession with this one took me by surprise. Why was this little treat so mesmerizing?

With a renewed energy, we went on to have an incredible night (that’s a different story).

I thought about that queijada for the rest of the trip and decided I needed that little bit of magic at least once more before I left the country. I eventually found one, but I didn’t find the magic with it. It was still delicious, but it wasn’t earth-shattering the way I had hoped.

The reason I couldn’t replicate that first bite feeling I had on the square is the same reason all of the best travel moments can’t be replicated. Part of what makes an experience powerful is the context. Who are you with? How did you get there? What’s the environment like? Do you have the time to truly enjoy it?

It’s never just ‘the activity’ or ‘the food’ or ‘the hotel’ that creates a memory, it’s everything that surrounds it. I know it’s frustrating, because when something incredible happens all you want to do is replicate it. But at the end of the day, it’s not the thing we should be chasing. It’s the emotion, the feeling of joy. No one can tell you how to find it, that’s for each individual person to determine.

If you flip your perspective, it’s also an incredibly beautiful thing about travel -experiencing things that can’t be replicated. You get to create unique memories instead of routine memories.

I may never have another queijada (that would be tragic), but I do know that I love pre-dinner snacks, social activities, eating outside, blue hour, and local stories. If I can find myself in more scenarios that involve at least some those things, I’ll be well on my way to experiencing something magical.

It’s rather poetic,

I think,

How humans often don’t want to believe that the little details matter.

Yet,

it’s often the little details that make things matter.

Mundane to memorable, remarkable against the ordinary.

It’s all in the details.

Which details, though?

How do we know what’s worth it and what’s a waste? How do we focus on the trees without losing the forest? If we do, in fact, choose to believe in the details, how do we escape the paralysis of perfectionism?

That’s a lot, I know.

All of these thoughts are courtesy of my Wednesday night dinner reservation this week.

I walked into a new-to-me restaurant with my friend and immediately knew we picked a good place.

Large windows letting in the light, Earth tones and corner plants providing the serotonin.

After we sat down, the little details kept on piling.

The server poured our water from a green glass bottle. Art and story clippings plastered the wall. The menu held adjectives alongside ingredients.

Crispy, whipped, toasted

What really pulled my attention was my second (not first) bite of duck. (If you’re wondering why I’m ordering duck on a Wednesday, first of all, I split it with my friend and second, it had already been a long week and I wanted something different.)

The first bite tasted the way you’d expect good duck to taste - earthy and warm. For the second bite, though, I scooped up some of the apple and fig mostarda (yeah, I had to Google it too). The slightly sour, candied fruit cut through the fat and brightened the bite - from savory and dense to dynamic and funky. The duck was done well, but the surrounding details are what defined it.

I left the restaurant feeling content and…a little envious. As someone who is currently heavily focused on creative projects, I want to understand how some people are so good at choosing the right details. How are they capturing personality and style without overdoing it? How do they know when they aren’t doing enough?

Thankfully, Thursday was warm and sunny which meant I could walk out all my questions.

I obviously don’t have answers yet, but I do have a theory.

During my walk, I passed by an apartment pool and it got me thinking about swimming laps and that got me thinking about how I learned to swim. In the beginning, my coach wasn’t concerned about how efficiently I could do a flip turn or how much power I could generate off the block. The first order of business was learning how to float (aka not drowning). The details that mattered were the ones that helped build a foundation and good habits. It was only after showing up, day after day, that I learn the strokes, the techniques, the starts, the turns. Eventually, I had a preferred racing suit, a favorite pair of goggles, and a superstitious pre-race routine. Everything came about slowly, and only after a lottttt of work.

This leads me to my theory.

The details that allow us to create something meaningful and powerful shift with time, practice, and observation. In the beginning, the details are less glamorous and more practical. Are we showing up every day? Is our posture correct? Are we saying our affirmations? As we put in more work, we can learn (from others, from observation, etc.) and make adjustments. Then, we can start turning our attention to the details that make people notice.

In short, we’re thinking too much! Just start creating with emphasis on the essentials and never stop learning. The fancy details come after the functional details (like mostarda on good duck).

Lol, all of this just because my friend texted me, “hey do you want to grab dinner?”

Some people speak with such conviction that what they say seems necessary.

Some books are well-researched, well-intentioned, and widely accepted…so they must be right, right?

Some advice is objectively terrible, but it gets repeated enough that it somehow sounds slightly reasonable.

Sometimes we are just so desperate for a change, for a solution, that we listen to any theory that gives even a sliver of hope.

But the world is not a controlled environment!

It is unpredictable and sometimes chaotic. Furthermore, our life stories are full of nuance (I cannot emphasize this enough) and secrets (so dramatic).

!! Because of this, sometimes advice isn’t applicable/relevant/helpful in the present moment even if it is, in general, good advice !!

We have to decide for ourselves what we should accept and what we should ignore.

We must, as they say, take it with a grain of salt.

All of this is my very over-the-top way of saying that I’m ignoring a lot of Substack advice for the time being. If you want a niche newsletter, this might not be for you.

My original plan was to learn about a new lifestyle each month (novelist, travel writing…) all in the name of creating an interesting life. I’ve been reporting on what I’ve learned as well as creating little projects (like my travel magazine 🤗). I had no idea what to expect when I started, and as I’ve progressed on this journey I’ve found a few plot holes.

1. I really loved travel writing, to the point where I don’t really want to move on just yet.

2. One month can pass quickly when trying to learn outside of a 9-5 job, which makes it difficult to really get a good grasp on anything.

3. Part of what makes life interesting, to me, is allowing creativity to wander. While having specific topics is nice for narrowing down what I want to write about, it’s not great for the days that I have unrelated ideas.

Rather than continue down a path that isn’t quite working, I’m going to make a few adjustments. My guiding light is still creating an interesting life, but I’m no longer restricting to one topic per month. I anticipate a heavy focus on travel, food, and creativity, but I’m also going to sprinkle in whatever fun topics present themselves (maybe as a series, maybe as a standalone article, no time constraints).

Also, if you have any topics you want me to cover, I’m open to suggestions!

I hope you’ll stick around for upcoming stories 💙