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.

PART THREE NEXT WEEK

It wasn’t my intention to make this a series, but it’s proving to be a much larger project than I anticipated (shocking!). If you’ve made it this far, I hope you’ll stick around for part three 🤗 I still have a lot to unpack.

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 2 COMING SOON!!

Y’all the corporate world gets all my time this week, and I don’t want to rush this story. I’ll post part two when it’s ready :)

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?

Leave a comment

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 💙

The advice always seems to live in opposition. Some people will tell you to “say yes to every opportunity, you never know what will come from it,” while others will tell you to “say no to anything that isn’t essential.”

I could write an entire essay on why I believe both statements are wrong and why we need to stop operating in extremes, but that’s not the point of today’s article.

Today is about the good that can come from saying yes to one midweek activity.

I know, I know, you’re tired. Everyone’s tired and the sacred time between work and sleep evaporates quicker than a puddle in July. Have you considered, though, that part of the reason time feels funky and you feel so tired is because you’re bored? Rest is important, but so is play. There’s a time to take it easy and there’s a time to push past initial hesitations and do something enjoyable.

This past Wednesday, my friend had an extra ticket to a concert (The Last Dinner Party, if you were wondering) and invited me to go with her and a few others. My hectic work schedule this week could have been an excuse not to go, but instead I let it be the reason I should go. Life is more than just looking at different screens all day!

The evening turned out to be incredibly energizing and totally worth the late night. Not only did I get to socialize and listen to some great music, but I was reminded of how important it is to love what you do. The lead singer was so captivating, it was hard to look away from the stage. She is evidence that if you’re passionate about something, the energy radiates. I also believe if you’re struggling to find your own positive energy, then surrounding yourself with passionate people will help fuel you. I honestly felt more awake on Thursday than I would have if I’d skipped the concert.

I know this is a rather intense example of a midweek activity, but really anything that gets you out and about is wonderful. Find a garden to walk through, go play frisbee golf (not really my thing but I hear people love it), find a book club, take a cooking class, go for a swim, whatever makes your heart happy.

We have to start giving ourselves permission to enjoy life, regardless of what the calendar says.

P.S. if you are curious about what I’ve been learning this month or about the February lifestyle, you can check out my other articles here

I’m starting to fall into the trap of overthinking my Substack. The more I work on it, the more pressure I’m putting on myself to improve, to be perfect with it.

Am I doing the best I can? Am I writing enough? Could I be more creative?

I’ll spend time thinking up notes only to erase and rewrite them multiple times. I’ll change the tone of my stories, from serious to trying to add humor to being less random or more random.

I want this to remain fun, yet I can feel myself creeping closer and closer to the switch that flips fun to overwhelm and obligation. I REFUSE to let that happen. I want to stay in the happy bubble where writing brings me joy and serves as a creative outlet. I need this to combat my 9-5 burnout, not add to it.

To prevent stress, I almost skipped today’s Flutter Report because I couldn’t decide on a topic. It felt forced and I started to question if it even made sense within the broader context of what I’ve been writing about. After all, the experiment for the month is travel writing, is it not confusing to see a Friday post about a random topic that isn’t travel related?

After some consideration and a deep breath (and some food), I realized that’s just the fear creeping in. The “never enough” gremlins shoving their way into my head. In the end, it does all tie together. Yes, my goal for March is learning about travel writing, but my overarching mission is creating an interesting life. Tracking the small actions adds to both of those goals. Who knows what small action will lead to some epiphany that allows for better writing, better perspective, or better experiences.

I also want to inspire others to create and pursue an interesting life. That means showing up when I’m scared or uncertain or imperfect. So, that’s what this week’s Flutter Report is about: the decision to keep going when everything feels uncertain. If we wait to feel ready, we’ll be waiting forever.

I’m not going to worry about if my point is perfectly clear or if it “fits” with my Substack (okay well I am going to worry a little bit but I’m going to push past it). Creativity is a messy process, and that should be embraced rather than feared. This is supposed to be FUN, remember?

If you’re struggling with what to create today, I’ll leave you with this quote from Dr. Brené Brown’s book Daring Greatly:

Perfect and bulletproof are seductive, but they don’t exist in the human experience. We must walk into the arena, whatever it may be…we must dare to show up and let ourselves be seen. This is vulnerability. This is daring greatly.

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The lesson? The power of perspective (aka figuring it out when the story plan goes out the window).

This past weekend, I had a quick road trip planned for my friends’ wedding and thought, “what a perfect opportunity to practice some travel writing!”

I was staying in a themed hotel and I knew the wedding was going to be an epic party, what more could I want for inspiration? I figured I would even check out one or two other locations in the city.

Narrator: Shocker! She is terrible at estimating time!

Thanks to road construction, the drive took WAY longer than it should have and I had about 25 minutes to get ready for the wedding (I did make it on time 🤗). The wedding was positively wonderful and I didn’t leave until the venue played Closing Time. The next morning, I immediately ate breakfast and wanted nothing more than to get on the road to prevent another chaotic drive, which meant I did zero exploring.

This left me with a lot of questions on the drive home:

1. Do I still write about the hotel even though I didn’t get a chance to fully observe? I saw my room, the hallway, and the breakfast nook. That doesn’t feel like enough to write anything other than some fluff.

2. Do I just write about the wedding? Maybe I could write up a mock Newspaper article, 27 Dresses-style, and give it to my friends. (I might still do that, but that’s not really something I want to post on here).

3. Do I want to write about “the downside of travel that no one wants to talk about.” Honestly, not really. I think most people understand that things change, but at the end of the day you still have the joy of being on a trip.

4. How do people do road trips alone? I hate driving alone.

I grew tired of asking myself questions and just let myself zone out for a bit (safely, of course, I was driving after all). I switched back and forth between listening to music and an audiobook, hoping that something would spark a story idea.

Nothing.

I wish I could say one particular line gave me an epiphany, but I can’t. The ideas were a slow, iterative process of question/idea/question. (or maybe it was idea/question/idea?)

How do people do this full time? I thought.

Does the constant travel skew reality or just train you to get the story no matter what?

Maybe it’s all a matter of perspective?

That’s when I realized that is the point of it all - perspective.

We can never truly know what to expect when traveling (or in life tbh). When things happen, can you take a moment to regroup before making a decision? Can you find a new angle or a new lens to turn any situation into a story? I’m not talking about lying to make something unrealistic, but finding that silver lining. Can you change your mind?

Travel writing, at its core, is art imitating life. You have to decide what kind of person you want to be and that will shape your writing. Maybe some of you think it’s not that deep, but I believe life is a lot more beautiful when thought of as an ocean rather than a puddle.

I want to be the type of person who allows change to fuel creativity rather than hinder it. So, rather than write up one particular travel story, I decided to a) write this article and b) write a list of potential topics as a way to practice finding unique angles.

What story ideas did I come up with?

• Is it worth booking a fun hotel if you won’t have much time there

  • Pros, cons, and my personal stance

• Time-based decisions vs experience-based decisions

  • Cite research and talk about how we behave when using the clock as a key factor or using the experience and emotion as a key factor. Tie in the decision to get back on the road vs exploring the city

• Solo experiences vs social experiences and how that impacts travel decisions

• If I was going to create a themed hotel, what would it be and why

  • Include a round up of themed hotels I want to visit

Honestly, I’m more interested in these topics than my original story plan. Maybe someday I’ll learn that it all works out in the end 🦋

When I have to wait weeks for a dinner reservation, and even then can only score a spot on a Monday night, I typically have high expectations for the food.

What I didn’t expect was for Anjin to provide a culinary adventure in my own backyard.

From the moment I walk in, it is clear I am entering an escape for the evening. (I did learn afterward that “Anjin” translates to “pilot,” so that’s on me for missing the foreshadowing).

The tiny, izakaya-style space only seats 20 guests, counter style in a flattened U-shape contouring the kitchen. No tall barriers, no behind-the-scenes, there is only the scene.

And, oh, what a scene it is.

Hardcover books stacked in the corner (Fish Butchery to name one), tile (somewhere between the shade of emerald and jade) splashed against the back of the kitchen, liter-sized bottles of sake lined-up and ready for a stiff pour into mis-matched ceramic cups, logo-branded ice cubes (how??), and a rubber puffer fish floating in a glass of water.

My excitement for the food is now flying higher than when I walked in.

A savory, warm scent fills the air as we sit down. It’s the kind of scent that’s hard to distinguish, but indicative that something good is definitely cooking. To me, the noise is a comfortable level of hustle and bustle. It’s loud enough to keep conversations private, but not so loud that I can’t hear my friend tell me about her latest painting experiment.

After a *cheers* to living life to the fullest on a Monday, my friend and I are handed a paper menu that lists a mere eight (8) dishes, yet the task of selecting our meal for the evening proves near-impossible (they all sound impeccable). I’ve never known a pencil to hold such power.

I’ve also never known a custard to be savory, but let me tell you, I’ve been enlightened. Paired with catfish, tobiko, and a list of other goodies, Chawanmushi is the creamy, crunchy, savory treat of your dreams. It’s one of those dishes that is plated cautiously, but you devour it ruthlessly, ruining all aesthetics to ensure you get each ingredient in a single bite. Thankfully, my friend and I refrain from battling it out with our spoons. (I’m not that skilled with chopsticks, okay!! Have you ever tried to eat custard with anything other than a spoon??)

For the next dish, I owe the chef(s) a debt of gratitude. Not (just) for the quality of the dish, but for granting me the opportunity to use a highly coveted noun. The juxtaposition of a crispy exterior and a velvety interior made the Takoyaki a textural delight. Bite-sized dynamite. I don’t even particularly like octopus, but apparently I’ve just been eating it incorrectly. Regular octopus? Meh. Octopus mixed with garlic sauce and fried? Spectacular.

I do feel slightly biased talking about our final dish because we got the last one. Our server heard us lamenting that the pork collar sandwich was no longer on the menu and was gracious enough to mention there was one (1) left.

I look at my friend.

She looks at me.

“Should we?”

We turn back to the server.

“Lock it in.”

We aren’t letting go of our chance to have that sandwich. It’s the kind of sandwich that’s comforting enough to tame the whisky bouncing around your bloodstream, yet dynamic enough to keep the party going. It’s the friend you only get to see on special occasions, but you still swear they’re your best friend. The friend who gets the spotlight, not by choice, but by merit and you couldn’t be more supportive.

Overall, Anjin is a masterclass in personality.

It stands out, not in a “I’m not like other restaurants” kind of way, but in a “I love what I do, I’m good at what I do, and I’m going to have fun doing it” kind of way.

I’ve never seen such quality and attention to detail served with such humility. My friend and I joke with the servers and we watch them joke with each other. They are wearing t-shirts. There’s a tiny frog figurine on the counter. It’s effortless, casual energy, all while serving up some of the most creative dishes I’ve had in Kansas City.

Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated - Confucius

If you’re new here, each month I’m choosing a new lifestyle to pursue (trying to make life interesting). This month (March), I’m learning about travel writing! Catch up on week 1 here.

When I picked travel writing for my March experiment, I had no idea how vast of a topic I was choosing. Honestly, I didn’t put much thought into the choice other than “okay cool, I’ll learn about how to write up my travel experiences.” My main point of reference was the travel blogs I’ve read to find trip inspo and restaurant recommendations.

The more I dig, though, the more I’m reminded that the field goes wayyyy beyond travel how-tos and must-dos (it’s not that I didn’t understand that travel writing is more than that, but when blogs are always front & center, it can be hard to visualize other styles).

Outside of top-10s and hidden gems (lol I know, I know, stop with the low hanging rhymes), we’ve got spiritual awakenings, journals from cycling/walking/hiking/sailing across the globe, in-depth travel journalism (complete with interviews and investigations), history lessons, geography lessons, and travel-inspired fiction writing. The niches know no bounds.

Furthermore, the day-to-day of travel writers appears to be very different from person to person. Some people only write for themselves, whether that’s a blog, a book, other socials, etc. Maybe they live the ex-pat life and write about life in their new city or maybe they just travel frequently enough to have things to say. Other travel writers work freelance and write for magazines. These stories, based on what I’ve read, can stem from press trips (more on this below, I have THOUGHTS), magazine-specific requests, or from personal trips and they cold-pitched the story to a publication. Some people are also full-time employees for a newspaper/magazine.

In my hypothetical world of being a travel writer, I’m more interested in writing for myself; however, I am very curious about the world of freelance and what some of this stuff even means.

(This “stuff?” Oh, I see. You think this has nothing to do with you…in fact you’re vacationing in a city that was selected for you by the people in this room [pause] from a pile of “stuff.”)

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What exactly is freelance writing?

I read this incredibly detailed, informative article by Natalie Compton (Continental Breakfast) that explained her journey of freelance writing.

Continental Breakfast

How to become a travel writer

When I was trying to figure out how to become a journalist, it seemed impossible to break in without going to journalism school — or at least going to a university with a big journalism program…

Read more

3 months ago · 36 likes · 10 comments · Natalie Compton

I also read this blog post (Lindy Alexander, The Freelancer’s Year) about some of the unspoken truths of travel writing.

My key takeaways from research and the aforementioned articles:

• You can still choose what you write, but make sure people care. You don’t necessarily have to get a topic from a publication, you can find a cool story angle on your own, the key is to write something that other people want to read and publications would be willing to pay for

  • This doesn’t appear all that different from blog writing. Ideally, people want to read your blog. HOWEVER, I think the main difference is the personal connection. If you build a community around your blog, people begin to care about you as much as the stories, so you might be able to post something on your blog that your readers will love, but people who don’t know you wouldn’t really want to read in some random travel magazine

• You have to put in the reps. Write and write some more and send pitches to multiple outlets - especially smaller ones in the beginning! It seems the more bylines you get, the more likely you are to get recognized for bigger and bigger projects.

  • Which seems logical. Honestly though, I think it would be really cute to see something I write in a local publication. Obviously, a large publication would be an earth-shattering achievement, but idk something about seeing my name in a small magazine is equally as thrilling???

• It’s exhausting, but you do see a lot of places. The trade off to seeing the world for work seems to be forfeiting the right to savor experiences. In order to make a trip profitable, freelancers are often cramming as much into a day as they can so they can report on multiple angles.

  • I’m all for efficiency and, as an activity person, I don’t mind a full schedule; however, sometimes I just want to wander or spend 2 hours at a meal. I don’t know that I would enjoy the time constraints and pressure. Plus, if I don’t get to enjoy where I am, is there still a point in being there?

• The income is super variable and uncertain. Sometimes writers get recurring gigs and sometimes they don’t. It seems that rates vary across publishers as well. That’s not to say that it can’t be lucrative, it’s just a more risky position.

  • I’m not sure my nervous system could handle the uncertainty, but I also realize that nothing in this life truly is a guarantee or a “safe” job.

• You might be on the road A LOT. When income is largely based on the number of stories you write, that typically means you need to be on trips frequently to keep your portfolio stacked.

  • I waffle on how appealing this is to me. On the one hand, I love to explore. On the other, I do love a home base. I like going to my gym and hanging out with friends and being present for big life events. I’m guessing being on the road for a majority of the year would start to take a toll. I used to travel for work quite a bit (corporate setting, not travel industry) and that was exhausting and rather lonely. Even if I’m somewhere beautiful and doing what I enjoy, I imagine those same feelings would eventually creep in.

• Press trips are an option to help cover travel expenses. These aren’t always allowed and can be difficult to get.

  • In my opinionnnn, press trips seem a tad sus. I’m giving them a whole subheading.

What is a Press Trip?

According to various travel blogs, a press trip is an event organized by a tourism board/brand/business/government/etc. that allows journalists/writers/content creators/etc. to visit a particular location (expenses paid) with the expectation the journalists/writers/content creators/etc. will generate content about the location. I found this article that explains a bit more about the types of press trips and how invites work.

As a worker bee, I can absolutely see the appeal of an all-expenses paid trip to an exciting destination, and I’m not judging anyone for wanting to get an invite. The networking, the hopeful paycheck, the ability to see a location that might otherwise be inaccessible to someone who is just starting out, all of these are very legitimate reasons to go on a press trip. (Plus it just sounds so ✨fancy✨)

A big ~however,~ I don’t love the idea of writing a story that is the product of a sponsored trip. Obviously, ethical writers will find a way to remain objective, but I still have a lot of questions. Is the trip organized in a way that lends itself to a particular opinion? How much time do you get to explore your particular area of interest vs time spent on a specific itinerary? If it’s a group trip, how does the group mindset or chemistry impact the result of the trip? Are the planned activities realistic for the average person or do they require special access? Is there any type of contract that stipulates what/how much content you have to produce? On top of that, not all publications will accept articles that come from press trips. So could you give a week of your time to this trip only to have unsellable stories?

Again, I’m just learning about press trips and I’ve never been on one, so I can’t say if they are good or bad. I’m just a little suspicious of the true cost of a free trip. Is it worth it?

Okay, so you did a lot of Research. What about the writing part of this travel writing experiment?

What a journey writing has been this past week, thank you for asking. I’ll admit, I used several forms of procrastination, including the research, but I’m slowly making progress toward my end goal of publishing a lil magazine at the end of the month!

What has that looked like?

• A solo dinner date to practice writing about food (a key part of travel)

• A second restaurant, this time with a friend, to help gain perspective on what’s interesting/valuable to write about (thinking of actually writing up a “serious” article about this restaurant as practice!!)

• I drew a magazine storyboard and picked my topics! I plan to have 3 stories, plus a “letter from the editor” to really dive into why travel means the world to me.

• As it turns out, most of what I learned from my month of being a novelist is really helping out with my stories for my magazine. Mostly, I have to write some rough, rough drafts before I can get to anything of substance.

• So far, the hardest part of writing for my travel magazine is telling the story in a way that’s meaningful to me but also interesting to the readers. If anyone has any stellar articles they’ve read that would be a good source of inspiration, please drop those links in the comments!

That’s all for this week - more to come from Silver-Studded Blue on Friday from the Flutter Report 🦋

If you’re considering trying something new, let this be your sign! You don’t have to wait for an external opportunity to present itself, you can create your own opportunity. We have the power to explore what makes us happy!

One little flutter of your wings and your whole life can change 🦋 Friday Flutter Reports are a way to reflect on one action from the week that made an impact. It serves as a reminder that change doesn’t always come from something grand.

I’ve never particularly enjoyed dining alone. At best, I feel neutral about it. As someone who loves food, I want my meals to be a memorable, shared experience. I don’t want to sit in silence, I want to discuss the best part of your day while we split sweet potato fries and wait for our entrees. I want us to obsess over the divinity of the dessert and reminisce about it 3 months from now. Remember when we had that life-changing tiramisu at that one place after that really wild week?? When I eat alone, I don’t have anyone to back me up when I want to hyper-fixate on the meal. Plus, I usually feel bored, even restless while I wait for my food.

Despite this stance, on Thursday I decided to take myself on a solo sushi date. I wanted to go alone so I could try a writing exercise (the restaurant also had happy hour pricing and I had an unshakeable craving for some sushi, so that helped motivate me).

The mission was to approach dinner through the lens of a travel writer. Meaning, if I was traveling right now and this was a new-to-me local restaurant, how would I write about it? How would I describe it? What would I notice?

Not to sound dramatic, but this gave me a sense of purpose during my time at the restaurant. I wasn’t just staring at my phone or shifting uncomfortably in my seat, I was a detective studying the space around me. I was perched at the second floor bar, which gave me a perfect view of the movement below. I took notes on everything I saw - the fish scale tiles (blue, if you were wondering), the plethora of plants clinging to the ceiling (not a botanist, no idea what kind), the teenager playing on an iPad while the parents chatted (trying not to judge!!), and the well-crafted whisk(e)y bottles lining the bar (I will be googling the prices later). I wouldn’t say that I walked away with enough for a riveting travel story, but it was fun and it was good writing practice. Honestly, it even gave me a few ideas for metaphors and style choices that I can use in other types of writing. Plus, my sushi was delicious.

While I still prefer sharing meals with others, I now have a new mindset when I have to dine alone - treat it as an opportunity to observe, learn, and appreciate. Approaching the meal with a sense of purpose and not as an unavoidable necessity makes it wayyyy more enjoyable.

Happy Friday and I hope you do something that brings you joy this weekend 💙