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22 August, 2011:

'Nostalgic for Paris. For it all.

"yes, and it was amazing!"

Not sleeping, wanting to be moving. Lost inside my own head for 14 months. Getting sick of things, growing fond of them. Expiration on the brain. Expiration is relevant while backpacking, if you're stuck it's your own fault, because lives are being broken/molded/molten around you.

What have I learned? We project our ideals onto others. By knowing myself, I know the sad bits in other people. the flow (positive, negative, hurricane, toxic) is more carnal, more visceral, like a taste in my mouth. A bit of saliva rubbing on the tongue the wrong way. That's what everyone is, a nervous hand through the hair, a lapse into self-deprecation (laps, like a dog at a bowl, or laps, a circular racetrack.)'

black and white

“Adventure is a path. Real adventure – self-determined, self-motivated, often risky – forces you to have firsthand encounters with the world. The world the way it is, not the way you imagine it. Your body will collide with the earth and you will bear witness. In this way you will be compelled to grapple with the limitless kindness and bottomless cruelty of humankind – and perhaps realize that you yourself are capable of both. This will change you. Nothing will ever again be black-and-white.” – Mark Jenkins

I've been home for almost a month!

A month!

After fourteen months of travel? After all those transitions? How many beds did I sleep in? How many shoulders did I sleep on? How many times did I reiterate my story, and how many times did I lie?

Kindness/cruelty, my traveling bread and butter. My sustenance and my virtue.

Excerpts from Journal,

24 July 2011:

'At the beach

A man settles his limbs on a beach chair. He leans it all the way flat. Half-full diet Coke on the expectant plastic table, sun-glasses still on, sucking with fervor or exhaustion at his cigarette. Lies still for a few beats, smoking skywards. Sand sand sand, in every little crevice! I wore my giant floppy hat, sunglasses (bought in Jerusalem because I lost my Ray Bans) and clicked my iPod into position, fully armed against the outside world.'

'Ah, the London accent. Less glamorous, still quite charming. I bought a wool jumper because it's 17 in London. Red-eyed and sleepy at the airport. I played at the beach in Tel Aviv, laughing throatily when the waves knocked me down, racing the surge, leaping over frothy waves, tossing myself into the swell, daring, daring them to catch me unawares. Everyone watched jealously while I piled my sopping curls on top of my head and tugged my loose-rimmed bikini bottoms against the flirty tug of gravity.

We went to a gay bar, a village, a seedy club, the port, a night picnic, a trendy local bar, Harry Potter in 3-D, the best houmous in Tel Aviv, the jellyfish-riddled sea in the North, her uncle's for dinner, a sushi birthday party, a political rally.'

MOVE

CLICK HERE


for a one minute clip
3 boys, 11 countries around the world in 44 days.

quark

Germans have this Quark, and it's good with jam.

I have these friends, and they're good with jam too.

Since Tel Aviv (Last post)

I did a little Brighton

London

Amsterdam

now Berlin.

How I know I've been traveling too long:

"there's a pillow on the couch if you need it," my sweet mixed nationality couple tell me as they head to bed. I take a look. It's a decent sized couch pillow, the type that makes for an uncomfortable neck in the morning.

I thank them and immeadiately rummage in my bag. I grab a couple of shirts, wrap them in my fast-drying towel, and easily fall asleep amid the smoke fumes, head supported by my makeshift pillow.

- My mind moved directly to clothes-pillow as opposed to even testing the fluffy couch pillow. Or looking for other alternatives.

Burnt musing

Every single meal I've had here has been fabulous. Maybe I'll get into coffee. This americano works for me.



I told mare not to worry, that I'd take care of Ivona in college. She grins wickedly at me, 'don't let anyone else have her, but you can.' I smile as reassuringly as possible. The sun beats down on our drunken leers.



The fake roses in the bathroom have thorns. I wouldn't have it any other way. 



The hot young DILF has a nipple ring. I can see it as his low v neck hangs strategically, he crouches to play with his toddler daughter.



Noga and I stride through the Carmel market, crusty with sea salt, bags of watermelon hefted in both hands like trophies. A man stops in mid sentence with his comrade. 'sha-loooom!' he enthuses. 'hey girls,' his lady friend calls after us, 'have you been to the beach?'



It's always the last sip that gets me. The sugary dregs.



A petal falls onto the table,  between the saucer of soymilk and untouched ashtray. It's pink, and lonely. There's not a pink flower in sight. I chew on a toothpick, read, wave away flies. The next time I look up, it's gone.

ha am

(the people)

Jack told us to kiss on the stairs.
Noga missed the sunrise, but I wasn't paying attention.


Noga's an asshole because she scored 10 points more than me.
Although losing the key lost us another good 40 points.

2 bottles of wine to ourselves, plus one cheap chocolate mousse.

urchin

Wine all day with Masha, my ukranian model.

My last pub crawl;

tons of rowdy boys, one broke a chair at our first stop, Buza.

But we trooped on, did some good crazy dancing.

More shots, more dancing, and more dancing with a cocktail bucket on the side.

My hair falls down.

Skinny dipping under a full moon and a warm sea.

My first time.

Someone steals ice cream while others purchase cigarettes.

We play games and wait for the buses to work.

The brazilian who has been hitting on me all night tries to work his way around a cheek kiss as I drop them off.

Rain starts. Rain on my last night of work.

Werewolves didn't mind the rain.

My last day;

Wake up and take some tea. Big tea addict.

Have to go, same clothes as yesterday, I don't mind.

I throw some things in my bag. I have someone's phone.

Drop it off at the hostel, vespa over the port.

We swim on a nearby island.

We drink mineral water and cheap white wine, Croatian style.

Nice new people.

I'm swimming, I hit my foot on a rock, the rock is actually a sea urchin, I'm dying.

They sedate me with more wine and tweeze some spines out of my toes.

A lot of them are broken off.

I nap while they adventure on the island.

I limp my way to coffee, chat away the time.

Boat ride back and discuss healthy vs. unhealthy relationships with a boy from split.

Vespa ride,

making chicken in a sweet pink apartment with some friends.

a girl cuts my hair on the terrace.

A shower feels so good.

No one wears pants, or some of us do. It's warm and the night is sunday-sleepy.

drolce

pub crawls are going well.

we're the kids

Outside Suburbia's sprawling everywhere. I don't want to go baby. New York to East California. There's a new wave coming I warn you.

there's something about hearing this song while lounging the sunlight away on the rocky shores of old town Dubrovnik that makes me feel very self-conscious, and purges from me a mixture of guilt and pride.

honestly?

I've been too busy here, but really in the best ways. I've been climbing mountains and leading pub crawls. Last night, a girl here turned 25, I got her extra toffee vodka shots and bought us champagne, but she went home too early, poor thing. If I get a spare few hours I'll go to Buza bar, I go to my spot with the inclined rock so I can read my historical novels.

I run into locals here. I don't remember everyone's names, but I know faces, I'll ask a few preliminary questions in Croatian, and I'll tell them I'll see them later because I always do. Old town is small. It's a village, really.

Ivona suggested we go to the Mexican restaurant.
'That's so far away!' I exclaimed, envisioning it.
She gave me a Look. 'it's five minutes away.'
I thought about it again. Through the courtyard. Down the steps, through the gate, uphill a bit.
'You're right. I felt like it was too far because it's out of the old city.' I spend most of my time within the city walls, ricocheting from place to place.
She laughed. 'You're thinking like a local now!'


We went to Lapod island, for an elektronika party. Trekked into the wilderness. I spilled wine all over my person but what really killed me was the dirt. I am not made for wilderness. The party was held in an abandoned stone mansion. We danced all night in the grass under the strobelights, and when the sun rose we grabbed our bags and took our towels over the crest of the island to the sunlight-blessed beach on the other side. We slept in beach chairs. Swam in the crystaline water. I had to leave early for work, so I bought figs and strawberries at the dock and took the ferry home.

animals

To die (animals only): Uginuti

To give birth (animals only): Okotiti

To sniff (animals only): Njušiti

God, croatia. you kill me.









ps
I had a mermaid day the other day. Went for an exploratory swim, crawled around a bit on some rocks, lounging on a smooth white one, got waved at by people on The Wall, got honked at by passing boats. cliffdived back in. love these mermaid days.


pps
Don't you love it when your legs are freshly shaved? fresh razors too. Silky mermaid legsies

we present Words

this. watch this. ^

(this for more.)




French sounds like you're underwater.
I like to imagine the french as mermaids.
Atlantis survivors, maybe.

German is crisp, like well-folded paper.

Dutch is the Italian of the Germanic languages.

The Maltese use a word, mella, at any break in a sentence - Like a comma, mella, untranslatable to English.

Hungarians and Swiss like their words diminutive.
(

köszönöm (thank you) becomes köszi, (thanks!) etc.)

Hungarians have two words for red - one for emotion, one for color.

* Expressions where "red" typically translates to "piros": a red road sign, red traffic lights, the red line of Budapest Metro, a holiday shown in red in the calendar, ruddy complexion, the red nose of a clown, red peppers and paprika, red card suits (hearts and diamonds), red stripes on a flag, etc.
* Expressions where "red" typically translates to "vörös": Red Sea, Red Baron, Erik the Red, red wine, red carpet (for receiving important guests), red hair or beard, red lion (the mythical animal), red blood cells, red oak, some red flowers (those with passionate connotations, e.g. roses), rust, red phosphorus, the colour of blushing with anger or shame, the red nose of an alcoholic (in contrast with that of a clown, see above), the red posterior of a baboon, red meat, cities, countries, or other political entities associated with leftist movements (e.g. Red Vienna, Red Russia), etc.


When answering No, Turks prefer to use 'yok,' in conversation,
which translates perfectly to the German word 'kein,'
which indicates the absence of matter.
In German, 'ein' means 'a' or 'an' in English.
'Kein' is the antithesis of the article 'ein.'
The word 'no' is 'hayir' in Turkish, used only in formal matters.

Literally translated from German, one says 'I have hunger. I have fear.'

In English, this translates to 'I am hungry. I am afraid.'

In German, one actively possesses a trait or condition.

In English, you are passive; you are afflicted by the external conditions.

And finally, Americans aren't very good at English.

u kurac!

u kurac (oo kooratz) is how Croatians say Goddamnit! or Shit!
what does it mean literally?
In the Dick!

:)



Excerpt from Istanbul:

'I nicknamed a dog Mama and tried to feed her leftovers. Strawberry Picnic and authentic greasy Pilav from the bottom of the hill. Best sutlace I've ever even. So maybe some Faulkner and edible conversation, sustenance, eat your words, my Delta red blanket in the sun. Bosphorus picnic, bought fruit on a whim to make delicious (delovely) hostel plate.'



Excerpt from Cyprus:

' Everything is skeletal here. Cars, stucco, brimstone.
Friends with mustachey. He killed mosquitos and gave me Turkish elixer for bites.

I forgot about the giddy romance of gummy car seats and dashboard heat warming your knees. I want tacky motels and thin girls eating cheeseburgers. I want to keep my freckles and be called darlin' and hun'. I want to live off of popsicles and lipstick and cheap whiskey.'



Excerpt from London:

'On train to Gatwick. I'm complacent and sad too, I miss the suburbia of home. I jogged in the park, I mailed postcards and drank wine and watched coming-of-age Hungarian films. I enchanted mums and learned about WWI.'

believe it

THIS IS WHERE I AM

(the photo won't fit my blog.)

(My room is on the third floor of our flat.)

(We're located next to the music school.)

(I woke up the first morning to little Croatians serenading me.)

(my room gets good light. 3 windows. queen bed. down pillows.)

(I saw a gecko sunning himself on my roof a few minutes ago.)

this is where I am.

do you believe it?

harrods

that was nice.

hummus is nice too.

das meer

Izmir
(das meer means the ocean in german)

this is the place where they fry donuts on the streetside.

little brown old men scooter along the harbor, selling tea and sunflower seeds to those lounging in the grass.




boys lug carts of merchandise up cobblestone pathways.

cars have no rules, in fact they have all the rules, so U-turns and one-ways and stoplights are based on interpretation.





the racuous cry of 'hey lady!' is as common on the streets as the multitude of stray cats.

stray kittens are still adorable tufts of mangy cuteness.

bench

Met a boy on the seaside. He studied fashion in stuttgart and had a triple star behind his ear. I liked his hair and his messenger bag.

Luszi

I am being forced to wait on my balcony until mosquito killer mist evaporates from my room. Mosquitos are assholes.

On the plus side, I'm in an ancient town on the edge of a divided island, the stars are crusty and sweet on this lovely night, I have a balcony to my room and even a pool where I spent most of my day, and I had really wonderful escargot, chicken in plum sauce and wine for supper.

Oddly only a single shoulder is burnt from my pool excursion.

Every girl should spend some time thinking on the edge of an island.

tower

Something happened with the upload, but I sorta like it.

Italian thoughts at the open air bar

Bits and pieces of malta dreams.

Remember Berlin? You don't know the coldest winter, Kanye

More Malta.

Gravel rooftops adjacent to organic cafes.

I kissed the club owner on the cheek. He wore black and told me to bring back my friends, but no boys this time.

A heady night by the bosphorus.

Happy Americans.

Nice lentil soup here.

Galata tower and friends.