The Queen Bees Were Buzzin´

I didn’t plan on it.

Didn’t mark it on my map.
Didn’t know that turning left just past the Duomo would land me right in the middle of something radiant, defiant, and vibrating with life.

Buzzing could best describe the sea of shining, sparkling sass that was filled to the brim with absolute queen bees…

The annual Milan Pride Parade wasn’t on my itinerary, but it unfolded around me like that page in your favorite book, the one you didn’t know you were meant to read.

Was this what my soul had been thirsting for? I couldn’t be sure, had no concrete evidence per se, but there were signs…

A lone flag tucked into a back pocket. Hearts drawn in eyeliner, scrawled across cheeks stretched taut with wide smiles. A sea of revelers, fed by a slow river of people winding through the city´s streets, daringly crossing divides.

As I stepped into this slow river, it turned into a flood.

The sound came next. Drums. Bass. DISCO. Laughter that didn’t ask for permission. The kind that started down deep, bubbled up from the caverns of the soul, then erupted, unfettered, free, and absolutely feral.

Every few steps saw a kiss, a cheer, a hand reaching out to pull someone into a dance. Ibsen´s Tarantella waltzed through my brain. It was madness, it was joy, it was divine.

It was an act of rebellion that reverberated like a sacred shout from the rafters, this holy invitation: Come to church.

I stood there watching it all stretch before me, powering through the city like a freight train of possibility.

And still, somehow, it felt gentle.

A man nestled a flower just above another’s ear, his fingers tracing the smile lines as they crinkled across his forehead.

A mother lifted her child onto her shoulders, offering a better view of all the magic, not the parade, but the people.

A stranger caught my eye and shared a smile as if, somehow, we were both in on the same secret.

“Love is love” was the wordless message exchanged.

It didn’t need to be said. Still, it was shouted.

With every pair of arms holding tight to one another. Through the exhales of deep breaths long abated — as if the world, for once, was tilting the right way.

Love Letter to Prague, Sort of~

Praha. 

How to describe her.

Prague is that high-maintenance Eastern European beauty who shows up late, smokes in your face, and somehow still makes you feel lucky just to be in the room with her.

She is effortlessly stunning, at times outright hostile, and absolutely worth all that emotional whiplash.

This city. 

Is such a tease. She shows you her beauty, then hints there is more to come. The cobblestones, proverbial crumbs keeping you on the path, and hook. 

Twisting lanes spill into grand squares, and cathedrals rear up from rounded corners, towering over you. They know they are commanding your attention, inspiring awe, and generally besting you in every category. It’s almost like they’ve been waiting centuries just to make you feel small. And it hurts, and humbles, so good.

The rooftops blush in the sunset, and the water of the Vltava hums below it all, like a secret being kept. Prague is the kind of place that could melt even the most jaded traveler into a puddle of poetic mush… if only she wasn’t so busy ignoring you.

Because just as you’re about to fall headfirst into the romance of it all, Prague lets you know she is far more than some one-dimensional Disney beauty. The message, or shall we say text? No, definitely sext, is clear. 

And that brings us to the sex machine museum.

Yes. That’s a thing. 

Tucked away in this fairytale landscape is a quirky little shrine to kink, complete with rusty contraptions, a whole lotta leather, and a gallery of “devices” that would make even the feisty, sex-positive Freud short-circuit. 

If you are anything like me, you’ll vacillate wildly between myriad emotions: morbid curiosity, mildly embarrassed fascination, and utter confusion/horror intermittently. You will also stay longer than you meant to, and most likely leave wondering why half of Europe seems to be okay with swinging from the rafters. It’s emotional whiplash round twenty-two, or something similar (I’ve lost count, to be honest), and it’s perfect. Because this is Prague. She seduces you with stained glass, then smacks you with a mechanical spanking bench.

And I think that’s kind of the point.

There’s a defiance to her, a brazen middle finger unfurled. Like a gorgeous cup of warm, velvety coffee, with a whiskey kick. There’s a chill in the air that isn’t the weather. Customer service that borders on existential protest.

But somehow, weirdly, I respect it. Maybe even love it. Certainly am fascinated and intrigued by it. In a sex machine museum vacillation of emotions type of way. 

Because Prague doesn’t beg to be liked. She doesn’t bow or bend to the man (or in this case, woman — love is love).

She doesn't smile just to please. She dares you to look deeper, past the Instagram charm and fairytale castle turrets, into her onion-esque maze of bizarre layers—the hedonic, the haughty, the horny. 

This is a city with a dark sense of humor, and zero interest in your approval.

Of course, we find that kind of intoxicating.

Still Taking the Long Way Home~

Hey you. It´s been awhile. 

The past 5 years (almost 6 now) have been an amazing journey. After selling everything I owned (except what could fit in this one trusty backpack), I struck out to see the world, learn from those I met along the way, and remind myself how great and vast the world really is (and how tiny I am in contrast).

There is something quite inexplicable, and very odd, about living out of a backpack, rootless and wandering. I have been less lonely than I had imagined, have missed having "all the things" far less than I feared, and have been humbled far more than I had asked for (rude!), naturally -- yet wondrously.

My friend once called me "her favorite hydroponic human", and it remains perhaps the best compliment (to me) I have ever received. The ability to not just live, but thrive, without a root system, defies logic. But here we are.

As I pack up everything I own (once again), and seeking what´s next, with work, with life, and accompanied by all of those standard "what do I want"s and "what if"s. It is always a bit unnerving until that next landing place/role unfolds, but I am determined to dive into it full throttle (per usual).


Until then, I will be en route, still taking the long way home~

Explored an ancient city today. I felt so small, and just in awe of the architecture, the life lived and time passed. I realized afresh that the longer I walk this earth, the stronger I´m drawn to old things. I keep wondering why. For me, there´s an inherent beauty in old things--a beauty that isn’t just in their survival--it’s in the way time etches itself into them. The worn grooves of a cobblestone path, the softened edges of a brass door handle, the way copper deepens to rich green with years of touch and weather. What first looks like wear is really a story, layers of history pressed into every surface. The same goes for people—the laugh lines, the scars, the silver at their temples. Not flaws, but filigree~

A Love Letter to the Museum of Broken Relationships: Hurts So Good

Zagreb in December is like a postcard that got drunk on mulled wine. The advent lights twinkle with a kind of winking optimism, as if they know something you don’t. Maybe it’s that the whole city has cornered the market on festive cheer. Or maybe it’s just that Zagreb knows how to do heartbreak, and the evidence is tucked up in the Upper Town, in a museum that feels less like a tourist trap and more like a collective exhale of humanity.

The Museum of Broken Relationships. Even the name makes your chest tighten a bit, doesn’t it? It’s not just a museum. It’s a quirky little time machine, a hall of fame for emotional debris, and a clusterfuck of feelings that might leave you gasping in laughter one minute and wiping away a sneaky tear the next.

Here’s the premise: people from around the world donate objects that represent the ghosts of their past relationships. Each item comes with a story—sometimes a single sentence, sometimes an emotional essay. A toaster that saw too many breakfasts for two. A wedding dress that never made it to the altar. A little stuffed bunny that once carried the weight of every hope and promise you could pile onto it. It’s the stuff of ordinary lives, yet it lands like a gut punch.

Walking through this space, you get to bear witness to the kind of heartbreak that doesn’t just break—it shapes. And somewhere between the shelf of tokens and the walls of stories, you realize that this museum is as much about healing as it is about hurt.

It’s not curated for closure in the tidy, Instagram-quote kind of way. No one’s trying to stitch up the wounds here. Instead, it’s an invitation to sit with them for a while, to feel the sting, and let it echo. Because the hurt and the healing aren’t linear or disparate. They’re more like dance partners—awkward and clumsy, but somehow perfectly in sync.

I stood in front of an axe once, donated by someone who used it to chop up their cheating ex’s furniture. “After every strike,” the donor wrote, “I felt better.” 

And I thought, isn’t that just heartbreak in a nutshell? 

A little destruction, a little catharsis. 

The axe wasn’t just a symbol of loss; it was a monument to the kind of messy, imperfect humanity that feels oddly like home.

I’ve been in that room before, metaphorically speaking—the one where love implodes and leaves you staring at the wreckage. The museum’s genius is how it pulls you into that shared space, that collective hum of, “Oh, you too?” It’s oddly comforting, in the way a song can wreck you—and save you—all at once.

This museum is for the romantics and the cynics alike. It’s for anyone who’s ever loved and lost—and if you haven’t, are you even alive? 

You walk out of there feeling gutted and full at the same time, like you just finished the last page of a book that knew you better than you knew yourself.

So, if you make it to Zagreb ever in this lifetime (and I highly recommend that you do), soak in the city lights and cobbled alleyways of Upper Town. But save a moment for this little corner of heartbreak. Let yourself hurt. Let yourself heal.

Welcome the clusterfuck.

Nostalgia Nudges Strong in a Sleepy Airport Lounge...

 

The suffocating heat slaps me in the face as I step from the frigid autumn cold into yet another airport, my hair a mess and my sunglasses held together by a band of duct tape across the bridge. Ever the fashionista.

I’ve been at this for five years now, with everything I own crammed into one backpack. To be fair, the backpack probably weighs as much as I do, but that’s beside the point. After half a decade, I’ve gotten used to living like a human turtle, my entire life strapped to my back as I wander from one place to the next, still stubbornly taking the long way home.

The Blue Mountains in Australia were one of the first places that made me question my sanity. I hiked alone for hours, the cliffs and eucalyptus trees stretching out endlessly before me. There’s something about those mountains that made me feel gloriously insignificant, like the universe was giving me a gentle reminder that I´m really just a speck of dust on this planet. I did some intense self-soothing and had long conversations with "God" out there in that remote Aussie terrain. There may or may not be a wedding ring at the bottom of one of those canyons. The irony of it being swallowed up in the vast wildness of that unruly landscape wasn’t lost on me.

Sicily was another highlight. I spent days wandering the narrow streets of a village where the Wi-Fi was more myth than reality and the seafood came straight from the boat to patrons´ plates. I sat at a tiny café, watching locals debate what I assume was the most important news of the day, and pretended I wasn’t the most obvious tourist there. My lack of Italian didn’t stop me from nodding along like I knew what was going on when they brought me into the rousing back-and-forth, signature Sicilian spice talk. Honestly, I think I convinced myself I’d learned more Italian than I had after the second limoncello.

And then, of course, there was that summer in Southern Turkey, where I spent at least a good week wondering if goats had it all figured out. They just roam the streets without a care, the locals watching them like it’s peak entertainment. I stayed in a town so small that I’m pretty sure I became the main event by day three. I’d go for long runs, no real destination in mind, just trying to take in the quiet, which eventually gave way to conversations with myself. Don’t judge—goats aren’t exactly great conversationalists.

And the tiny island where cows outnumbered people? That was one for the books. It was like I’d wandered into some kind of whimsical painting where everything was serene and somehow made sense. The hills were so green they almost looked fake, and I found myself waking up each morning to the soft clang of cowbells outside my window. This place had magic, and I spent most of my time marveling at the sheer absurdity of it all. How did I get here?

And then there’s Slovenia’s Triglav. The hike that nearly broke me. It was cold, it was steep, and I may or may not have questioned all of my life choices en route. But once I stood there, alongside my beast of a Slovenian guide, overlooking that lofty scene, even with my teeth chattering and my legs aching, there was something surreal about it. The view stretched for miles, and for a split second, I thought, “Okay, maybe this is why people do this.” Then I remembered the climb down -- far more terrifying than the ascent. Life has been this way, too, funnily. 

But for all the beauty and wonder, solo travel isn’t all mountaintop moments. There are days where I want to throw my backpack off a cliff and days where I wonder why I ever thought setting out all on my own was a good idea. But then there are also days where I’m standing on a beach at sunrise -- or watching the sunset while sipping wine at a sidewalk cafe on a cobblestone square in a country that is nothing short of chef´s kiss -- that make it all make sense, or make me not care that it doesn´t (to anyone but me maybe)?

Five years now on the road, and I’m still going. There have been more places than I can count, more moments that I couldn’t capture even if I tried. My journey has been as winding as the trails I’ve traveled, and I’m still taking the long way home, wherever that may be.

So here I am, sitting in yet another airport, waiting for yet another flight. I’ve seen a lot, done a lot, and carried way too much on my back—both literally and figuratively. And on this story goes...

Lost in Translation: It´s Funny, How.....

 

Ah, the joys of traveling—new sights, new experiences, and… new ways to completely bomb a joke. As a traveler, I have quickly learned that humor, like currency, doesn’t exchange at the same rate everywhere you go. What’s worth a belly laugh in one country might barely buy you a smirk in another. And no matter how funny you think you are, a joke that kills at home could leave you stranded in a sea of polite, uncomfortable smiles abroad. Welcome to the comedy no-man’s-land, where humor goes to die—or at least to awkwardly shuffle off-stage...

As a traveler, humor becomes a test of adaptability, kind of like trying to eat foreign street food without getting food poisoning. You think you know what’s funny? Guess again. Each culture has its own comedic currency, and if you’re not careful, you’re that tourist trying to pay in Monopoly money.

The Art of the Blank Stare

Here’s the thing: when you’re in a foreign country, humor is like a delicate soufflé—one wrong move, and it collapses. You’re out there, bravely trying to connect with people, and then you hit them with what you think is a killer joke. The room goes quiet. Someone coughs. A tumbleweed rolls by...

The Cultural Time Lag

One of the most mystifying things about traveling is the time lag of humor. Not jet lag—I´m talking about that delay between telling a joke and the (hopeful) response. In some places, like the UK, where irony is a national sport, a joke will hit instantly. In Russia, however, a joke might be received with stone-faced silence—only to be appreciated later, when you’ve long left the room. Humor is marinated there, like vodka-soaked fish. You’ve already moved on to your next punchline, but that dry, wry quip about existential dread is just now working its magic.

As you travel, you start to understand that humor can be about the long game. Will they get it tomorrow? Next week? After another vodka shot? 

So, what’s the takeaway for the globetrotting comedian? Sometimes the funniest moments often happen organically, through shared experiences and, yes, even the awkward silences.

Because if there’s one thing that truly transcends culture, it’s the universal appeal of laughing at how badly a joke can fail.

Funny how that works... or, didn´t---

No, Thank you... I Won´t Be Wearing Florals to This Fight...

The recent tragedy of Ugandan marathon runner Rebecca Cheptegei, brutally murdered by her former boyfriend, is yet another painful reminder of the epidemic we rarely speak about. Cheptegei, a mother and elite athlete, was set on fire in front of her daughters. And while this story may have stirred outrage momentarily, domestic violence, a far-reaching crisis, continues to be swept under the rug.

This topic hits uncomfortably close to home. The fear, the isolation--all too familiar. The stories we hear are often framed as tragic, isolated incidents, with the focus on the resilience of the victims or the heartbreak of their circumstances. But the reality is far more brutal: lives aren’t just lost—they are stolen, ripped away by those who claim love but act with control, cruelty, and malice.

In Kenya, where nearly 34% of women experience physical violence, Rebecca’s story is just one in a long line of horrors. And yet, society often chooses silence. We see films that dress up abuse with romance and redemption, we hear media spin tragedy into melodrama, and we look the other way. There’s always a new face, a new headline. And once the shock wears off, we move on.

But the abuse doesn’t stop. Behind closed doors, violence festers, destroying lives, tearing apart families. It’s a disease that thrives on secrecy, on the hesitation of others to intervene. People are reporting their abusers, reaching out for help, and they are being ignored, failed by systems that should protect them.

This epidemic runs deeper than any one case, any one headline. It’s a global crisis. Domestic violence cuts across all lines—class, race, status. And it continues to claim victims, many of whom never make it into the spotlight. The cases we don’t hear about are just as devastating. Survivors are left picking up the pieces of their shattered lives, wondering why their pain wasn’t enough to break through the silence.

And it’s not just physical violence. Emotional manipulation, financial control, psychological abuse—they’re harder to see, but just as damaging. Survivors often feel trapped, with no way out, and no one willing to listen. And when they do leave, it’s the most dangerous time, with abusers ramping up their violence in a final, desperate bid for control.

So what can (must) we do? Stop looking away. Stop dressing up toxic relationships as tragic love stories (yes, complete with florals, frills, and a feel-good Taylor Swift soundtrack— I am absolutely looking at you It Ends With Us…). 

In short: We demand better. And more.

More funding for shelters, more protection for survivors, more conversations that acknowledge the full, messy, brutal reality of domestic violence. 

Instead of “wearing our florals”, let it be battle armor…  

 That beginning with us is a show I will sign up for... 

The Mirror´s Edge

I’ve always found mirrors unsettling. Not in the sense that I avoid them—I’m not that neurotic—but in the way they force you to confront yourself. It’s a tricky relationship, this thing we have with our reflection, especially in America, where the mantra of “know thyself” has somehow morphed into “market thyself.” I can’t help but think we’ve all been swindled into believing that our greatest asset is, well, us.

Take a stroll down any street, and you’ll see it: people obsessively checking their reflection in shop windows, catching that glimpse of self that reassures them they are looking good... or maybe just that they still exist. It’s as if we’ve all become amateur detectives, constantly searching for clues to our own identity, which, if we’re honest, we don’t quite trust to begin with.

And it’s not just the physical reflection we’re after. The world’s real fascination lies with the intangible self—the one that’s always in need of improvement, validation, or, at the very least, our next TED Talk.

We’re bombarded with the notion that happiness is just a self-help book away, that inner peace can be found through meditation apps, or that the key to success is a vision board and an unhealthy amount of self-belief. It’s a wonder we don’t all have whiplash from the constant navel-gazing.

Yet, for all our introspection, I wonder if we’ve actually lost touch with ourselves. We’re so busy trying to perfect our image, to craft an identity that others will find appealing, that we’ve forgotten the messy, unfiltered version of who we are. The one that doesn’t always look good in the soft light of morning, or whose thoughts don’t fit neatly into 280 characters.

It’s ironic, really. The more we chase this idealized version of ourselves, the more we distance ourselves from the reality of who we are. We become like actors in a never-ending play, constantly changing costumes and personas, but never quite sure which role is truly ours. And in the process, we lose sight of the fact that maybe the most authentic version of ourselves is the one we’re most afraid to reveal.

But here’s the thing: I don’t even own a selfie stick. Social media? Not my scene.

My relationship with the self is more of a truce than a love affair.

And yet...

I can’t 100% seem to escape the gravitational pull of this culture of self-fascination. Maybe it’s because I’m surrounded by it, or maybe it’s because I’ve internalized it more than I care to admit. Either way, it’s a strange place to be—caught between the desire to understand myself and the suspicion that maybe, just maybe, I’m not all that interesting?!

In the end, it’s a mirror’s edge we all walk, balancing the need to look inward with the danger of falling into the abyss of self-obsession. This world may be in love with itself, but me? I’m just trying to keep a safe distance most of the time.

Because the truth is, I have a sinking suspicion that knowing yourself isn’t about perfecting a reflection or curating a persona, but more about accepting the contradictions, the flaws, the moments of doubt that make us human. More so, about realizing that the search for self shouldn’t be a quest for approval, but a journey toward understanding—a journey that’s often uncomfortable, and almost always incomplete.

So maybe the real challenge isn’t in finding ourselves, but in losing the need to define ourselves in the first place?

Maybe it’s okay to exist in the messy in-between, where the edges blur and the lines aren’t so clear. Because in that space, we might just find something more meaningful than a perfect reflection. We might find the freedom to just be. 

And maybe that uncertainty is the only truth we can trust.

Sing Me a Song: Words That Wound and Mend

There’s a strange comfort in the kind of music that doesn’t just pass through your ears but lingers in your soul, digging up the things you thought you’d buried long ago. Ben Howard’s music did that for me. It became the soundtrack to my darkest hours, where the line between pain and healing blurred into something almost indistinguishable.

His songs were the echo of my own silent struggles, each lyric cutting deep but somehow stitching me back together at the same time. It was like he knew the words I couldn’t say, the feelings I couldn’t express, and he turned them into melodies that made it all make sense—or at least made it bearable.

When I found myself in Vienna for a rare live show, it wasn’t just a concert; it was a communion of sorts. An open-air arena full of people who knew, who felt, who understood the quiet power of his lyrics. We were all there, together but alone, sharing in the unspoken connection that his music had forged between us:

"Some people dance
At the altar
Some people worship
Underground

You and I
We've been through all that
Hallelujah
Look at you now"

And so, this is my small thank you. To the music makers, for words that wound and heal, often in the same breath. For showing me that music can be both the knife and the salve. And for reminding me that, even in the darkest times, there’s a kind of beauty in the struggle—a beauty that can bring us back to ourselves. And look at us now...