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.